The Misty Harbour by Georges Simenon

part. He sounded sincerely
     sympathetic!
    Although it was only 3.30, evening was
     already coming on, and the room was growing dark.
    ‘May I?’
    The inspector pulled his pipe from his
     pocket.
    ‘If you’d like a cigar,
     there are some on the mantelpiece.’
    There was a whole pile of packing-cases
     in a corner. A bottle of aged Armagnac, on a tray. The tall doors were of varnished
     pitch pine.
    ‘And what about your
     investigation?’
    Maigret gestured vaguely, making an
     effort not to look over at the door to the drawing room, a door that was vibrating
     for some mysterious reason …
    ‘Nothing to report?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Would you like my opinion? It was
     a mistake to let people think that this was a complicated matter.’
    ‘Evidently!’ grunted
     Maigret. ‘As if there were anything
complicated about what happened! One evening, a man
     disappears and gives no sign of life for well over a month. He’s found in
     Paris six weeks later, with a skilfully repaired bullet wound in his skull, having
     lost his memory. Brought home, he is poisoned that same night. Meanwhile, three
     hundred thousand francs have been deposited, from Hamburg, into his bank account.
     It’s simple! Clear as day!’
    This time, there was no mistaking the
     inspector’s meaning, despite his genial tone.
    ‘Well, perhaps the matter is less
     complicated than you think, in any case,’ insisted the mayor. ‘And
     supposing that this death truly is mysterious, it would be better, I believe, not to
     wantonly create an atmosphere of anxiety. By speaking of such things in certain
     cafés, one ends by unsettling minds that alcohol has already made only too
     unstable.’
    Directing his stern, authoritative gaze
     at Maigret, he spoke slowly, carefully, as if delivering an indictment.
    ‘And on the other hand, the police
     have made no effort to obtain information from the proper authorities! Even I, the
     local mayor, know nothing of what’s happening down in the harbour.’
    ‘Does your gardener wear
     espadrilles?’
    The mayor looked immediately at the
     shining parquet, where footprints were clearly visible on the waxy surface. The
     pattern of rope-soled shoes was unmistakable.
    ‘I have no idea!’
    ‘Pardon me for interrupting you! A
     thought that occurred to me … You were saying?’
    But Monsieur Grandmaison had lost the
     thread of his speech.
    ‘Would you
     reach me down that box of cigars? … That’s it, thank you.’
    He lit one, moaning faintly because he
     was opening his jaws too wide.
    ‘In short, how far have you got?
     Surely you’ve come up with
some
interesting leads by now.’
    ‘Not really!’
    ‘That’s curious, because
     those people down in the harbour aren’t lacking in imagination, in general,
     and certainly not after a few aperitifs.’
    ‘I suppose you’ve sent
     Madame Grandmaison off to Paris to spare her the distress of all this drama? And any
     unpleasantness that might be still to come?’
    They were not fighting out in the open.
     Yet they were sparring with a certain covert hostility fuelled simply, perhaps, by
     the social divide between them.
    Maigret drank down at the Buvette de la
     Marine with fishermen and lock workers.
    The mayor entertained guests from the
     public prosecutor’s office with tea, liqueurs and petits fours.
    Maigret was simply a man, impossible to
     categorize.
    Monsieur Grandmaison belonged to a very
     definite social milieu. He was the most important man in a small town, the scion of
     an old bourgeois family, a prosperous and respectable ship-owner.
    True, he put on democratic airs and
     cheerfully greeted the members of his constituency in the streets of Ouistreham. But
     this was a condescending, electoral democracy! He was patronizing them.
    Maigret looked so rock-solid it was
     almost frighteningly
impressive. Monsieur
     Grandmaison, with his pink face and rolls of fat, was fast losing a grip on his
     authority and sang-froid.
    So he