Free Tropic Moon by Georges Simenon

routine, and that horrified Timar, especially since her husband, Eugène, had been sleeping in the same bed only four days ago.
    But he suffered when he didn’t see Adèle. He suffered when one of customers called her by her first name.
    Finally, what he needed was an explanation from her. About Thomas. He absolutely had to have it, and yet he was afraid to ask. Had she killed the black man? He was almost sure of it. It didn’t bother him all that much, he just wanted to know how and why. And he wanted to know the reason for her being so tranquil.
    The café was lighted by four electric bulbs. It was filled with the clack of billiard balls and the voices of cardplayers, and it seemed like any provincial café. Timar downed two more drinks, then took advantage of a moment when Adèle was away serving someone to head for the stairs. “I’m off to bed. Good night!”
    She lifted her head. He caught a mere glimpse of her terrible smile, half ironic and half tender. She was laughing at him. She knew he was running away, and she knew why. And it didn’t worry her.
    He hadn’t expected to sleep soundly, but he did, and when he woke up it was already day. Adèle was standing beside his bed in her black dress.
    â€œFeeling any better?”
    â€œBut …”
    How did she know he’d been feeling sick? She sat on the edge of the bed as she had the first time, when Eugène and Thomas were still alive. He let his hand stray over to her dress and slowly pulled her close. It was quick, mainly because of the sensation of cold, naked flesh—Adèle had just showered—underneath the soft silk.
    â€œI have to go downstairs.”
    He waited two hours before following her. He puttered around, looking through the little things his mother and his sister had packed for him, odd useless things like a thimble and an assortment of different-colored spools of thread: “You’ll have to mend your clothes on your own over there.”
    There was even a selection of buttons—the two women must have scoured every sewing shop in La Rochelle. Timar could almost hear them saying, “It’s for my son. He’s leaving for Gabon next week. There won’t be any women over there to …”
    He went down and ate, exchanging only a few words with Adèle. He announced he’d be stopping by the chief of police.
    â€œGood idea,” she said.
    He went, in fact. He was served the customary glass of whiskey.
    â€œWhat’s new with you? Are people asking why the investigation’s stalled?”
    â€œI haven’t heard anything in particular.”
    â€œThomas’s father came in from the bush. A native clerk who worked for a lawyer for two years has taken him under his wing. He’s getting pushy—claiming I don’t know how much in damages. By the way, has the hotel manager found a new man?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œThat’s plain to see. You, you could live here for twenty years without even suspecting the kinds of things that go on!”
    Lunch. A stupefying snooze. Cocktail. Dinner. Once again Timar left before closing time. He didn’t sleep. He heard all the conversations, the sound of the billiard balls, the coins jingling on the counter, the boy shutting the venetian blinds and locking the doors. At last Adèle, on her way up. He hesitated, couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, and spent two solid hours trying to fall asleep between the clammy sheets.
    At ten in the morning he was still sleeping when the door burst open. Adèle came in, excited as can be, a piece of paper in her outstretched right hand.
    â€œYour uncle’s reply! Read it, quickly!”
    He unsealed the telegram without quite realizing what he was doing. The dateline was Paris.
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