Maigret Gets Angry Read Online Free PDF

hand of the
mistress
of the house and was astonished to see
that she was gripping her knife so hard that her knuckles had a bluish tinge.
    The three of them sat there, waiting, while the
butler changed the plates once again. The air was stiller than ever, so still that you could
hear the slightest rustle of the leaves in the trees.
    When he had regained his footing in the garden,
Georges-Henry had set off at a run. In which direction? Not towards the Seine, for he would have
been seen. Behind the house, at the bottom of the garden, was the railway line. To the left were
the grounds of the Amorelle residence.
    The father must be running after his son. And
Maigret could not help smiling as he imagined Malik, doubtless driven by rage, forced into this
thankless chase.
    They had had the cheese, and the dessert. It was
the moment when they should have left the table and moved into the drawing room or on to the
terrace, where it was still daylight. Glancing at his watch, Maigret saw that it was twelve
minutes since the master of the house had rushed outside.
    Madame Malik did not rise. Her son was trying
discreetly to remind her of her duty when footsteps were heard in the adjacent hall.
    It was Malik, with his smile, a slightly tense
smile all the same, and the first thing Maigret noticed was that he had changed his trousers.
This pair was white flannel too, but clearly fresh out of the wardrobe, the crease still
immaculate.
    Had Malik got caught in some brambles during his
chase? Or had he waded across a stream?
    He
hadn’t had time to go far. His reappearance was still a record, for he was not out of
breath, his grey hair had been carefully slicked back, and nothing in his dress was out of
place.
    ‘I have a rascal of—’
    The son took after his father, for he interrupted
him with all the naturalness in the world:
    ‘Georges-Henry again, I’ll bet? I was
just telling the inspector that he failed his baccalaureate and that you had locked him in his
room to make him study.’
    Malik didn’t falter, showed no
satisfaction, no admiration for this adroit rescue. And yet it was a smart move. They had just
sent the ball back and forth as deftly as in a game of tennis.
    ‘No thank you, Jean,’ said Malik to
the butler, who was trying to serve him. ‘If madame so wishes, we’ll go out on to
the terrace.’
    Then to his wife:
    ‘Unless you feel tired? … In which
case my friend Maigret won’t be offended if you retire. With your permission, Jules?
… These past few days have been a great strain for her. She was very fond of her
niece.’
    What was it that grated? The words were ordinary,
the tone banal. And yet Maigret had the sense that he was uncovering, or rather getting a whiff
of, something disturbing or menacing behind each sentence.
    Erect now in her white dress, Madame Malik gazed
at them, and Maigret, without knowing exactly why, would not have been surprised if she had
collapsed on the black and white marble floor tiles.
    ‘If you don’t mind,’ she stammered.
    She extended her hand once more, which he brushed
and found cold. The three men stepped through the French windows on to the terrace.
    ‘Cigars and brandy, Jean,’ ordered
the master of the house.
    And turning to Maigret, he asked point-blank:
    ‘Are you married?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Children?’
    ‘I have not had that good
fortune.’
    A curling of Malik’s lip that did not
escape Jean-Claude, but which didn’t shock him.
    ‘Sit down and have a cigar!’
    Jean had brought out several boxes, Havana and
Manila cigars, several decanters of spirits too, of various shapes.
    ‘The youngest one, you see, is like his
grandmother. There’s not a hint of Malik about him.’
    One thing that hindered the conversation, that
irked Maigret, was that he couldn’t reconcile himself to the overly familiar tone of his
former schoolmate.
    ‘So, Monsieur Malik, did you catch
him?’ he asked hesitantly.
    And Malik misinterpreted his formality. It was
fatal. There