Maigret's Holiday Read Online Free Page A

Inspector Mansuy had said to him:
    â€˜I have to stop by the police station.
I need to sign some documents and there’s probably a man waiting to see
me.’
    He was a stocky redhead, and there was an
air of formality, of shyness even, about him – he always seemed to be saying
‘I’m sorry, but I assure you I’m doing everything I can.’
    As a child he had probably been one of those
pretentious boys who spend their break time daydreaming in a corner, and are described
as being too serious for their age. He was a bachelor and lived in furnished lodgings
owned by a widow, in a house near the Hôtel Bel Air. From time to time, he came to
have an aperitif at the hotel, and that was how Maigret had met him.
    He did not seem like a proper inspector, and
the police station did not seem like a proper police station either. The offices were in
a residential house, on a little square. In some rooms, the wallpaper hadn’t been
changed, and you could tell which rooms had formerly been bedrooms, or bathrooms, with
lighter patches on the walls in the shape of each piece of furniture, and pipes that had
been sealed off.
    But there was the smell, which Maigret
sniffed withdelight, almost relief − a lovely, heavy smell, so
thick you could cut through it with a knife, the odour of the leather shoulder holsters,
the wool of the uniforms, administrative forms, pipes gone cold and, lastly, the poor
wretches who had worn out their trouser seats on the two wooden benches in the waiting
room.
    Compared with the Police Judiciaire, the
place appeared rather amateurish. The men gave the impression they were playing at being
cops. An officer in shirt-sleeves was washing his hands and face in the courtyard. You
could hear the hens in the next-door garden clucking. Other officers were playing cards
in the guardroom, lounging around in imitation of real officers, and there were some
very young ones who looked like conscripts.
    â€˜May I show you the way?’
    The stocky chief inspector was secretly
thrilled to be showing a famous name like Maigret around his station. Thrilled and a
little anxious. In a spacious office, two inspectors were perched on the tables,
smoking. One of them had his hat pushed back, like in American films.
    Mansuy greeted them distractedly, opened the
door to his office, then retraced his steps.
    â€˜No news?’
    â€˜We’ve kept Polyte for you
… The sub-prefect requested that you telephone him …’
    It was a glorious day. Since he had been at
Les Sables d’Olonne, Maigret had not had a single day of rain. The windows were
open, allowing the sounds of the town to filter in, and families could be seen wending
their way back from the beach.
    When Polyte was brought in,
he was handcuffed to make it look as if the police were doing their job. He was a
pathetic wretch, of indeterminate age, the sort you find at least one of in every
village, shaggy, bedraggled, with a gaze that is both innocent and sly.
    â€˜In trouble again, Polyte? I imagine
that this time you won’t deny it?’
    Polyte didn’t move, didn’t
reply, staring docilely at Mansuy, who was slightly intimidated by the presence of the
famous Maigret and was keen to impress him.
    â€˜You won’t deny it, I
imagine?’
    He had to repeat his question twice before
obtaining any kind of response from the vagrant. A nod.
    â€˜What does that mean? That you
confess?’
    He shook his head.
    â€˜You deny having broken into Madame
Médard’s garden?’
    Heavens, this was comforting! Maigret felt
so much more at home here than among the nuns. Polyte must be a regular. He lived in a
wooden shack on the outskirts of the town, with a wife and seven or eight lice-ridden
brats.
    That same morning, he had turned up at a
second-hand goods dealer’s and tried to sell him two pairs of almost new sheets,
as well as towels and women’s clothing. The second-hand dealer pretended to