Maigret's Holiday

by Georges Simenon

  Here, there was a little café painted green, with four steps, a dark bar, two or three tables covered with brown oilcloth and nothing but men wearing blue, their high rubber waders turned down over their thighs.

  ‘A small glass of white wine …’

  …Which did not taste the same as the wine at the Hôtel Bel Air, or that of the covered market, or the white wine at the Brasserie du Remblai.

  Now all he had to do was to walk to the end of the quayside, then turn right and make his way back through the narrow streets where the single-storey houses were teeming with life, noise and smells.

  When, at six o’clock, he reached the Brasserie du Remblai, Chief Inspector Mansuy, who had just emerged, stood winding up his watch as he waited for Maigret.

  2.

  It took half an hour, and the wait was not unpleasant, on the contrary. Chief Inspector Mansuy had said to him:

  ‘I have to stop by the police station. I need to sign some documents and there’s probably a man waiting to see me.’

  He was a stocky redhead, and there was an air of formality, of shyness even, about him – he always seemed to be saying ‘I’m sorry, but I assure you I’m doing everything I can.’

  As a child he had probably been one of those pretentious boys who spend their break time daydreaming in a corner, and are described as being too serious for their age. He was a bachelor and lived in furnished lodgings owned by a widow, in a house near the Hôtel Bel Air. From time to time, he came to have an aperitif at the hotel, and that was how Maigret had met him.

  He did not seem like a proper inspector, and the police station did not seem like a proper police station either. The offices were in a residential house, on a little square. In some rooms, the wallpaper hadn’t been changed, and you could tell which rooms had formerly been bedrooms, or bathrooms, with lighter patches on the walls in the shape of each piece of furniture, and pipes that had been sealed off.

  But there was the smell, which Maigret sniffed with delight, almost relief − a lovely, heavy smell, so thick you could cut through it with a knife, the odour of the leather shoulder holsters, the wool of the uniforms, administrative forms, pipes gone cold and, lastly, the poor wretches who had worn out their trouser seats on the two wooden benches in the waiting room.

  Compared with the Police Judiciaire, the place appeared rather amateurish. The men gave the impression they were playing at being cops. An officer in shirt-sleeves was washing his hands and face in the courtyard. You could hear the hens in the next-door garden clucking. Other officers were playing cards in the guardroom, lounging around in imitation of real officers, and there were some very young ones who looked like conscripts.

  ‘May I show you the way?’

  The stocky chief inspector was secretly thrilled to be showing a famous name like Maigret around his station. Thrilled and a little anxious. In a spacious office, two inspectors were perched on the tables, smoking. One of them had his hat pushed back, like in American films.

  Mansuy greeted them distractedly, opened the door to his office, then retraced his steps.

  ‘No news?’

  ‘We’ve kept Polyte for you … The sub-prefect requested that you telephone him …’

  It was a glorious day. Since he had been at Les Sables d’Olonne, Maigret had not had a single day of rain. The windows were open, allowing the sounds of the town to filter in, and families could be seen wending their way back from the beach.

  When Polyte was brought in, he was handcuffed to make it look as if the police were doing their job. He was a pathetic wretch, of indeterminate age, the sort you find at least one of in every village, shaggy, bedraggled, with a gaze that is both innocent and sly.

  ‘In trouble again, Polyte? I imagine that this time you won’t deny it?’

  Polyte didn’t move, didn’t reply, staring docilely at Mansuy, who was slightly intimidated by the presence of the famous Maigret and was keen to impress him.

  ‘You won’t deny it, I imagine?’

  He had to repeat his question twice before obtaining any kind of response from the vagrant. A nod.

  ‘What does that mean? That you confess?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You deny having broken into Madame Médard’s garden?’

  Heavens, this was comforting! Maigret felt so much more at home here than among the nuns. Polyte must be a regular. He lived in a wooden shack on the outskirts of the town, with a wife and seven or eight lice-ridden brats.

  That same morning, he had turned up at a second-hand goods dealer’s and tried to sell him two pairs of almost new sheets, as well as towels and women’s clothing. The second-hand dealer pretended to be interested and alerted the police officer standing watch on the corner of the street, and Polyte had been arrested before he had gone two hundred metres. As for Madame Médard, the victim of the theft, she was already at the police station.

  ‘You broke into her garden, where she had left some washing out to dry … This isn’t the first time you’ve jumped over her hedge … Last week you opened the door of her hutch and took her two biggest rabbits.’

  ‘I never stole her rabbits—’

  ‘She formally identified one of the skins found at your place.’

  ‘It’s my job to collect rabbit skins.’

  ‘Even if the meat is still inside them?’

  There was nothing to be done, no matter how many questions the red-cheeked Mansuy put to him, no matter how many times he tried to trip him up.

  ‘This man sold me the linen.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the street.’

  ‘Which street?’

  ‘Over there …’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Don’t know …’

  ‘Had you seen him before?’

  ‘Don’t think so …’

  ‘And he came up to you to sell you sheets and blouses?’

  ‘I told you before …’

  ‘You realize the judge won’t believe you and will come down hard on you?’

  ‘That will be unfair …’

  Polyte gave off a smell that was reminiscent of a Salvation Army shelter, only more pungent. He was obstinate. It was clear that even if the interrogation went on for hours, he would give away nothing more, and his shrewd little eyes seemed to be saying:

  ‘You see this isn’t getting you anywhere!’

  Two officers finally led him away, still handcuffed, leaving Maigret alone with the chief inspector, the windows open, the station almost empty, apart from the men in the guardroom.

  ‘There you are! … That’s a bit different from the cases you’re used to dealing with, isn’t it? … Here I have the time to play bridge nearly every afternoon.’

  ‘You won’t forget to telephone the sub-prefect?’

  ‘To invite myself to dinner tomorrow, I already know what it’s about … Have you met him? … A charming man … Earlier on you were talking to me about Philippe Bellamy … What do you think of him? … He’s a character, isn’t he? … I only transferred to Les Sables d’Olonne two years ago, but I’ve had time to get to know everyone … You’ve seen the main local characters … Some of them are quite colourful … Doctor Bellamy outclasses them all … Do you know that he’s very distinguished in his field? … I happened to mention him to a friend, who’s a doctor in Bordeaux … Bellamy is one of today’s foremost neurologists … For a long time he was a consultant in a Paris hospital, where he took his teaching exams … He could have been made professor in a top university … But instead he chose to live here, with his mother …’

  ‘Does his family come from Les Sables d’Olonne?’


  ‘They’ve been here for several generations. You haven’t met the mother, Madame Bellamy? A fairly stout, stocky old lady who walks with a stick that she wields like a sabre! … Once a week or so she has a run-in with the market women.’

  ‘What did the girl die of?’

  ‘I’m certain that the sub-prefect has invited me to dinner to discuss that very subject … He telephoned me this morning about it … He is in contact, naturally, with Doctor Bellamy … They see each other quite frequently.’

  It relaxed him to puff gently away on his pipe as he paced up and down the office, pausing by the window from time to time, framed against the square of light, and chatting casually in languid little snippets.

  ‘Unsurprisingly, people are talking a great deal about the accident … I’m surprised you haven’t heard …’

  ‘I know so few people here …’

  ‘It was … let me think … two days ago … Yes, the 3rd of August … The report must still be in my secretary’s office, but I wouldn’t know where to lay my hands on it … Doctor Bellamy had driven to La Roche-sur-Yon, with his sister-in-law …’

  ‘How old was she?’

  ‘Nineteen … A strange girl, interesting-looking rather than pretty … Now don’t start getting ideas, whatever you do … Lili Godreau was sweet, but her sister − whom Bellamy married − is one of the most beautiful women you’ll ever come across … Unfortunately, you won’t get much opportunity to see her, since she rarely leaves the house …’

  ‘How old is she?’ repeated Maigret.

  ‘Around twenty-five … Bellamy’s love for his wife is almost legendary around here … It’s a real passion and everyone will tell you that he is fiercely jealous … Some people say that he locks her inside the house when he goes out, like for example when he comes every afternoon to play cards … I think they’re exaggerating … On the other hand, Bellamy’s mother never seems to be away from the house at the same time as her son and I wouldn’t be surprised if she stays at home to keep an eye on her daughter-in-law. You saw the doctor telephone … He can’t be away from home for two hours without calling her, without making contact with her, perhaps to check that she’s there …’

  ‘What sort of family is she from?’

  ‘Well, her mother’s life isn’t exactly reassuring for a husband … Does this really interest you? I’ll try and tell you what I know … Bellamy’s wife is called Odette and her maiden name is Godreau … Her mother was from a fairly good family, the daughter of a naval officer, I think … She was, and still is, a very beautiful woman.

  ‘For twenty years, at Les Sables d’Olonne, her name was a byword for sin … I don’t know whether you’ve lived in a provincial town and whether you know what I’m talking about … She wasn’t married … She was a kept woman … She was the mistress of two or three rich gentlemen in succession, including Monsieur Lourceau, whom you saw at the café … Curtains twitched when she walked past, lustful schoolboys and married men would turn around to gaze at her. When she entered a shop, conversations would stop and the ladies would put on a tight-lipped air …

  ‘She had two daughters, said to be from different fathers, Odette and Lili …

  ‘Odette grew into a young woman even more stunning than her mother had been, and Doctor Bellamy met her before she had even reached twenty …

  ‘He married her.

  ‘You saw him. I told you he was a character. He married the young lady, but he didn’t want the mother-in-law around. He gave her an allowance so that she’d leave town … Apparently she lives in Paris now with a retired industrialist …

  ‘Since there was a younger sister, who was thirteen at the time they got married, the doctor took responsibility for her … He brought her up … Today, or rather yesterday, she was nineteen …

  ‘The two of them went to La Roche-sur-Yon in Bellamy’s car …’

  ‘With Odette?’

  ‘No, alone … Lili was a pianist and went to all the concerts … There was one on at La Roche-sur-Yon at four o’clock … Her brother-in-law drove her there … On the way back—’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘Just after seven … It was still broad daylight … The road was far from empty … I’m telling you all this because it’s important … The door, which probably hadn’t been closed properly, swung open and Lili Godreau was flung on to the road … The car was going very fast … The doctor is in the habit of speeding but the gendarmes, who know him, turn a blind eye …’

  ‘In other words, an accident …’

  ‘An accident …’

  Chief Inspector Mansuy faltered, almost corrected himself, even opened his mouth. Maigret watched him with curiosity. But he repeated:

  ‘An accident, yes.’

  ‘It couldn’t possibly be otherwise, could it?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘As you said earlier, it is hard to imagine that Bellamy could have had intimate relations with his sister-in-law?’

  ‘He’s not that sort of person.’

  ‘Were there any other cars in the vicinity?’

  ‘There was a delivery van a hundred metres behind the car … We questioned the driver. He didn’t notice anything unusual … The doctor’s car overtook him at top speed and, a few moments later, he saw the door swing open and someone fly out on to the tarmac …’

  If the stocky inspector with a large head had known Maigret better, he would have noticed the change that had come over the latter during the last few minutes. Earlier, he had still been a slightly irresolute, large man puffing half-heartedly on his pipe and gazing about him with a bored expression.

  But now he was somehow more substantial. His footsteps were heavier, his movements more deliberate.

  Lucas, for example, who knew the chief better than anyone, would have understood at once and been delighted.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, no doubt?’ grunted Maigret, extending his big paw.

  Mansuy was disconcerted. He had been expecting to leave with Maigret and walk part of the way with him, perhaps for them to have a drink together. Maigret was ditching him here, in his office, where he had been so pleased to do the honours and where there was nothing to detain him further. Awkwardly he picked his hat up from the table suggesting that he too was ready to leave.

  ‘You’re forgetting to telephone the sub-prefect,’ Maigret reminded him.

  Without irony. He wasn’t doing it on purpose, his mind was elsewhere, that was all. To be more precise, he was thinking. Or to be even more precise, he was stirring up images that were still hazy.

  In the doorway, he turned round.

  ‘Had it been possible to question the girl?’

  ‘No. She was in a coma up until her death, which occurred last night. She had a fractured skull.’

  ‘Who was treating her?’

  ‘Doctor Bourgeois.’

  And, on the very day of her death, her brother-in-law had gone, as usual, and played bridge at the Brasserie du Remblai.

  It was vague. Although Maigret was already heavier, he wasn’t yet in a trance, as they called it at Quai des Orfèvres. He followed the pavement, turned left, and ended up going into a bar where he hadn’t yet set foot and which would probably be added to his collection of daily watering holes.

  ‘A white wine … No … Something dry …’

  For pity’s sake … said the note that someone had slipped into his pocket.

  What would have happened if he had found the note earlier, if he’d gone straight to the hospital and demanded to see patient 15? Hadn’t Lili Godreau been in a coma?

  He went and sat in his favourite corner a
t the hotel. Before going upstairs, he had to have a drink with Monsieur Léonard.

  ‘Do you know Doctor Bellamy?’

  ‘He’s an extraordinary man … He treated my wife for her headaches, four years ago now. And he wouldn’t accept any payment … I had a tough job getting him to accept a bottle of vintage chartreuse that I was saving for a special occasion …’

  He slept, woke, reacquainted himself with the familiar sounds, the breakers on the sand, the baby bawling in the adjacent room, then the cacophony of the four children arguing with their mother and the droning of the elderly couple on his right.

  Nothing had been set in motion yet, nothing, but, like the previous evening, there was a little more heaviness about him, and a haze in his mind.

  White wine with the owner.

  ‘Do you know when the funeral is?’

  ‘You mean the Godreau girl? … It’s tomorrow … At least it’s scheduled for tomorrow … Between you and me, in confidence, I think there’ll be an autopsy … A mere precaution, you understand? … Or rather to put a stop to malicious gossip … People are even saying it’s Doctor Bellamy who suggested it …’

  All morning, as he did his daily round going from bar to bar, he fumed a little, and it was the nuns that made him so angry.

  Because if they hadn’t been nuns, he would have gone and rung the hospital bell. He would have asked specific questions. It wouldn’t have taken him long to find out who had slipped a piece of paper into his pocket.

  But he had to wait until three o’clock. Disturbing Sister Aurélie would get him nowhere. On what grounds, anyway? Because he wanted to see his wife? He was only allowed his eleven o’clock telephone call and it was already a huge privilege that he had obtained to be allowed to go and visit Madame Maigret every afternoon.

  Later, he would have to walk with muffled steps and talk in hushed tones.

  ‘We’ll soon see,’ he growled after his third white wine.

  All the same, at three o’clock there he was, waiting a few seconds for the church bells to ring before pressing the bell on the green door.