Free Maigret and the Spinster by Georges Simenon

disturbed, although the geranium planted in it had long since died. While Hélène’s attention was momentarily distracted, he had pounced…
    With his hands in his pockets, he strolled along the sidewalk on the edge of the procession, and so felt free to smoke his pipe.
    At the tail end of the procession he observed the two Siveschi girls, Nouchi and Potsi, who were treating it as a festive occasion and relishing every detail. Madame “Saving-Your-Presence.” had left her lodge in the charge of a neighbor for an hour or so, unaware that Maigret had posted an inspector on guard outside the building. She would be attending the service in the church, but not the burial. She was sensitive to drafts, on account of her stiff neck.
    Suddenly the column came to an unscheduled halt. They all craned their necks and stood on tiptoe to find out what was happening.
    Juliette Boynet and Cécile were victims of an unfortunate mischance. As their procession, which was running early, reached a crossroads, another funeral procession, this one running late, emerged from a side road and made for the church. There was no alternative but to wait. The horses stamped their feet. Several of the men left the column to go in search of a drink, and were seen a few minutes later coming out of a little café nearby, wiping their mouths.
    Organ music could be heard, and behind, cars rumbling past on the Route Nationale 20. The priest galloped through the service at top speed, and it was not long before the church doors were flung wide open.
    Et ne nos inducas in tentationem
…
    The master of ceremonies, in a cocked hat, ran back and forth alongside his flock like a sheepdog.
    Sed libera nos a malo…
    Amen.
…
    Before the first lot had all come out, Juliette Boynet’s mourners began entering the church. There was room for only one of the two coffins on the bier. Cécile’s was set down at the back, on the tiled floor.
    “
Libera nos, Domine,
” chanted the priest.
    There was a creaking of shoes, a scraping of chairs, a cool breeze blew in through the wide open door at the back, beyond which could be seen the sunlit street. Gérard, in the front row, looked restlessly about him. Was it Maigret he was searching for? Charles Dandurand’s companions, conducting themselves very correctly, dropped hundred-franc notes into the poorbox. Berthe, conspicuous in her cherry-red hat, watched her brother anxiously, as if she feared he might do something foolish.
    Pater noster
…
    The magnesium flare of an agency photographer suddenly flashed, causing everyone to start.
    Maigret, huddled in his heavy overcoat with the velvet collar, was leaning against a stone pillar, his lips moving as if in prayer. And, indeed, he might well have been praying for poor Cécile, who had sat waiting for him so long in the “aquarium” at the Quai des Orfèvres.
    For the past three days, his colleagues had scarcely dared address a word to him. Heavy and lowering, he went to and fro in the building, chewing the stem of his pipe and brooding furiously.
    “No progress?” the Chief had inquired the previous night.
    His only reply had been a look so miserable and baffled that it spoke louder than words.
    “It’s no good fretting, my dear fellow…You’re bound to get a lead soon.”
    The Apostles in the stained-glass windows glowed in the sunlight. Maigret’s glance, for no apparent reason, kept returning to the figure of Saint Luke, whom the artist had portrayed with a square, brown beard.
    Et ne nos inducas in tentationem
…
    The priest was rushing through the service at such speed as to suggest that there was another funeral procession champing at the door. The horse that had not been properly trained in funeral procedures kept whinnying every few minutes, and the sound, re-echoing under the stone vaults, seemed like a joyful affirmation of life…
    What could have induced Cécile to have an extra key to the apartment cut without her aunt’s knowledge a fortnight ago?