Maigret in Montmartre by Georges Simenon Page A

had several gigolos, one after another, and they got away with a good deal of her money. I asked if that was when she began taking drugs, but there was no information about that. The police will try to find out, but it’s a long time ago. The only report they’ve found so far is very scrappy, and they aren’t sure they can lay their hands on the file.
    “What they do know is that she drank and gambled. When she was well under way, she’d collect a bunch of people and take them home with her. So you can see there must be plenty of her crazy kind in that part of the world. She must have lost a lot of money at roulette; sometimes she’d stick obstinately to the same number for hours on end.
    “Four years after her husband’s death she sold The Oasis. That was in the middle of the slump, so she got very little for it. I think it’s a sanatorium now, or a nursing-home. Anyway, it’s no longer a private house.
    “That’s all that’s known at Nice. After the house was sold the Countess disappeared, and she’s never been seen again on the Riviera.”
    “You’d better go and look in on the gambling-licence office,” advised Maigret. “And the narcotics squad might have some news for you too.”
    “Aren’t I to deal with Arlette?”
    “Not for the moment. I’d like you to ring through to Nice again, as well. They may be able to give you a list of the people who were living at The Oasis when the Count died. Don’t forget the servants. I know it’s fifteen years ago, but we may be able to trace some of them.”
    It was still snowing, fairly hard; but the flakes were so light and feathery that they melted as soon as they touched a wall or the ground.
    “Is that all, sir?”
    “That’s all for now. Leave the file with me.”
    “You don’t want me to write up my report?”
    “Not till it’s all finished. Off you go.”
    Maigret got up: the heat of the office made him feel drowsy, and he still had a nasty taste in his mouth and a dull ache at the back of his head. He remembered there was a lady waiting for him in the anteroom, and decided to fetch her himself for the sake of walking a few yards. If there had been time he would have gone to the Brasserie Dauphine for a glass of beer to freshen him up.
    There were several people in the glass-partitioned waiting-room, where the green of the armchairs looked harsher than usual, and an umbrella was standing in a corner, surrounded by a pool of melted snow. Looking round for his visitor, Maigret saw an elderly woman in black sitting bolt upright on a chair. She got up as he came in—she had probably seen his photo in the papers.
    Lognon was there too, but made no move to rise; he just looked at the Inspector and sighed. That was his way. He had a positive need to feel wronged, unlucky, a victim of circumstances. He had been working all night, trailing round the wet streets while hundreds of thousands of Parisians were asleep. The case was out of his hands now, since headquarters had taken it over. But he had done his best, knowing that the credit would go to others; and he had made a discovery.
    He had been sitting in the waiting-room for the last half-hour, together with a strange young man with long hair, a pale face, and a thin nose, who stared straight ahead of him as though about to faint.
    And naturally nobody paid any attention to him. They just left him to kick his heels. They didn’t even ask who he’d brought with him, or what he’d found out. Maigret merely murmured: “See you in a minute, Lognon!” as he showed the lady out.
    Maigret opened the door of his office and stood back, saying: “Please sit down.”
    He soon realized he had made a mistake. Because of what Rose had said, and because of his visitor’s respectable, rather prim appearance, her black clothes and stiff manner, he had assumed it was Arlette’s mother, who had recognized her daughter’s photograph in the papers.
    Her first words did not correct this impression. “I live at