Free Maigret in Montmartre by Georges Simenon

an American.”
    “You don’t know Oscar?”
    “Never heard of him.”
    The Grasshopper was not the type to be overawed by the police, or by anyone else. His common accent and street arab manner were no doubt assumed, because they amused the clients.
    “You don’t know Arlette’s lover, either?”
    “Did she have one? First I’ve heard of it.”
    “You never saw anyone waiting outside for her?”
    “Sometimes. Clients.”
    “Did she go with them?”
    “Not always. Sometimes they were hard to shake off and she had to come here to get rid of them.”
    The proprietor, who was quite frankly listening, confirmed this with a nod.
    “Did you ever come across her in the day-time?”
    “In the morning I’m asleep, and in the afternoon I’m at the races.”
    “Had she any woman friends?”
    “She got on all right with Betty and Tania, but they weren’t close friends. I don’t think she and Tania hit it off too well.”
    “Did she ever ask you to get drugs for her?”
    “What for?”
    “For herself.”
    “Not she. She was fond of a glass, and even of several, but I don’t think she ever took drugs.”
    “In fact you know nothing about her.”
    “Except that she was the most beautiful girl I’ve’ever seen.”
    Maigret hesitated, sweeping the grotesque creature from head to foot with an involuntary glance.
    “Ever have a date with her?”
    “Why not? I’ve got off with plenty of others—clients, some of them, in the mink, not only local tarts.”
    “That’s perfectly true,” interrupted the proprietor. “I don’t know what gets ’em, but they swarm round him like flies. I’ve known some—and they weren’t old or ugly either—who’ve come here well into the night and hung about waiting for him for an hour and more.”
    The gnome’s wide, rubbery mouth stretched in a complacent, sardonic grin.
    “Maybe they’ve their reasons,” he said with a lewd gesture.
    “So you went to bed with Arlette?”
    “Shouldn’t have said so if I hadn’t.”
    “Often?”
    “Once, anyhow.”
    “Was it her suggestion?”
    “She saw I wanted to.”
    “Where did it happen?”
    “Not at Picratt’s, of course. D’you know the Moderne, in the Rue Blanche?”
    This was a house of call with which the police were well acquainted.
    “Well, that was where.”
    “Was she good?”
    “She knew her stuff.”
    “Did she enjoy it?”
    The Grasshopper shrugged. “ Even when a woman doesn’t enjoy it she pretends to,” he observed, “and the less she’s enjoying herself, the more she feels obliged to pile it on.”
    “Was she drunk that night?”
    “She was the same as usual.”
    “And with the boss?”
    “With Fred? Did he tell you about that?”
    The gnome paused for thought, and gravely drained his glass.
    “That’s no business of mine,” he replied at last.
    “Do you think the boss fell for her?”
    “Everyone fell for her.”
    “You too?”
    “I’ve told you all I had to say. D’you want me to set it to music?” inquired the Grasshopper mockingly. “Are you going to Picratt’s?” he added.
    Maigret went, without waiting for the Grasshopper, who would soon be at his post. The red sign of the night-club was already alight. The photos of Arlette were still in the showcase. The door and window were curtained, and there was no sound of music.
    He walked in, and found Fred, in a dinner-jacket, arranging bottles behind the bar.
    “I thought you’d be round,” he said. “Is it true that a Countess has been found strangled?”
    It was not surprising that he should have heard, since the thing had happened in his district. Besides, the news might have come over the wireless by now.
    Two musicians—one a very young man with shiny black hair and the other, about forty years old, who looked sad and unhealthy—were seated on the platform, tuning their instruments. A waiter was putting final touches to the room. There was no sign of Rose; she must be in the kitchen, or perhaps still upstairs.
    The