the way no self-respecting trollop would dare to.â
The hotel owner stood by the entrance,
surveying his
guests as if trying to
decide whether or not he should intervene.
Maigret now had eyes only for Le
Clinche, in close-up. His head had dropped a little. His eyes had not opened.
But tears squeezed out one by one from
under his clamped eyelids, oozed between the eyelashes, hesitated and then snaked
down his cheeks.
It wasnât the first time the
inspector had seen a man cry. But it was the first time he had been so affected by
the sight. Perhaps it was the silence, the stillness of his whole body.
The only signs of life it gave were
those rolling, liquid pearls. The rest was dead.
Marie Léonnec had seen nothing of all
this. Adèle was still talking.
Then, a split second later, Maigret
knew
. The hand which lay on the table had just imperceptibly opened.
The other was out of sight, in a pocket.
The lids rose no more than a millimetre.
It was enough to allow an eye-glance to filter through. That glance settled on
Marie.
As the inspector was getting to his
feet, there was a gunshot. Everyone reacted in a confused pandemonium of screams and
overturned chairs.
At first, Le Clinche did not move. Then
he started to lean imperceptibly to his left. His mouth opened, and from it came a
faint groan.
Marie Léonnec, who had difficulty
understanding what had happened, since no one had seen a gun, flung herself
on him, grabbed him by the knees and his
right hand and turned in panic:
âInspector! ⦠What â¦?â
Only Maigret had worked out what had
happened. Le Clinche had had a revolver in his pocket, a weapon he had found God
knows where, for he hadnât had one that morning when he was released from his
cell. And heâd fired from his pocket. Heâd been gripping the butt all
the interminable time Adèle had been talking, while he kept his eyes shut and waited
and maybe hesitated.
The bullet had caught him in the abdomen
or the side. His jacket was scorched, cut to ribbons at hip level.
âGet a doctor! Ring for the
police!â someone somewhere was shouting.
A doctor appeared. He was wearing
swimming trunks. Heâd been on the beach hardly a hundred metres from the
hotel.
Hands had reached out and held Le
Clinche up just as he began to fall. He was carried into the hotel dining room.
Marie, utterly distraught, followed the stretcher inside.
Maigret had not had time to worry about
Adèle or her boyfriend. As he entered the bar, he suddenly saw her. She looked
deathly pale and was emptying a large glass, which rattled against her teeth.
She had helped herself. The bottle was
still in her hand. She filled the glass a second time.
The inspector paid her no further
attention, but retained the image of that white face above the pink blouse and
particularly the sound of her teeth chattering against the glass.
He could not see Gaston Buzier anywhere. The dining-room
door was about to be closed.
âMove along, please,â the
hotel-owner was telling guests. âKeep calm! The doctor has asked us to keep
the noise down.â
Maigret pushed the door open. He found
the doctor kneeling and Madame Maigret restraining the frantic Marie, who was trying
desperately to rush to the wounded manâs side.
âPolice!â the inspector
muttered to the doctor.
âCanât you get those women
out of here? Iâm going to have to undress him and â¦â
âRight.â
âIâll need a couple of men
to help me. I assume someone has already phoned for an ambulance?â
He was still wearing his trunks.
âIs it serious?â
âI canât tell you anything
until Iâve probed the wound. You do of course understand â¦â
Yes! Maigret understood all too well
when he saw the appalling, lacerated mess, a coalescence of flesh and fabric.
The
The hotel owner stood by the entrance,
surveying his
guests as if trying to
decide whether or not he should intervene.
Maigret now had eyes only for Le
Clinche, in close-up. His head had dropped a little. His eyes had not opened.
But tears squeezed out one by one from
under his clamped eyelids, oozed between the eyelashes, hesitated and then snaked
down his cheeks.
It wasnât the first time the
inspector had seen a man cry. But it was the first time he had been so affected by
the sight. Perhaps it was the silence, the stillness of his whole body.
The only signs of life it gave were
those rolling, liquid pearls. The rest was dead.
Marie Léonnec had seen nothing of all
this. Adèle was still talking.
Then, a split second later, Maigret
knew
. The hand which lay on the table had just imperceptibly opened.
The other was out of sight, in a pocket.
The lids rose no more than a millimetre.
It was enough to allow an eye-glance to filter through. That glance settled on
Marie.
As the inspector was getting to his
feet, there was a gunshot. Everyone reacted in a confused pandemonium of screams and
overturned chairs.
At first, Le Clinche did not move. Then
he started to lean imperceptibly to his left. His mouth opened, and from it came a
faint groan.
Marie Léonnec, who had difficulty
understanding what had happened, since no one had seen a gun, flung herself
on him, grabbed him by the knees and his
right hand and turned in panic:
âInspector! ⦠What â¦?â
Only Maigret had worked out what had
happened. Le Clinche had had a revolver in his pocket, a weapon he had found God
knows where, for he hadnât had one that morning when he was released from his
cell. And heâd fired from his pocket. Heâd been gripping the butt all
the interminable time Adèle had been talking, while he kept his eyes shut and waited
and maybe hesitated.
The bullet had caught him in the abdomen
or the side. His jacket was scorched, cut to ribbons at hip level.
âGet a doctor! Ring for the
police!â someone somewhere was shouting.
A doctor appeared. He was wearing
swimming trunks. Heâd been on the beach hardly a hundred metres from the
hotel.
Hands had reached out and held Le
Clinche up just as he began to fall. He was carried into the hotel dining room.
Marie, utterly distraught, followed the stretcher inside.
Maigret had not had time to worry about
Adèle or her boyfriend. As he entered the bar, he suddenly saw her. She looked
deathly pale and was emptying a large glass, which rattled against her teeth.
She had helped herself. The bottle was
still in her hand. She filled the glass a second time.
The inspector paid her no further
attention, but retained the image of that white face above the pink blouse and
particularly the sound of her teeth chattering against the glass.
He could not see Gaston Buzier anywhere. The dining-room
door was about to be closed.
âMove along, please,â the
hotel-owner was telling guests. âKeep calm! The doctor has asked us to keep
the noise down.â
Maigret pushed the door open. He found
the doctor kneeling and Madame Maigret restraining the frantic Marie, who was trying
desperately to rush to the wounded manâs side.
âPolice!â the inspector
muttered to the doctor.
âCanât you get those women
out of here? Iâm going to have to undress him and â¦â
âRight.â
âIâll need a couple of men
to help me. I assume someone has already phoned for an ambulance?â
He was still wearing his trunks.
âIs it serious?â
âI canât tell you anything
until Iâve probed the wound. You do of course understand â¦â
Yes! Maigret understood all too well
when he saw the appalling, lacerated mess, a coalescence of flesh and fabric.
The
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