Free The Carter of ’La Providence’ by Georges Simenon Page A

brown oilcloths taken from a tabletop, leaving its disjointed boards exposed.
    The smell had not gone away: spices, stables, tar and wine lees.
    The magistrate, who was reckoned to be one of the most unpleasant in Épernay – he was a Clairfontaine de Lagny and proud of the aristocratic ‘de’ in the name – stood with his back to the fire
and wiped his pince-nez.
    At the start of the proceedings, he had said in English:
    â€˜I imagine you’d prefer us to use your language?’
    He himself spoke it quite well with, perhaps, a hint of affectation, a slight screw of the lips standard among those who try – and fail – to reproduce the correct accent.
    Sir Walter had accepted the offer. He had responded to every question slowly, his face turned to the clerk, who was writing, pausing from time to time to allow him to catch up.
    He had repeated, without adding anything new, what he had told Maigret during their two interviews.
    For the occasion, he had chosen a dark-blue double-breasted suit of almost military cut. To one lapel was pinned a single medal: the Order of Merit.
    In one hand he held a peaked cap. On it was a broad gilt crest bearing the insignia of the Yachting Club de France.
    It was very simple. One man asked questions and the other man invariably gave a slight, deferential nod before answering.
    Even so, Maigret looked on admiringly but could not help feeling mortified as he remembered his own intrusive probings on board the
Southern Cross.
    His English was not good enough for him to grasp all the finer points. But he at least understood the broad meaning of the concluding exchanges.
    â€˜Sir Walter,’ said the magistrate, ‘I must ask you to
remain available until we have got to the bottom of both these appalling crimes. I am afraid, moreover, that I have no choice but to
withhold permission for the burial of Lady Lampson.’
    Another slight bow of the head.
    â€˜Do I have your authorization to leave Dizy in my boat?’
    With one hand the colonel gestured towards the onlookers who had gathered outside, the scenery, even the sky.
    â€˜My home is on Porquerolles … it will take me a week just to reach the Saône.’
    This time it was the turn of the magistrate to offer a respectful nod.
    They did not shake hands, though they almost did. The colonel looked around him, appeared not to see either the doctor, who seemed bored, or Maigret, who avoided his eye, but he did acknowledge the deputy prosecutor.
    The next moment he was walking the short distance between the Café de la Marine and the
Southern Cross
.
    He made no attempt to go inside the cabin. Vladimir was on the bridge. He gave him his orders and took the wheel.
    Then, to the amazement of the canal men and the bargees, they saw the Russian in the striped jersey disappear into the engine room, start the motor and then, from the deck, with a neat flick of the wrist, yank the mooring ropes free of the
bollards.
    Within moments, a small, gesticulating group began moving off towards the main road, where their cars were waiting. It was the public prosecutor’s team.
    Maigret was left standing on the canal bank. He had finally managed to fill his pipe and now thrust both hands into his pockets with a gesture that was distinctly proletarian, even more proletarian than
usual, and muttered:
    â€˜Well, that’s that!’
    It was back to square one!
    The investigation of the prosecutor’s office had come up with only a few points. It was too early to tell if they were significant.
    First: the body of Willy Marco, in addition to the marks of strangulation, also had bruises to the wrists and torso. The police surgeon ruled out an ambush but thought that a struggle with an exceptionally strong attacker was more likely.
    Second: Sir Walter had stated that he had met his wife in Nice, where, although she had divorced her Italian husband, she was still using her married name of Ceccaldi.
    The