Read My Friend Maigret for Free Online

flanked with the backs of the houses in the square, but with villas, most of them surrounded by vegetation.
    â€œThey are empty, all except two,” Lechat was explaining. “I’ll tell you who they belong to. This one belongs to Monsieur Émile and his mother. I’ve already told you about the Minaret.”
    A supporting wall divided the gardens from the sea. Each villa had its little landing stage. At one of these, a local craft, pointed at both ends, about eighteen feet long, was tied up.
    â€œThat’s Marcellin’s boat.”
    It was dirty, its deck in disorder. Against the wall was a sort of hearth composed of large stones, a saucepan, some pots blackened by smoke, empty wine bottles.
    â€œIs it true that you knew him, chief? In Paris?”
    â€œIn Paris, yes.”
    â€œWhat the local people refuse to believe is that he was born in Le Havre. Everyone is convinced he was a real Southerner. He had the accent. He was a queer fish. He lived in his boat. Now and then he would go for a trip to the continent, as he would call it, which means that he would go and tie his boat up to the jetty at Giens, Saint-Tropez, or Le Lavandou. When the weather was too bad, he would sleep in the hut you can see just above the harbor. That’s where the fishermen boil their nets. He had no wants. The butcher would give him a bit of meat occasionally. He didn’t fish much, and then only in summer, when he took tourists out. There are a few others like him along the coast.”
    â€œDo you have types like that in England, too?” Maigret asked Mr. Pyke.
    â€œIt’s too cold. We only have the dockside loafers, at the ports.”
    â€œDid he drink?”
    â€œWhite wine. When people needed him to give a hand, they paid him with a bottle of white wine. He used to win it at boules, too, for he was an expert boules player. It was in the boat that I found the letter. I’ll give it back to you presently. I’ve left it at the town hall.”
    â€œNo other papers?”
    â€œHis army book, a photograph of a woman, that’s all. It’s strange that he should have kept your letter, don’t you think?”
    Maigret didn’t find it so very surprising. He would have liked to talk about it with Mr. Pyke, whose bathing trunks were drying in patches. But that could wait.
    â€œDo you want to see the hut? I’ve shut it, but I’ve got the key in my pocket; I shall have to give it back to the fishermen, as they need it.”
    No huts for the moment. Maigret was hungry. And he was also anxious to see his English colleague in less informal attire. It made him feel awkward, for no very definite reason. He was not accustomed to conducting a case in the company of a man in swimming costume.
    He needed another drink of white wine. It was decidedly a tradition on the island. Mr. Pyke went upstairs to dress and returned without a tie, with open collar, like Lechat, and he had found time to procure, probably at the mayor’s grocery, a pair of blue canvas espadrilles.
    The fishermen, who would have liked to speak to him, still didn’t dare. The Arche had two rooms: the room where the bar was, and a smaller one with tables covered with red check tablecloths. These were laid. Two tables away Charlot was busy sampling sea urchins.
    Once again he raised a hand in salute as he looked at Maigret. Then he added, idly:
    â€œHow goes?”
    They had spent several hours, perhaps an entire night, alone together in Maigret’s office, five or six years before. The chief inspector had forgotten his real name. Everyone knew him as Charlot.
    He did a little bit of everything, procuring girls for licensed brothels in the Midi, smuggling cocaine and certain other goods; he dabbled in racing too, and at election time became one of the most active electioneering agents on the coast.
    He was meticulous in his personal appearance, with measured gestures, an imperturbable calm, an ironical