Félicie by Georges Simenon Page A

need to bother. He did come, several
times.’
    â€˜You see? He was jealous after
all.’
    They climb the slope. Now they’re outside
MélanieChochoi’s shop, and Maigret continues playing the same
game.
    â€˜What if I go in and ask her how many times
she saw you roaming round of an evening with Jacques Pétillon?’
    â€˜She never saw us!’
    This time she is sure of herself.
    â€˜So you made sure you kept out of
sight?’
    Here is the house, which they see just as a large
car from Criminal Records drives off, leaving Lucas standing at the door like some upright,
law-abiding householder.
    â€˜Who was that?’
    â€˜Photographers, experts …’
    â€˜Of course! Fingerprints!’
    She is well informed. She has read lots of
novels, including detective stories!
    â€˜How’re things, Lucas?’
    â€˜Not much to report, sir. The intruder wore
rubber gloves, just as you said. So they just took casts of his shoe-prints. Brand-new pair.
Hadn’t been worn more than three days.’
    Félicie has gone up to her room to change
out of her mourning clothes and remove her veil.
    â€˜Anything new with you, sir? It’s as
if …’
    He knows him so well! At times Maigret has a way
of becoming expansive; he beams and seems to suck in life through his pores. He looks around him
now at these surroundings which have grown so familiar that with unconscious mimicry he begins
to think and act like the locals.
    â€˜Fancy a drop of something?’
    He goes to the sideboard in
the dining room, takes out the part-full decanter, pours out two liqueur glasses and then stands
in the doorway. overlooking the garden.
    â€˜Here’s to you! … Ah,
Félicie, tell me …’
    She has come back down, is wearing an apron and
starts busying around making sure the men from Criminal Records haven’t left her kitchen
in a mess.
    â€˜Would you be kind enough to make a cup of
coffee for my friend Lucas? I must go round to the Anneau d’Or, but I shall leave you in
the sergeant’s hands. I’ll see you this evening.’
    He is expecting that suspicious, anxious
glare.
    â€˜I really am going to the Anneau
d’Or.’
    And so he is, but not for long. Since there is no
taxi at Orgeval, he asks the garage mechanic, Louvet, to drive him to Paris in his van.
    â€˜I need to go to Les Ternes. Go along Rue
du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.’
    There is no one in the restaurant when he marches
in, and the waiter must have been taking a nap somewhere in the back, because he emerges
yawning, with his hair ruffled.
    â€˜Do you know the address of the man to whom
you gave a note from the lady who was with me earlier on?’
    The fool thinks he is dealing with a jealous
husband or an angry father. He denies everything, starts getting flustered. Maigret shows him
his warrant card.
    â€˜I don’t know his name, that’s
the truth. He works in this area, but I don’t think he lives around here, because he only
comes in at lunchtime.’
    Maigret has no intention of waiting until
tomorrow.
    â€˜Do you know what he
does?’
    â€˜Wait a moment. One day I overheard him
talking with the boss … I’ll go and see if he’s still in.’
    Obviously, the place is dedicated to the patron
saint of the siesta. The landlord appears minus his collar and pushes his untidy hair back with
one hand.
    â€˜Number 13? He’s in leathers and
furs. He told me all about it one day, though in connection with what I couldn’t say. He
works for a firm on Avenue de Wagram.’
    With the help of a phone book, Maigret soon comes
up with Gellet & Mautoison, Leathers and Furs, Import-Export, 17A Avenue de Wagram. He pays
them a call. The clack of typewriters in offices which are darkened by green-tinted windows on
which the names of the owners, reading from inside, are reversed.
    â€˜You’ll be wanting Monsieur Charles.
One moment.’
    He is