Georges Simenon - Maigret and the Hotel Majestic

Maigret and the Hotel Majestic

Les caves du Majestic
the 41st episode in the Maigret Saga
1942

Georges Simenon

Translated from the French
by Caroline Hillier

A 3S digital back-up edition 1.0

contents

Copyright 1942 by ditions Gallimard

English translation copyright

1977 by Georges Simenon

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Simenon, Georges. Maigret and the Hotel Majestic.

Translation of Les caves du Majestic.

A Helen and Kurt Wolff book.

I. Title.

PZ3.S5892Maegk 1977b [PQ2637.I53] 843'.9'12 77-84398

ISBN 0-15-155552-4

First American edition 1978

BCDE

Chapter 1: Prosper Donges Flat Tire

A car door slamming. The first thing he heard each day. The motor continued to run outside. Charlotte was probably saying good-by to the driver. Then the taxi drove off. Footsteps. The sound of the key in the lock and the click of the electric light switch.

A match was being struck in the kitchen, and he heard the slow pfffttt as the gas came alight.

Charlotte climbed slowly up the newly built staircase, having been on her feet all night. She crept noiselessly into the room. Another light switch. The light came on, through a pink handkerchief with wooden tassles at the corners that served as a makeshift shade.

Prosper Donge kept his eyes firmly closed. Charlotte undressed, glancing at herself in the wardrobe mirror. When she got to her bra and girdle, she sighed. She was as plump and pink as a Rubens, but had a passion for constricting herself. When she had finished undressing, she rubbed the bruise marks on her skin.

She had an irritating way of getting into the bed, kneeling on it first so that the mattress dipped to one side.

Your turn, Prosper!

He got up. She dived quickly into the warm hollow he had left, pulled the bedcovers up to her eyes, and lay there unmoving.

Is it raining? he asked, running water into the sink.

A muffled groan. It didnt matter. The water was icy, unfit for shaving. Trains rumbled past below.

Prosper Donge got dressed. Charlotte sighed from time to time, because she couldnt get to sleep with the light on. Just as he stretched out his right hand to the switch, with his other hand already on the doorknob, she muttered thickly:

Dont forget to pay the installment for the radio.

There was hot coffee on the stovetoo hot. He drank it standing up. Then, with the gestures of someone who does the same things every day, at the same time, he wrapped a knitted scarf around his neck, and put on his hat and coat.

Finally, he wheeled his bicycle along the hallway and out the door.

The air was always damp and cold at that hour of the morning, and the sidewalks were wet, although it hadnt rained; the people sleeping behind their closed shutters would probably waken to a warm, sunny day.

The street, with detached houses and little gardens on either side, ran steeply downhill. There was an occasional glimpse, through the trees, of the lights of Paris far down below.

It was no longer dark, but it wasnt yet light. The sky was bluish-mauve. Lights came on in a few windows, and Prosper Donge braked sharply as he reached the grade crossing, which was shut, and through which he passed by the side gates.

After the Pont de Saint-Cloud he turned left. A tugboat with its chain of barges was whistling angrily to be allowed into the lock.

The Bois de Boulogne Lakes reflecting a whiter sky, with swans stirring awake

As he reached the Porte Dauphine, Donge suddenly felt the ground become harder under his wheels. He went on a few yards, jumped off, and saw that his back tire was flat.

He checked the time by his watch. It was ten to six. He started to walk quickly, pushing his bike, and his breath hung in the air as he panted along, with a burning sensation in his chest from the effort.

Avenue Foch The shutters of the private houses were all still closed Only an officer trotting along the bridle path, followed by his orderly.

Getting lighter behind the Arc de Triomphe. He was hurrying along, feeling very hot now.

At the corner of the Champs-Elyses, a policeman in a cape, near the newspaper kiosk, called out:

Flat tire?

He nodded. Only three hundred yards more. The Hotel Majestic, on the left, had all its windows still shuttered. The street lamps barely shed any light now.

He turned up Rue de Bern, then Rue de Ponthieu. A small caf-bar was open. And two houses farther along, there was a door that passers-by never noticed, the service entrance of the Majestic.

A man was coming out. He appeared to be in evening dress under his gray overcoat. He was bareheaded. His hair was plastered down, and Prosper Donge thought it was Zebio, the dancer.

He could have glanced into the bar to see if he was right, but it didnt occur to him to do so. Still pushing his bike, he started down the long gray corridor, lighted by a single lamp. He stopped at the time clock, punched in at his number, 67, his eyes on the little clock, which said ten past six. Click.

It was now established that he had arrived at the Majestic at 6:10 a.m.ten minutes later than usual.

That was the official statement made by Prosper Donge, breakfast cook at the Champs-Elyse hotel.

He had gone on to do what he did on any other morning, he said.

At that hour, the vast basement, with its twisting corridors, innumerable doors, and gray-painted walls like those of a ships gangway, was deserted. Here and there you could see a feeble light from a yellowish bulball the light there was at night shining through the glass partitions.

There were glass partitions everywhere, with the kitchens on the left, and the pastry cooks kitchen beyond. Opposite was the room called the personnel dining room, where the senior staff and the guests own servants, personal maids, and chauffeurs had their meals. Farther on was the junior-staff dining room, with long wooden tables and benches like those in a school.

Finally, overlooking the basement like a captains bridge, there was a smaller glass cage, where the bookkeeper kept a check on everything that left the kitchens.

As he opened the door of the breakfast kitchen, Prosper Donge had the impression that someone was going up the narrow staircase that led to the upper floors, but he didnt pay any special attention at the time. Or so he stated later, in his deposition.

He struck a match, just as Charlotte had done in their little house, and the gas went pfffttt under the smallest percolator, which he heated first for the few guests who got up early.

Only when he had done this did he go to the cloakroom. It was a fairly large room, down one of the corridors. There were several washbasins, a grayish mirror, and tall, narrow metal lockers around the walls, each with a number.

He opened locker 67 with his key, took off his coat, hat, and scarf, and changed his shoes; he liked wearing softer, more flexible shoes when he worked. He put on a white jacket.

A few minutes to go At half past six, the basement burst into life.

Upstairs, they were all still asleep, except the night concierge, who was waiting to be relieved in the deserted lobby.

The percolator whistled. Donge filled a cup with coffee and started up the staircase, which was like one of those mysterious staircases in the wings of a theater that lead to the most unexpected places.