Maigret's Holiday by Georges Simenon Page A

on the table,
one full of coffee, the one Duffieux had taken in to his daughter at seven
o’clock.
    The house had only three rooms. To the
right, the kitchen, which was also the sitting room and was fairly large, with one
window overlooking the garden and another with a view of the street. To the left, two
doors, two bedrooms, the parents’ room at the front, and the other at the
back.
    There were photographs on the walls and on
the mantelpiece.
    â€˜Did they have just the one
child?’ asked Maigret softly.
    â€˜I believe they have a son, but I
don’t think he’s in Les Sables d’Olonne. I confess I didn’t have
the courage toquestion them at length. The prosecutor will be here
later, and the gentlemen from Poitiers will do what must be done …’
    Mansuy thus admitted that he wasn’t
born for this job. He covertly watched Maigret, who seemed afraid to go into the second
bedroom, whose door was closed.
    â€˜No one has touched anything?’
he said, automatically, because it was the professional thing to ask.
    Mansuy shook his head.
    â€˜Let’s go in …’
    He pushed open the door and was surprised to
catch a strong whiff of tobacco. Then he spotted a man silhouetted against the window,
who turned to them.
    â€˜I left one of my men in this room as
a precaution,’ said Mansuy.
    â€˜You promised to relieve me,’
protested the officer.
    â€˜A bit later, Larrouy.’
    There were two beds in the room, and between
them just room for a bedside table. The beds were of iron, the black bars standing out
against the bluish wallpaper. The bed against the left-hand wall had not been slept in.
On the other, a huddled form was entirely covered with a sheet.
    A big wardrobe stood against the opposite
wall, and there was a table covered with a towel, with a white enamel basin on it, a
comb, a brush, soap and a saucer; and, under the table, a pitcher of water and a blue
enamel pail. That was all. This was Lucile’s room, which she must have shared with
her brother.
    â€˜Do you know who the old lady is, in
the kitchen?’
    â€˜She wasn’t
there this morning. Or if she was, I didn’t see her, because the place was full of
curious folk and we had a job getting them out.’
    â€˜Did the mother not hear
anything?’
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜Has the coroner been?’
    â€˜He must have come by because I
telephoned him before coming myself. I’ll call him again once I’m back in
the office.’
    Maigret finally did what was expected of
him. He walked slowly over to the bed and bent over to lift the sheet. He only looked
for a few seconds and then went straight over to the window.
    Mansuy stood close to him. The three men
gazed out at the little garden surrounded by pickets linked together by barbed wire. In
one corner was a rabbit hutch, in the other, a shed where Duffieux must keep his tools
and probably pottered about in his free time. A few vegetables grew in the sandy soil,
pale green leeks, lettuces, cabbages. Five tomato plants tied to stakes bore their red
fruits.
    They did not need to speak. This was how the
man had got in. It was easy to climb over the barbed wire, even easier to clamber over
the window-sill. Beyond the garden was a patch of waste ground and, further away, some
disused buildings which must once have been a factory.
    â€˜If he left any footprints,’
said the inspector quietly, ‘this morning’s rain will have washed them away.
My colleague Charbonnet had a look …’
    He sought the approval of Maigret, who
didn’t move a muscle. Had he ever bothered with footprints?
    He went into the garden, however, through
the kitchenwhere two people had just arrived. There was a little path
made of flat stones scavenged from the waste ground. The rabbits watched him, wrinkling
their noses, and he grabbed a handful of cabbage leaves, opened the hutch and closed it
again.
    This greyness was so typical