The Hotel Majestic

by Georges Simenon

  Which meant, in fact:

  “We are dealing with a man of the world, who has the protection of the American Embassy. So in the circumstances, don’t interfere, because you’re likely to be tactless and offend him. See the people in the basement, the maids and so on. But leave Clark to me—I’ll deal with him myself!”

  “I understand, sir! Of course, sir . . .”

  And turning to his wife:

  “You can serve the soup, Madame Maigret!”

  It was nearly midnight. The long corridor at Police Headquarters was deserted, and so dimly lit that it seemed to be filled with a dense smog. Maigret’s patent-leather shoes, which he seldom wore, creaked like those of a first-time communicant.

  In his office, he began by raking the stove and warming his hands, then, pipe in mouth, he opened the door of the inspectors’ office.

  Ducuing was there, busy telling Torrence a story which seemed to be amusing them both highly; both men were in great good humour.

  “Well, lads?”

  And Maigret sat down on a corner of the wooden, ink-stained table, tapping the ash from his pipe on to the floor. He could relax here. The two inspectors had had beer sent up from the Brasserie Dauphine and the superintendent was pleased to see they hadn’t forgotten him.

  “You know, chief, that man Clark’s an odd bloke . . . I went to have a good look at him in the Majestic bar, so that I could see him at close quarters and register his appearance . . . And at that point I thought he looked the typical businessman, rather a tough customer in fact . . . Well, now I know how he spent last night, and I can assure you he’s a bit of a lad . . .”

  Torrence couldn’t help eyeing the superintendent’s gleaming white shirt-front, adorned with two pearls, which he didn’t often see him wearing.

  “Listen . . . First he and the girl dined in a cheap restaurant in the Rue Lepic . . . You know the kind I mean . . . The proprietor noticed them, because he doesn’t often get asked for real champagne . . . Then they asked where there was a merry-go-round . . . They had difficulty in explaining what they wanted . . . He finally directed them to the Foire du Trône . . .

  “I caught up with them again there . . . I don’t know if they had a ride on the merry-go-round, but I imagine they did . . . They also had a go at the rifle range, I know, because Clark spent over a hundred francs there, much to the amazement of the good lady running it . . .

  “You know the kind of thing . . . Wandering through the crowd, arm in arm, like two young lovers . . . But now we’re coming to the best part . . . Listen . . .

  “You know Eugène the Muscle Man’s booth? At the end of his show he threw down the gauntlet to the crowd . . . There was a sort of colossus there who took up the challenge . . . Well . . . our Clark took him on . . . He went to get undressed behind a filthy bit of canvas and made short work of the said colossus . . . I imagine the girl was applauding in the front row of the crowd . . . Everyone was shouting:

  “‘Go it, the Englishman! . . . Bash his face in!’

  “After which our two lovers went dancing at the Moulin de la Galette . . . And at about three they were to be seen at the Coupole, eating grilled sausages, and I imagine they then went quietly off to bye-byes . . .

  “The Hotel Aiglon has no doorman. Only a night porter who sleeps in his little room and pulls the door-pull without bothering too much about who comes in . . . He remembers hearing someone talking in English at about four in the morning . . . He says no one went out . . .

  “And that’s it! Don’t you think it’s rather an odd evening for people who are supposed to be staying at the Majestic?”

  Maigret didn’t answer one way or the other, and, glancing at his wristwatch, which he only wore on special occasions (it was a twentieth wedding anniversary present), got up from the table where he’d been sitting.

  “Goodnight, children . . .”

  He was already at the door, when he came back to finish his glass of beer. He had to walk two or three hundred yards before he found a taxi.

  “Rue Fontaine . . .”

  It was 1 a.m. Night life in Montmartre was in full swing. A Negro met him at the door of the Pélican and he was obliged to leave his coat and hat in the cloakroom. He hesitated a bit, as if unsure of himself, on entering the main room, where rolls of coloured thread and streamers were flying through the air.

  “A table by the cabaret? . . . This way . . . Are you alone?”

  He was reduced to muttering under his breath to the maître d’hôtel, who hadn’t recognized him: “Idiot!”

  The barman, however, had spotted him at once, and was whispering to two hostesses who were propping themselves up at the bar.

  Maigret sat down at a table and, as he couldn’t drink beer there, ordered a brandy and water. Less than ten minutes later the proprietor, who had been discreetly summoned, came to sit down opposite him.

  “Nothing out of order, I hope, superintendent? . . . You know I’ve always abided by the rules and . . .”

  He glanced round the room, as if to see what could have caused this unexpected visit from the police.

  “Nothing . . .” Maigret replied. “I felt in need of entertainment . . .”

  He pulled his pipe out of his pocket, but saw from the proprietor’s face that it would be out of place there, and put it back, sighing.

  “If you need any information of any kind . . .” the other said, winking. “But I know all my staff personally . . . I don’t think there’s anyone here at present who could be of interest to you . . . As for the customers, you can see for yourself . . . The usual crowd . . . Foreigners, people up from the provinces . . . Look! That man over there with Léa is a deputy . . .”

  Maigret got up and walked heavily over to the stairs leading to the toilets. These were in a brightly lit basement room, with bluish tiles on the walls. Wooden telephone booths. Mirrors. And a long table on which were numerous toilet articles: brushes, combs, a manicure set, every conceivable shade of powder, rouge and so on . . .

  “It’s always the same when you dance with him. Give me another pair of stockings, Charlotte . . .”

  A plump young woman in an evening dress was sitting on a chair and had already taken off one stocking. She sat there with her skirt hitched up, inspecting her bare foot, while Charlotte rummaged in a drawer.

  “Size 44, sheer ones, again?”

  “Yes, that will do. I’ll take those. If a bloke doesn’t know how to dance, he ought at least . . .”

  She caught sight of Maigret in the glass and went on putting on her new stockings, glancing at him occasionally as she did so. Charlotte turned round. She, too, saw the superintendent, who saw her turn visibly paler.

  “Ah! It’s you . . .”

  She forced a laugh. She was no longer the same woman who had put her feet on the hob and who stuffed herself with pastries, in the little house in Saint-Cloud.

  Her blonde hair was dressed with so much care that the waves seemed permanently glued in place. Her skin was a sugary pink. Her rounded figure was sheathed in a very simple black silk dress, over which she wore a frilly little lace apron of the kind usually only worn by soubrettes in the theatre.

  “I’ll pay for those with the rest, Charlotte . . .”

  “Yes, all right . . .”

  The girl realized that the stranger was only waiting for her to go and, as soon as she had her shoes on again, she hurried upstairs.

  Charlotte, who was making a show of tidying the brushes and combs, was finally forced to ask: “What do you want?”

  Maigret didn’t answer. He had sat down on the chair left vacant by the girl with the laddered stockings. As he was in the basement he seized the chance of filling his pipe, slowly, with immense care.

  “If you think I know anything, you’re mistaken . . .”

  It is a strange fact that women who have a placid temperament are the ones who show their emotions the most. Charlotte was trying to keep calm, but she couldn’t prevent the waves of colour mounting to her face,
or her hands moving so clumsily over the toilet articles that she dropped a nail-polisher.

  “I could see, from the way you looked at me, just now, when you visited our house, that you thought . . .”

  “I take it you never knew a dancer or nightclub hostess called Mimi, is that correct?”

  “No, never!”

  “And yet you were a bar girl in Cannes for a long time . . . You were there at the same time as this Mimi . . .”

  “There isn’t only one nightclub in Cannes, and you don’t meet everyone, you know . . .”

  “You were at the Belle Étoile, weren’t you?”

  “What if I was?”

  “Nothing . . . I just wanted to come and have a chat with you . . .”

  They were silent for at least five minutes, because a customer came down, washed his hands, combed his hair, then asked for a cloth to polish his patent-leather shoes with. When he had finally left a five-franc piece in the saucer, the superintendent continued: “I feel great sympathy for Prosper Donge . . . I feel sure he’s the nicest man in the world . . .”

  “Oh yes! You don’t know how good he is!” she cried fervently.

  “He had a miserable childhood and he seems to have always had to struggle for . . .”

  “And do you know he didn’t pass any exams at school and everything he’s learnt he’s taught himself? . . . If you look in his still-room you’ll find books which people like us don’t usually read . . . He’s always had a passion for learning things . . . He always dreamt of . . .”

  She suddenly stopped, tried to regain her composure.

  “Did I hear the telephone ring?”

  “No, I don’t think so . . .”

  “What was I saying?”

  “That he always dreamt of . . .”

  “Oh well! There’s no secret about it. He would have liked to have had a son, make someone of him . . . He chose badly with me, poor lad, because since my operation I can’t have children.”

  “Do you know Jean Ramuel?”

  “No. I know he’s the bookkeeper and that he’s not very well, that’s all. Prosper doesn’t tell me much about the Majestic . . . Not like me; I tell him everything that happens here . . .”

  Having reassured her, he tried to make a bit of headway again.

  “You see, what struck me was . . . I oughtn’t to tell you this . . . it’s officially a secret . . . But I feel sure it won’t go any further . . . Well, the automatic which was found in this Mrs. Clark’s handbag had been bought the day before at a gunsmith’s in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré . . . Don’t you think that that’s very odd? There’s this rich, married woman, a mother of a family, who arrives from New York and stays in a luxury hotel in the Champs-Élysées, and who suddenly feels the need to buy a gun . . . And note that it wasn’t a pretty little lady’s pistol, but a proper weapon . . .”

  He avoided her eye, looked at the gleaming toecaps of his shoes, as if amazed at his own smartness.

  “Now we know that this same woman slipped down a back staircase a few hours later, to get to the hotel basement . . . One is bound to think that she had a rendezvous . . . And to conclude that it was in view of this rendezvous that she had bought her gun. Suppose for a moment that this woman, who is now so respectable, had a stormy past in days gone by and that someone who knew her at that time had tried to blackmail her . . . Do you know if Ramuel ever lived on the Riviera? . . . Or a certain professional dancing-partner called Zebio? . . .”

  “I don’t know him.”

  He could tell, without looking at her, that she was on the point of bursting into tears.

  “And there’s one other person—the night porter—who could have killed her, because he went down to the basement at about six in the morning . . . It was Prosper Donge who heard him going up the back stairs . . . Not to mention any of the room waiters . . . It’s a great pity that you didn’t know Mimi in Cannes . . . You could have given me details of all the people she knew then . . . Oh well! I would have liked not to have had to go to Cannes . . . I’m bound to be able to find some of the people who knew her, down there . . .”

  He got up, tapped out his pipe, felt in his pocket for some change for the saucer.

  “You don’t need to do that!” she protested.

  “Goodnight . . . I wonder what time there’s a train . . .”

  As soon as he got upstairs, he paid his bill and rushed across the street to the bar opposite, a café frequented by employees from all the nightclubs in the district.

  “The telephone, please . . .”

  He got on to the exchange.

  “Judicial Police, here. Someone from the Pélican will probably ask you for a Cannes number. Don’t connect them too quickly . . . Wait till I get to you . . .”

  He leapt into a taxi. Rushed to the telephone exchange and made himself known to the night supervisor.

  “Give me some headphones . . . Have they asked for Cannes?”

  “Yes, a minute ago . . . I found out whose number it was . . . It’s the Brasserie des Artistes, which stays open all night . . . Shall I put them through?”

  Maigret put on the headphones and waited. Some of the telephone girls, also wearing headphones, stared at him curiously.

  “I’m putting you through to Cannes 18-43, Mademoiselle . . .”

  “Thank you . . . Hello! The Brasserie des Artistes? . . . Who’s speaking? . . . Is that you, Jean? . . . It’s Charlotte here . . . Yes! . . . Charlotte from the Belle Étoile . . . Wait . . . I’ll shut the door . . . I think there’s someone . . .”

  They heard her talking, probably to a customer. Then the sound of a door being shut.

  “Listen, Jean dear . . . It’s very important . . . I’ll write and explain . . . No, I don’t think I’d better! It’s too risky . . . I’ll come and see you later, when it’s all over . . . Is Gigi still there? What? Still the same . . . You must be sure to tell her that if anyone questions her about Mimi . . . You remember? . . . Oh no, you weren’t there then . . . Well, if she’s asked anything at all about her . . . Yes! She knows nothing! . . . And she must be particularly careful not to say anything about Prosper . . .”

  “Prosper who?” asked Jean on the other end of the line.

  “Never you mind . . . She doesn’t know anyone called Prosper, do you hear me? . . . Or Mimi . . . Hello! Are you there . . . Is there someone else on the line? . . .”

  Maigret realized that she was scared, that it had perhaps occurred to her that someone was listening to the conversation.

  “You understand, Jean dear? . . . I can rely on you? . . . I’m hanging up because there’s someone . . .”

  Maigret also took off his headphones, and relit his pipe, which had gone out.

  “Did you learn what you wanted to know?” asked the supervisor.

  “Indeed, yes . . . Get me the Gare de Lyon . . . I must find out what time there’s a train for Cannes . . . Provided I’ve got . . .”

  He looked at his dinner-jacket in irritation. Provided he had time to . . .

  “Hello! . . . What did you say? . . . Seventeen minutes past four? . . . And I get there at two in the afternoon? . . . Thank you . . .”

  Just time to hurry back to the Boulevard Richard-Lenoir and to laugh at Madame Maigret’s ill humour.

  “Quick, my suit . . . A shirt . . . Socks . . .”

  At seventeen minutes past four he was in the Riviera express, sitting opposite a woman who had a horrible pekinese on her lap and who kept looking sideways at Maigret, as though suspecting him of not liking dogs.

  At about the same time, Charlotte was getting into a taxi, as she did each night. The driver dealt mostly with customers from the Pélican and took her home free.

  At five, Prosper Donge heard a car door slamming, the sound of the engine, footsteps, the key in the door.

  But he didn’t hear the usual “Pfffttt” of the gas in the kitchen. Without pausing on the ground floor, Charlotte rushed upstairs and banged the door open, panting: “Prosper! . . . Listen! Don�
��t pretend to be asleep . . . The superintendent . . .”

  Before she could explain, she had to undo her bra and take off her girdle, so that her stockings were left dangling round her legs.

  “Look, it’s serious! Well get up then! . . . Do you think it’s easy talking to a man who just lies there! . . .”

  4

  GIGI AND THE CARNIVAL

  For the next three hours, Maigret had the unpleasant feeling that he was floundering in a sort of no man’s land between dream and reality. Perhaps it was his fault? Until after Lyons, as far as about Montélimar, the train had rolled through a tunnel of mist. The woman with the little dog, opposite the superintendent, didn’t budge from her seat, and there were no empty compartments.

  Maigret couldn’t get comfortable. It was too hot. If he opened the window, it was too cold. So he had gone along to the restaurant car and, to cheer himself up, had drunk some of everything—coffee, then brandy and then beer.

  At about eleven, feeling sick, he told himself he’d feel better if he ate something and ordered some ham and eggs, which were no improvement on the rest.

  He was suffering from his sleepless night, the long hours in the train; he was in a very bad temper in fact. After leaving Marseilles, he fell asleep in his corner, with his mouth open, and started awake, stupid with surprise, when he heard Cannes announced.

  There was mimosa everywhere, under a brilliant July 14 sun, on the engines, on the carriages, on the station railings. And crowds of holidaymakers in light clothes, the men in white trousers . . .

  Dozens of them were pouring out of a local train, wearing peaked caps, with brass instruments under their arms. He was hardly out of the station before he ran into another band, already rending the air with martial notes.

  It was an orgy of light, sound, colour. With flags, banners and oriflammes flying on all sides, and everywhere, the golden yellow mimosa, filling the whole town with its all-pervading, sweetish scent.