Free The Grand Banks Café by Georges Simenon Page A

shingle.
    Harsh lights surrounded the
Océan
. It was still being unloaded round the clock, and the dock-hands
     strained to push the trucks as they filled with cod.
    The Grand Banks Café was closed. At the
     Hôtel de la Plage, the porter, wearing a pair of trousers over his night-shirt,
     opened the door for the inspector.
    The lobby was lit by a single lamp. It was why it took a
     moment before Maigret made out the figure of a woman in a rattan chair.
    It was Marie Léonnec. She was asleep
     with her head resting on one shoulder.
    â€˜I think she’s waiting for
     you,’ whispered the porter.
    She was pale. And possibly anaemic.
     There was no colour in her lips, and the dark shadows under her eyes showed just how
     exhausted she was. She slept with her mouth open, as if she was not getting enough
     air.
    Maigret touched her gently on the
     shoulder. She gave a start, sat up, looked at him in a daze.
    â€˜I must have dropped off …
     Aah!’
    â€˜Why aren’t you in bed?
     Didn’t my wife see you to your room?’
    â€˜Yes. But I came down again. I was
     very quiet. I wanted to know … Tell me …’
    She was not as pretty as usual because
     sleep had made her skin clammy. A mosquito bite had left a red spot in the middle of
     her forehead.
    Her dress, which she had probably made
     herself from hard-wearing serge, was creased.
    â€˜Have you found out anything new?
     No? Listen, I’ve been thinking a lot. I don’t know how to say this …
     Before I see Pierre tomorrow, I want you to talk to him. I want you to say that I
     know all about that woman, that I don’t hate him for it. I’m certain,
     you see, that he didn’t do it. But if I speak to him first, he’ll feel
     awkward. You saw him this morning. He’s all on edge, If there was a woman on
     board, isn’t it only natural if he …’
    But it was too much for her. She burst into tears. She
     could not stop crying.
    â€˜And most of all, nothing must get
     into the papers. My parents mustn’t know. They wouldn’t understand. They
     …’
    She hiccupped.
    â€˜You’ve got to find the
     murderer! I think if I could question people … I’m sorry, I don’t know
     what I’m saying. You know better than me. Only you don’t know Pierre.
     I’m two years older than him. He’s like a little boy really, especially
     if you accuse him of anything, he is likely to clam up – it’s pride – and not
     say anything. He is very sensitive. He has been humiliated too often.’
    Maigret put his hand on her shoulder,
     slowly, holding back a deep sigh.
    Adèle’s voice was still going
     round and round in his head. He saw her again, seductive, desirable in the full
     bloom of her animal presence, magnificent in her sensuality.
    And here was this well-brought-up
     anaemic girl, who was trying to hold back her tears and smile brightly.
    â€˜When you really know him
     …’
    But what she would never really know was
     the dark cabin around which three men had circled for days, for weeks on end, far
     away, in the middle of the ocean, while other crewmen in the engine room and in the
     foredeck dimly sensed that a tragedy was unfolding, kept watch on the sea, discussed
     changes of course, felt increasingly uneasy and talked of the evil eye and
     madness.
    â€˜I’ll talk to Le Clinche
     tomorrow.’
    â€˜Can I too?’
    â€˜Perhaps. Probably. But now you must get some
     rest.’
    A little later, Madame Maigret, still
     half-asleep, murmured:
    â€˜She’s very sweet! Did you
     know she’s already got her trousseau together? All hand-embroidered … Find out
     anything new? You smell of perfume …’
    No doubt lingering traces of
     Adèle’s overpowering scent which had clung to him. A scent as common as cheap
     wine in cheap bistros which had, on board the trawler and for months on