Maigret's Holiday Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.
    â€˜Do you know when the funeral
is?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Good afternoon, Monsieur 6 …
Our dear patient is expecting you …’
    He could hardly scowl at Sister
Aurélie, and he began to smile despite himself.
    â€˜Just a moment, I’ll announce
you … I’ll announce you …’
    And the other one, Sister Marie des Anges,
came to meet him at the top of the stairs. He couldn’t talk to her in the corridor
with all the doors open.
    â€˜Good afternoon, Monsieur 6 …
Our dear patient …’
    It was like a conjuring trick in which he
played the conjuror’s ball. He hadn’t had a chance to open his mouth when he
found himself in his wife’s room where thehorrid Mademoiselle
Rinquet was staring at him with her beady little eyes.
    â€˜What’s the matter with you,
Maigret?’
    â€˜Me? Nothing …’
    â€˜You’re not in a good mood
…’
    â€˜Yes I am …’
    â€˜It’s time for me to get out of
here, isn’t it? Admit that you’re bored …’
    â€˜How are you?’
    â€˜Better … Doctor Bertrand thinks
he’ll be able to remove my staples on Monday … This morning, I was allowed a
little chicken …’
    He couldn’t even whisper to her. How
would that look? The vixen in the other bed was all ears.
    â€˜By the way, you forgot to leave me a
little money …’
    â€˜What for?’
    â€˜A young patient came by earlier
collecting contributions …’
    A glance over at Mademoiselle Rinquet, as if
he was meant to understand what was only half said. But understand what? Was she
collecting money for the elderly spinster?
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜For the wreath …’
    And for a moment, he wondered naively what
the wreath had to do with the patient who was still alive. It was stupid. But he
wasn’t spending all his time, day in and day out, in this atmosphere of whispered
secrets and meaningful looks.
    â€˜Number 15 …’
    â€˜Oh! Yes …’
    Madame Maigret’s
exquisite tact! Because her neighbour was seriously ill, because she had cancer –
and so was going to die – she thoughtfully lowered her voice to talk about the
wreath!
    â€˜She’s going to come back
… Give her twenty francs … Almost everyone gave twenty francs … The
funeral’s tomorrow …’
    â€˜I know