of the squalid
surroundings in which women like Madame Duffieux, thin and sickly, spent their lives
counting out every single sou.
âWhat time is it?â he asked,
without thinking to take his watch out of his pocket.
âFive to nine.â
âThe funeral is due to take place at
ten thirty, isnât it?â
It took Mansuy a second to understand, the
idea of a funeral becoming confused in his mind with the small body they had just seen.
Then he remembered the other dead girl, and looked at Maigret more attentively.
âAre you going?â
âYes.â
âDo you think thereâs a
connection?â
Had Maigret heard? He did not appear to
have. He returned slowly to the kitchen. The old woman, sighing deeply and continually
wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron, was telling the newcomers about the tragedy,
a brother of Duffieuxâs and his wife, who had been informed by neighbours. It was
odd, these people spoke loudly, with coarse language which was very graphic, without
giving any thought to the mother lying in the next room whose door was open, so that her
moans accompanied the old womanâs account like a monotonous chant:
âI said to Gérard: âIt can
only be a madman â¦â
âBecause I knew the
girl, better than anyone perhaps â she used to come and play at my house when she
was little and I gave her the doll that belonged to my daughter who passed away
â¦â
âExcuse me one moment
â¦â
Maigret touched her on the shoulder. She
suddenly became respectful. For her, all those she saw that day in the house were
gentlemen, official figures.
âHas the son been informed?â
âÃmile?â
She darted a look at one of the portraits on
the wall, that of a young man of seventeen or eighteen, with delicate features, sharp
eyes, dressed with a certain elegance.
âYou donât know that
Ãmileâs left? Thatâs whatâs so dreadful for this poor woman, your
honour ⦠Her son who went off last week ⦠Her daughter whoââ
âIs he in the army?â
Wasnât that the tragedy of this sort
of people?
âNo, no, my good sir ⦠He
isnât old enough for the army yet ⦠Hold on ⦠He must be nineteen and
a half now ⦠He earned a good living here ⦠His employers thought very
highly of him ⦠Then, would you believe, he gets it into his head to go and live
in Paris! ⦠Without warning, just like that! ⦠Without telling anyone!
⦠He didnât even leave a note ⦠He simply said he had to work all
night ⦠Marthe believed him ⦠She believes everything people tell her
â¦
âIn the morning, seeing that he
hadnât come home, curiosity made her look in her sonâs wardrobe, and she saw
that all his things had gone â¦
âThen, when the
postman came by, he brought a letter in which Ãmile asked her forgiveness, telling
her that he was going to Paris, that it was his life, his future, and I donât know
what else ⦠She read it to me ⦠It must be in the drawer of the dresser
â¦â
She made to go and fetch it; Maigret put up
his hand to stop her.
âYou donât know what day that
was?â
âJust a moment ⦠I can tell you
â¦â
She went into the bedroom and spoke in a low
voice to Duffieux, who stared at her uncomprehending, and then glanced over at Maigret.
He wondered why he was being asked this question, cast his mind back and replied:
âIt must have been Tuesday â¦
Tuesday night.â
âDo you know if they have heard from
him since?â
âThe day before yesterday Marthe
showed me a picture postcard she received from Paris.â
Chief Inspector Mansuy did not attempt to
understand. He still watched Maigret uncomfortably, as if he suspected him of having
some sort of fiendish power. He half expected to learn, during the course of the day,
that the
surroundings in which women like Madame Duffieux, thin and sickly, spent their lives
counting out every single sou.
âWhat time is it?â he asked,
without thinking to take his watch out of his pocket.
âFive to nine.â
âThe funeral is due to take place at
ten thirty, isnât it?â
It took Mansuy a second to understand, the
idea of a funeral becoming confused in his mind with the small body they had just seen.
Then he remembered the other dead girl, and looked at Maigret more attentively.
âAre you going?â
âYes.â
âDo you think thereâs a
connection?â
Had Maigret heard? He did not appear to
have. He returned slowly to the kitchen. The old woman, sighing deeply and continually
wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron, was telling the newcomers about the tragedy,
a brother of Duffieuxâs and his wife, who had been informed by neighbours. It was
odd, these people spoke loudly, with coarse language which was very graphic, without
giving any thought to the mother lying in the next room whose door was open, so that her
moans accompanied the old womanâs account like a monotonous chant:
âI said to Gérard: âIt can
only be a madman â¦â
âBecause I knew the
girl, better than anyone perhaps â she used to come and play at my house when she
was little and I gave her the doll that belonged to my daughter who passed away
â¦â
âExcuse me one moment
â¦â
Maigret touched her on the shoulder. She
suddenly became respectful. For her, all those she saw that day in the house were
gentlemen, official figures.
âHas the son been informed?â
âÃmile?â
She darted a look at one of the portraits on
the wall, that of a young man of seventeen or eighteen, with delicate features, sharp
eyes, dressed with a certain elegance.
âYou donât know that
Ãmileâs left? Thatâs whatâs so dreadful for this poor woman, your
honour ⦠Her son who went off last week ⦠Her daughter whoââ
âIs he in the army?â
Wasnât that the tragedy of this sort
of people?
âNo, no, my good sir ⦠He
isnât old enough for the army yet ⦠Hold on ⦠He must be nineteen and
a half now ⦠He earned a good living here ⦠His employers thought very
highly of him ⦠Then, would you believe, he gets it into his head to go and live
in Paris! ⦠Without warning, just like that! ⦠Without telling anyone!
⦠He didnât even leave a note ⦠He simply said he had to work all
night ⦠Marthe believed him ⦠She believes everything people tell her
â¦
âIn the morning, seeing that he
hadnât come home, curiosity made her look in her sonâs wardrobe, and she saw
that all his things had gone â¦
âThen, when the
postman came by, he brought a letter in which Ãmile asked her forgiveness, telling
her that he was going to Paris, that it was his life, his future, and I donât know
what else ⦠She read it to me ⦠It must be in the drawer of the dresser
â¦â
She made to go and fetch it; Maigret put up
his hand to stop her.
âYou donât know what day that
was?â
âJust a moment ⦠I can tell you
â¦â
She went into the bedroom and spoke in a low
voice to Duffieux, who stared at her uncomprehending, and then glanced over at Maigret.
He wondered why he was being asked this question, cast his mind back and replied:
âIt must have been Tuesday â¦
Tuesday night.â
âDo you know if they have heard from
him since?â
âThe day before yesterday Marthe
showed me a picture postcard she received from Paris.â
Chief Inspector Mansuy did not attempt to
understand. He still watched Maigret uncomfortably, as if he suspected him of having
some sort of fiendish power. He half expected to learn, during the course of the day,
that the
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