The Hotel Majestic by Georges Simenon Page A

girl, sitting slumped on the bench, was staring despairingly at the door of another magistrate. She blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and twisted her hands, tugging at her fingers in a paroxysm of anxiety.
    The grim tones of Monsieur Bonneau’s voice grew more distinct. The door opened. Maigret automatically stuffed his pipe, which was still warm, into his pocket. The boy who came out, who was at once seized on by the policemen again, had the insolent air of an inveterate ne’er-do-well. He turned back to say to the magistrate with heavy sarcasm: “I’ll be happy to come and see you any time, sir!”
    He saw Maigret, and frowned; then, as if reassured, winked at the superintendent. The latter’s face, at that moment, had the abstracted look of someone who vaguely remembers something without quite knowing what it is.
    He heard, from behind the door, which had been left open: “Ask the superintendent to come in . . . You can go now, Monsieur Benoit . . . I won’t need you any more this morning . . .”
    Maigret went in, still clearly searching his memory. What was it that had struck him about the prisoner who had just left the magistrate’s office?
    â€œGood morning, superintendent . . . Not too tired, I hope? . . . Please sit down . . . I don’t see your pipe . . . You may smoke . . . Well, how was your trip to Cannes?”
    Monsieur Bonneau wasn’t a spiteful man, but was obviously delighted to have succeeded where the police had failed. He tried unsuccessfully to hide the gleam of satisfaction which glinted in his eye.
    â€œIt’s funny that we both learnt the same things, I in Paris, without leaving my office, and you on the Côte d’Azur . . . Don’t you think?”
    â€œVery funny, yes . . .”
    Maigret had the polite smile of a guest who is forced by his hostess to have a second helping of a dish he detests.
    â€œWell, what are your conclusions on the affair, superintendent? . . . This Prosper Donge? . . . I have his statement here . . . It seems he merely repeated to me what he’d already told you this morning . . . He admits everything, in fact . . .”
    â€œExcept the two crimes,” Maigret said quietly.
    â€œExcept the two crimes, naturally! That would be too good to be true! He admits that he threatened his ex-mistress; he admits that he asked her to meet him at six in the morning in the basement of the hotel, and his letter can’t have been very reassuring because the poor woman went straight out to buy a gun . . . Then he tells us this story of his punctured tyre which made him late . . .”
    â€œIt isn’t a story . . .”
    â€œHow do you know? . . . He could have made a puncture in his tyre when he got to the hotel . . .”
    â€œBut he didn’t . . . I’ve found the policeman who called out to him about his tyre that morning, at the corner of the Avenue Foch . . .”
    â€œIt’s only a detail,” said the magistrate hurriedly, not wanting to have his beautiful reconstruction undermined. “Tell me, superintendent, have you looked into Donge’s past history?”
    The glint of satisfaction was now clearly visible in Monsieur Bonneau’s eye, and he couldn’t help stroking his beard in anticipation.
    â€œI dare say you haven’t had time. I made it a point of interest to consult the records . . . I was given his dossier and I discovered that our man, so docile in appearance, is not a first offender . . .”
    Maigret was forced to look contrite.
    â€œIt’s strange,” went on the magistrate, “we have these records right above us, on the top floor of the Palais de Justice, and we so often forget to consult them! . . . Well, at the age of sixteen, we find Prosper Donge, who has a job as a washer-up in a café in Vitry-le-François, stealing fifty francs from the till, making off and being caught in a train on his way to Lyons . . . He promises to be good,