a
handful of luxury hotels …
The famous blue sea … The mountains
… And all the attractions promised by the tourist guides: orange trees, mimosas,
sun, palm trees, stone pines, tennis, golf, tea rooms and American bars …
‘And what did you
discover?’
‘Yes, well. Harry Brown has a
mistress on the Côte! The manager has spotted her numerous times in Cap Ferrat,where he visits her … A woman around thirty, widowed or
divorced, very proper, by all accounts, whom he has set up in a villa …’
Was Maigret listening? He was looking at
the impressive night-time panorama with a grumpy expression. Boutigues continued:
‘He goes to see her about once a
month … And it’s a running joke at the Hôtel du Cap because he goes through
a whole rigmarole to attempt to hide his affair … To the extent that, whenever he
spends the night with her, he comes back in via the service stairs and then makes out
that he’s not been out at all …’
‘Very amusing!’ said Maigret,
so half-heartedly that Boutigues felt quite discouraged.
‘Do you want him put under
surveillance?’
‘No … yes …’
‘Are you going to pay a visit to the
lady in Cap Ferrat?’
Maigret didn’t know! He
couldn’t think of three dozen things at the same time, and at the moment he
wasn’t thinking about Harry Brown, but about William. In Place Macé he lightly
squeezed his companion’s hand and hopped into a taxi.
‘Follow the Cap d’Antibes
road. I’ll tell you where to stop.’
And he repeated to himself, all alone in
the back of the taxi:
‘William Brown was
murdered!’
The small gate, the gravel path, then the
bell, an electric light coming on above the door, footsteps in the hall, the door
opening …
‘It’s
you,’ Gina Martini sighed when she recognized the inspector and then stepped back
to allow him to enter.
A man’s voice could be heard in the
living room.
‘Come in … Allow me to explain
…’
The man was standing up, with a notebook
in his hand, and half the old woman’s body had disappeared inside a cupboard.
‘Monsieur Petitfils … We asked
him to come in order to …’
Monsieur Petitfils was a thin man with a
long, drooping moustache and tired-looking eyes.
‘He is the manager of one of the
principal letting agencies for villas … We called him for some advice and
…’
Still that same smell of musk. The two
women had taken off their mourning clothes and were wearing dressing gowns and
slippers.
The place was a mess. Was the light even
dimmer than usual? Everything looked a dull grey. The old woman emerged from her
cupboard, greeted Maigret and explained:
‘Since I saw those two women at the
funeral, I haven’t felt at ease … So I approached Monsieur Petitfils to ask
his advice … He agrees with me that it would be best to draw up an inventory
…’
‘An inventory of what?’
‘Of the objects that belonged to us
and those that belonged to William … We have been at it since two o’clock
this afternoon …’
That much was clear!
There were piles of linen on the tables, disparate objects scattered on the ground,
stacks of books, more linen in baskets …
And Monsieur Petitfils took some notes and
put crosses next to certain objects on his list.
What had Maigret come here for? It
wasn’t Brown’s villa any more, so there was no point in looking for his
memory here. They were clearing out the cupboards, the drawers, piling everything up,
sorting, logging.
‘As for the stove, that has always
belonged to me,’ said the old woman. ‘I had it twenty years ago, in my
lodgings in Toulouse.’
‘Can I offer you anything,
inspector?’ asked Gina.
There was one dirty glass: that of the
businessman. As he wrote his notes, he was smoking one of Brown’s cigars.
‘No, thank you … I just came
by to say …’
To say what?
‘… that I hope to arrest the
murderer
handful of luxury hotels …
The famous blue sea … The mountains
… And all the attractions promised by the tourist guides: orange trees, mimosas,
sun, palm trees, stone pines, tennis, golf, tea rooms and American bars …
‘And what did you
discover?’
‘Yes, well. Harry Brown has a
mistress on the Côte! The manager has spotted her numerous times in Cap Ferrat,where he visits her … A woman around thirty, widowed or
divorced, very proper, by all accounts, whom he has set up in a villa …’
Was Maigret listening? He was looking at
the impressive night-time panorama with a grumpy expression. Boutigues continued:
‘He goes to see her about once a
month … And it’s a running joke at the Hôtel du Cap because he goes through
a whole rigmarole to attempt to hide his affair … To the extent that, whenever he
spends the night with her, he comes back in via the service stairs and then makes out
that he’s not been out at all …’
‘Very amusing!’ said Maigret,
so half-heartedly that Boutigues felt quite discouraged.
‘Do you want him put under
surveillance?’
‘No … yes …’
‘Are you going to pay a visit to the
lady in Cap Ferrat?’
Maigret didn’t know! He
couldn’t think of three dozen things at the same time, and at the moment he
wasn’t thinking about Harry Brown, but about William. In Place Macé he lightly
squeezed his companion’s hand and hopped into a taxi.
‘Follow the Cap d’Antibes
road. I’ll tell you where to stop.’
And he repeated to himself, all alone in
the back of the taxi:
‘William Brown was
murdered!’
The small gate, the gravel path, then the
bell, an electric light coming on above the door, footsteps in the hall, the door
opening …
‘It’s
you,’ Gina Martini sighed when she recognized the inspector and then stepped back
to allow him to enter.
A man’s voice could be heard in the
living room.
‘Come in … Allow me to explain
…’
The man was standing up, with a notebook
in his hand, and half the old woman’s body had disappeared inside a cupboard.
‘Monsieur Petitfils … We asked
him to come in order to …’
Monsieur Petitfils was a thin man with a
long, drooping moustache and tired-looking eyes.
‘He is the manager of one of the
principal letting agencies for villas … We called him for some advice and
…’
Still that same smell of musk. The two
women had taken off their mourning clothes and were wearing dressing gowns and
slippers.
The place was a mess. Was the light even
dimmer than usual? Everything looked a dull grey. The old woman emerged from her
cupboard, greeted Maigret and explained:
‘Since I saw those two women at the
funeral, I haven’t felt at ease … So I approached Monsieur Petitfils to ask
his advice … He agrees with me that it would be best to draw up an inventory
…’
‘An inventory of what?’
‘Of the objects that belonged to us
and those that belonged to William … We have been at it since two o’clock
this afternoon …’
That much was clear!
There were piles of linen on the tables, disparate objects scattered on the ground,
stacks of books, more linen in baskets …
And Monsieur Petitfils took some notes and
put crosses next to certain objects on his list.
What had Maigret come here for? It
wasn’t Brown’s villa any more, so there was no point in looking for his
memory here. They were clearing out the cupboards, the drawers, piling everything up,
sorting, logging.
‘As for the stove, that has always
belonged to me,’ said the old woman. ‘I had it twenty years ago, in my
lodgings in Toulouse.’
‘Can I offer you anything,
inspector?’ asked Gina.
There was one dirty glass: that of the
businessman. As he wrote his notes, he was smoking one of Brown’s cigars.
‘No, thank you … I just came
by to say …’
To say what?
‘… that I hope to arrest the
murderer
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