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Rinquet, whom he had takena dislike to, heaven
knows why! Including Madame Maigret, who was becoming rather too much part of the
place.
    What point would there have been, since he
couldn’t talk to anyone, in writing a note to alert him?
    For a good ten minutes, he railed inwardly
against Sister Marie des Anges.
    A hypocrite too. That tone of voice in which
she’d said, to pull the wool over Sister Aldegonde’s eyes:
    â€˜
I
assure you that your dear patient is lacking for nothing and that
…
’
    And the other one, number 15, no doubt she
had been a ‘dear patient’ too?
    He walked in the shade, then in the sun,
going from one street to the next and, gradually, he calmed down and saw the funny
side.
    Poor Sister Marie des Anges! In short, she
had done what she could. She had even shown daring and initiative. What would have been
an ordinary gesture anywhere else was true heroism in that place.
    It wasn’t her fault that Maigret had
got there too late, or that the Godreau girl had died too soon.
    Right now, what could he do? Go back to the
hospital, ask to see the mother superior, and say: ‘I need to speak to Sister
Marie des Anges’?
    On what grounds? What business was it of
his? Here, he wasn’t Maigret from the Police Judiciaire, but plain Monsieur 6.
    Talk to Doctor Bellamy? To tell him what,
for goodness’ sake? Besides, hadn’t the doctor himself insisted on having an
autopsy performed on his sister-in-law?
    The previous day, Chief
Inspector Mansuy had told him that Lili Godreau had not regained consciousness and that
she had been in a coma from the time of the accident until her death.
    A nice glass of white wine was what he
needed. In a real bar full of rowdy men. With real sunshine coming through the windows
and not that nauseating, subdued hospital light.
    As for the note, he tore it into shreds.
Then he headed for the Brasserie du Remblai. Would Doctor Bellamy come for his game of
cards? That was his business. When there’s a death in the house, the women begin
by declaring in a pitiful voice:
    â€˜No … Don’t press me
… I couldn’t eat a thing … I’d rather die …’
    Then, a little later, they are at the table
asking for dessert, if they aren’t exchanging recipes with their
sisters-in-law.
    As for Doctor Bellamy, he carried on playing
bridge. He was there, just like any other day. Several times he looked at Maigret and
his gaze was very sharp, very penetrating.
    His eyes seemed to be saying: ‘I know
you’re curious about me, that you are trying to understand me … I am not
bothered in the least …’
    No, that was not entirely true. He was
bothered and, as time went by, Maigret could see that he was.
    There was something else between him and the
doctor, a very subtle bond, but a bond all the same.
    When Maigret went somewhere and was
recognized, hewas used to seeing people stare at him with curiosity,
because of his reputation. Some felt compelled to ask him questions, which were
generally rather stupid, or flattering.
    â€˜So tell me, inspector, what is your
method?’
    The cleverest ones, or the most pretentious,
would declare:
    â€˜It seems to me that you are of the
Bergsonian school, you follow your hunches …’
    Some, like Lourceau and a few of the persons
present, were content to see what a chief inspector from the Police Judiciaire looked
like.
    â€˜As someone who’s met so many
murderers …’
    While others were very proud to shake hands
with a man whose picture regularly appeared in the newspapers.
    This did not apply to Bellamy. The doctor
considered Maigret as an equal, in a way. He seemed to acknowledge that they were in the
same league though not quite on the same level.
    His curiosity was mixed with respect, and
was almost a homage.
    â€˜Half past four, doctor,’ said
one of his partners.
    â€˜So it is … I hadn’t
forgotten