The Flemish House by Georges Simenon, Georges Simenon; Translated by Shaun Whiteside Page B

one there at that time of day,and the waiter was taking advantage of the fact to get on with his
     own correspondence.
    One ridiculous little detail: Maigret
     hated writing on marble tables, and there were no others.
    â€˜Please call the Hôtel de la Gare
     and find out if anyone’s seen the inspector.’
    Maigret was in a vaguely bad mood, all
     the more aggravating because it had no serious cause. Two or three times he went and
     pressed his forehead against the misted window. The sky was becoming a little
     clearer, the drops of rain less frequent. But the muddy quay was still deserted.
    At about four o’clock he heard a
     blast from a whistle. He ran to the door and saw a tug, belching out thick steam for
     the first time since the spate had begun.
    The current was still violent. When the
     tug, slender and light, a thoroughbred in comparison with the barges, came away from
     the shore, it literally reared up, and for a moment looked as if it was going to be
     dragged away by the flood.
    A new whistle-blast, more strident this
     time. And it turned into the current. A cable stretched behind it. A first barge
     broke away from the block of waiting boats and drifted across the Meuse as two men
     pulled with all their might on the helm.
    In the doorways of the cafés, customers
     had gathered to witness the manoeuvre, which took no more than six minutes. Two or
     three barges entered the struggle in turn, formed a semi-circle and suddenly, at the
     sound of a whistle, vibrant with pride, the tug set off towards Belgium,while the barges behind it did their best to stay in a straight
     line.
    The
Étoile Polaire
was not part
     of the train.
… and consequently I ask you
     to be so kind as to collect from my home at Boulevard Richard Lenoir the
     furniture which …
    Maigret wrote unusually slowly, as if his
     fingers were too big for the pen that they were crushing on to the paper. By
     contrast, this produced handwriting that was small but fat which, from a distance,
     looked like a series of stains.
    â€˜Monsieur Peeters going past on
     his motorbike …’ announced the waiter, who was lighting the lamps and drawing
     the curtains over the big window.
    It was half past four.
    â€˜It takes courage to cover 200
     kilometres in weather like that! He’s muddy from head to toe!’
    â€˜Albert! The telephone!’
     cried the landlady.
    Maigret signed the letter and put it in
     an envelope.
    â€˜It’s for you, inspector!
     From Paris …’
    â€˜Hello! … Hello! … Yes, it’s
     me …’
    And Maigret tried to rein in his bad
     mood. It was his wife on the phone, asking him when he was coming back.
    â€˜Hello … They came for the
     furniture …’
    â€˜I know! I’ll do what needs
     to be done …’
    â€˜There’s also a letter from
     the English colleague who …’
    â€˜Yes, darling! It doesn’t
     matter …’
    â€˜Is it cold there? Cover up well …
     You haven’t quite recovered from your cold and …’
    Why did he feel almost painful impatience?
     A vague impression. He felt as if he was missing something, wasting his time in this
     cabin.
    â€˜I’ll be in Paris in three
     or four days.’
    â€˜Is that all!’
    â€˜Yes … Lots of love … Goodbye
     …’
    In the café, he asked where he would
     find a post box.
    â€˜Just on the corner of the street,
     by the tobacconist’s.’
    It was dark outside. All that could be
     seen of the Meuse was the reflections of the street lights. Against the trunk of a
     tree, Maigret noticed a figure that made him start. It wasn’t the sort of
     weather to go for a walk in the rain and the wind.
    He put the letter in the box, turned
     round and saw the figure detaching itself from the tree. He walked off, and the
     stranger started walking behind him.
    It was quick work! A few hasty steps
     back and Maigret