GeorgesSimenon

THE LATE MONSIEUR GALLET

TranslatedbyAntheaBell

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FirstpublishedinFrenchasM.GalletdécédébyFayard1931Thistranslationfirstpublished2013

Copyright1931byGeorgesSimenonLimitedTranslation©AntheaBell,2013GEORGESSIMENON®Simenon.tmMAIGRET®GeorgesSimenonLimitedAllrightsreserved

Themoralrightsoftheauthorandtranslatorhavebeenasserted

ISBN:978-0-698-15100-0

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Contents

TitlePageCopyrightPageAbouttheAuthor

1.AChore2.AYoungManinGlasses3.HenryGallet’sReplies4.TheCrookamongtheLegitimists5.TheThriftyLovers6.TheMeetingontheWall7.JosephMoers’Ear8.MonsieurJacob9.AFarcicalMarriage10.TheAssistant11.ACommercialAffair

EXTRA:Chapter1fromTheHangedManofSaint-Pholien

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

GeorgesSimenonwasbornon12February1903inLiège,Belgium,anddiedin1989inLausanne,Switzerland,wherehehadlivedforthelatterpartofhislife.Hepublishedseventy-fivenovelsandtwenty-eightshortstoriesfeaturingInspectorMaigret.

•••

TheLateMonsieurGalletwasthefirstMaigretnoveltobepublishedinbookform.TheserieswaslaunchedinFebruary1931withalavishthemedparty,the‘AnthropometricBall’,completewithinvitationsintheformofpolicerecordcardsandfakepolicemenstationedattheentrance.

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THELATEMONSIEURGALLET

‘IlovereadingSimenon.HemakesmethinkofChekhov’WilliamFaulkner

‘Atrulywonderfulwriter…marvellouslyreadable–lucid,simple,absolutelyintunewiththeworldhecreates’

MurielSpark

‘Fewwritershaveeverconveyedwithsuchasuretouch,thebleaknessofhumanlife’A.N.Wilson

‘Oneofthegreatestwritersofthetwentiethcentury…Simenonwasunequalledatmakinguslookinside,thoughtheabilitywasmaskedbyhisbrillianceatabsorbingusobsessivelyinhisstories’

Guardian

‘Anovelistwhoenteredhisfictionalworldasifhewerepartofit’PeterAckroyd

‘Thegreatestofall,themostgenuinenovelistwehavehadinliterature’AndréGide

‘Superb…Themostaddictiveofwriters…Auniquetelleroftales’Observer

‘Themysteriesofthehumanpersonalityarerevealedinalltheirdisconcertingcomplexity’AnitaBrookner

‘Awriterwho,morethananyothercrimenovelist,combinedahighliteraryreputationwithpopularappeal’P.D.James

‘Asupremewriter…Unforgettablevividness’Independent

‘Compelling,remorseless,brilliant’JohnGray

‘Extraordinarymasterpiecesofthetwentiethcentury’JohnBanville

1.AChore

TheveryfirstcontactbetweenDetectiveChiefInspectorMaigretandthedeadmanwithwhomhewastospendseveralweeksinthemostpuzzlingintimacywason27June1930incircumstancesthatweremundane,difficultandunforgettableallatthesametime.UnforgettablechieflybecauseforthelastweekthePoliceJudiciairehadbeen

gettingnoteafternoteannouncingthattheKingofSpainwouldbepassingthroughParisonthatdayandremindingthemoftheprecautionstobetakenonsuchanoccasion.ItsohappenedthatthesuperintendentofthePoliceJudiciairewasinPrague,

ataconferenceonforensics.HisdeputyhadbeencalledhometohisvillainNormandy,whereoneofhischildrenwasill.Maigret,astheseniorinspector,hadtotakeeverythingoninsuffocatingheat,

withmanpowerreducedbytheholidayseasontothebareminimum.Itwasalsoearlyinthemorningof27Junethatthebodyofamurdered

woman,ahaberdasher,wasfoundinRuePicpus.Inshort,atnineinthemorningallavailableinspectorshadleftforGaredu

Bois-de-Boulogne,wheretheSpanishmonarchwasexpected.Maigrethadtoldhismentoopenthedoorsandwindows,andinthedraughts

doorsslammedandpaperflewofftables.Atafewminutespastnine,atelegramarrivedfromNevers:ÉmileGallet,commercialtraveller,homeaddressSaint-Fargeau,Seine-et-Marne,murderednightof25,HôteldelaLoire,Sancerre.Manycuriousdetails.Pleaseinformfamilyforidentificationofcorpse.SendinspectorfromParisifpossible.

MaigrethadnooptionbuttosetoffinpersontoSaint-Fargeau,aplacethirty-fivekilometresfromthecapitaleventhenameofwhichhadbeenunknowntohimanhourearlier.Hedidnotknowhowthetrainsran.AshearrivedatGaredeLyon,hewas

toldthatalocaltrainwasjustabouttoleave.Hebegantorunandwasjustintimetoflinghimselfintothelastcarriage.Thatwasquiteenoughtodrenchhiminsweat,andhespenttherestofthejourneygettinghisbreathbackandmoppinghisface,forhewasalarge,thick-setman.AtSaint-Fargeauhewastheonlytravellertogetout,andhehadtowander

aboutonthesoftenedasphaltoftheplatformforseveralminutesbeforehemanagedtounearthoneofthestationstaff.‘MonsieurGallet?Rightattheendofthecentralavenueofthehousing

development.There’sasignoutsidethehousewithitsnameonit,“LesMarguerites”.Infactit’salmosttheonlyhousetobefinishedsofar.’Maigrettookoffhisjacket,slippedahandkerchiefunderhisbowlerhatto

protectthebackofhisneck,becausetheavenueinquestionwasabout200metreswide,andyoucouldwalkonlyrightdownthemiddleofit,wheretherewasnoshadeatall.Thesunwasanominouscopperycolour,andmidgeswerestingingfuriously

inadvanceofthecomingstorm.Notasoulinsighttobrightenthesceneandprovideatravellerwithany

information.Thehousingdevelopmentwasnothingbutahugeforestwhichmusthavebeenpartofthegroundsofalargemanorhouse.Allanyonehaddonetoityetwastomarkoutageometricalnetworkofstreets,likethestripesleftbyalawnmower,andtolaythecablesthatwouldprovidethefuturehouseswithelectriclight.Oppositetherailwaystation,however,therewasasquarelaidoutwith

mosaic-linedfountains.Overawoodenshackwasasignreading‘SalesOffice.PlotsofLandforDevelopment’.Besideit,therewasamaponwhichtheemptystreetsalreadyborethenamesofpoliticiansandgenerals.Everyfiftymetres,Maigrettookouthishandkerchieftomophisfaceagain,

andthenputitbackoverthenapeofhisneck,whichwasbeginningtosizzle.Hesawembryonicbuildingshereandthere,sectionsofwallthatthebuildersmusthaveabandonedbecauseoftheheat.Atleasttwokilometresfromthestationhe

found‘LesMarguerites’,ahousethatwasfaintlyEnglishinappearance,withredtiles,complicatedarchitectureandarusticwallseparatingthegardenfromwhatforafewyearsyetwouldstillbetheforest.Lookingupthroughthefirst-floorwindows,hesawabedwithamattress

foldedintwoontopofit,whilethesheetsandblanketswereairingoverthewindow-sill.Herangthebell.Amaidservantaboutthirtyyearsoldwithasquintlookedat

himthroughapeepholefirst,andwhileshewasmakinguphermindtoopenthedoorMaigretputhisjacketbackon.‘I’dliketoseeMadameGallet,please.’‘WhoshallIsayitis?’Butavoiceinsidethehousewasalreadyaskingher,‘Whoisit,Eugénie?’AndMadameGalletappearedonthestepsinperson,chinintheairasshe

waitedfortheintrudertoexplainhimself.‘You’vedroppedsomething,’shesaidinunfriendlytones,ashetookoffhis

hat,forgettingthehandkerchief,whichnowfelltotheground.Hepickeditup,mumblingsomethingunintelligible,andintroducedhimself.

‘DetectiveChiefInspectorMaigretoftheFlyingSquad.Iwouldlikeafewwordswithyou,madame.’‘Withme?’Andsheadded,turningtothemaid,‘Whatareyouwaitingabout

for?’MaigretknewwhathethoughtaboutMadameGallet,atleast.Shewasa

womanofaroundfifty,andtherewerenotwowaysaboutit:shewasdisagreeable.Inspiteofthetimeofday,theheat,thesolitudeofthehouse,shewasalreadywearingamauvesilkdress,andnotoneofhergreyhairsventuredoutoftherigidityofherset.Herneck,bosomandhandswereladenwithgoldnecklaces,broochesandringsthatclickedagainsteachother.Unwillingly,sheprecededhervisitorintothesittingroom.Ashepassedanopendoor,Maigretsawawhitekitchensparklingwithcopperandaluminiumpans.‘MayIstartwaxingthefloor,madame?’‘Ofcourse!Whynot?’Themaiddisappearedintothediningroomnextdoorandcouldsoonbeheard

spreadingwaxpolishonthefloorwheresheknelt,whileaninvigoratingsmellofturpentinespreadthroughthehouse.Therewerepiecesofembroideryonallthe

furnitureinthesittingroom.Onthewallhunganenlargedphotographofatall,thinadolescentboywithjuttingknees,dressedforhisFirstCommunion.Asmallerphotoonthepianoshowedamanwiththickhair,asalt-and-pepper

goateebeard,wearingajacketwithpoorlycutshoulders.Theovalofhisfacewasaslongastheboy’s.AnotherdetailbroughtMaigretupshort,anditwasseveralmomentsbeforeherealizedthattheman’slips,whichalmostcuthisfaceinhalf,wereabnormallythin.‘Yourhusband?’‘Yes,myhusband!AndIamwaitingtohearwhatthepolicethinktheyare

doinghere…’Duringtheconversationthatfollowed,Maigrethadtokeeplookingbackat

thephotograph,andthatcouldreallybedescribedashisfirstpointofcontactwiththedeadman.‘I’mafraidIhavebadnewstobreak,madame…yourhusbandisaway,isn’t

he?’‘Well,goon!Outwithit…hassomething…?’‘Yes,therehasbeenanaccident.Well,notstrictlyspeakinganaccident.I

mustaskyoutobebrave…’Shewasstandinginfrontofhim,herbackverystraight,herhandrestingona

pedestaltablewithareproductionbronzeonit.Herfacewashard,distrustful,andnothingabouthermovedexceptherpodgyfingers.WhatmadeMaigretthinkthatshehadcertainlybeenslim,maybeveryslim,forthefirsthalfofherlife,andhadputonweightonlywithage?‘YourhusbandwaskilledinSancerreonthenightof25June.Ihavethe

painfultaskofinformingyou…’Theinspectorturnedtotheportraitphotoandasked,pointingtotheboy

dressedforhisFirstCommunion,‘Youhaveason,Ibelieve?’ForamomentMadameGalletlookedasifthestraightbackthatshethought

indispensabletoherdignitymightbeabouttobend.Shesaid,reluctantly,‘Ason,yes,’andthensheimmediatelyadded,inatriumphanttone,‘YoudidsaySancerre,didn’tyou?Andthisisthe27th.Inthatcaseyou’vemadeamistake.Waitaminute…’Shewentintothediningroom,whereMaigretcouldseethemaidonallfours.

WhenMadameGalletcameback,sheheldapostcardouttohervisitor.

‘Thiscardisfrommyhusband.It’sdatedthe26thandpostmarkedRouen.’Shehadsomedifficultyinsuppressingasmilebetrayingherdelightin

humiliatingapoliceofficerwhowasboldenoughtointrudeonherprivacy.‘ItmustbesomeotherGallet,notthatIknowanyoneofthatname.’Shewas

almostonthepointofopeningthedoor,andcouldn’tkeephereyesoffit.‘MyhusbandrepresentsthefirmofNieletCiealloverNormandy.’‘I’mafraid,madame,thatyourreliefisunfounded.Imustaskyouto

accompanymetoSancerre.Forbothyoursakeandmine…’‘Butsince…’Sheshookthepostcard,whichshowedtheOldMarketinRouen.Thedoorof

thediningroomwasstillopen,andMaigretcouldseenowthemaid’sbehindandfeet,nowherheadandthehairfallingoverherface.Heheardthesoundoftherag,greasywithpolish,beingwipedoverthewoodenfloor.‘Believeme,Iwishwithallmyheartthattherewassomemistake.However,

thepapersfoundinthedeadman’spocketsaredefinitelyyourhusband’s.’‘Theycouldhavebeenstolenfromhim…’Butdespiteherself,anoteof

anxietywasbeginningtocreepintohervoice.ShefollowedMaigret’seyesashelookedatthesmallerportraitandsaid,‘Thatphotowastakenwhenhehadbegundieting.’‘Ifyouwouldliketoeatlunchfirst,’suggestedtheinspector,‘Icouldcome

backforyouinanhour’stime.’‘Certainlynot.Ifyouthinkthat…thatit’snecessary…Eugénie!Myblack

silkcoat,mybagandmygloves.’

•••

Maigretwasnotinterestedinthiscase;ithadallthehallmarksofaparticularlydistastefulinvestigation.Andifherememberedthepictureofthemanwiththegoateebeard–whowasdieting!–andtheboydressedforhisFirstCommunion,itwasunintentionally.Everythinghedidtodayfeltlikeachore.Firstgoingbackupthecentral

avenueinanincreasinglystiflingatmosphere,andthistimeunabletotakehisjacketoff.Thenwaitingthirty-fiveminutesatMelunstation,whereheboughtapicnicbasketcontainingsandwiches,fruitandabottleofBordeaux.

At3p.m.hewassittingoppositeMadameGalletinafirst-classcompartment,inatrainonthemainlinetoMoulins,stoppingatSancerre.Thecurtainsweredrawn,thewindowslowered,buttherewasonlyaveryoccasionalbreathoffreshair.Maigrethadtakenhispipeoutofhispocket;butwhenhelookedathis

companionhegaveupanyideaofsmokinginfrontofher.Thetrainhadbeengoingalongforagoodhourwhensheasked,inavoicethatatlastsoundedmorehuman,‘Howwouldyouexplainallthis?’‘Ican’texplainanythingyet,madame.Idon’tknowanything.AsItoldyou,

thecrimewascommittedonthenightof25June,attheHôteldelaLoire.Thisistheholidayseason,andinadditiontheprovincialprosecutors’officesaren’talwaysinahurry.Weweren’ttoldatpoliceheadquartersinParisuntilthismorning…Wasyourhusbandinthehabitofsendingyoupostcards?’‘Wheneverhewasaway.’‘Hewasawayagreatdeal?’‘Aboutthreeweeksamonth.HewenttoRouenandstayedattheHôteldela

Poste…he’sbeenstayingtherefortwentyyears!HebasedhimselfthereandwentoutalloverNormandy,buthemanagedtogetbacktoRouenintheeveningasoftenaspossible.’‘Youhaveonlytheoneson?’‘Oneson,yes!HeworksinabankinParis.’‘RatherthanlivingwithyouinSaint-Fargeau?’‘It’stoofarforhimtocomehomeeveryday.HealwaysspendsSundayswith

us.’‘MayIsuggestthatyouhavesomethingtoeat?’‘Nothankyou,’shesaid,inthesametonethatshemighthaveusedtoreplyto

animpertinentremark.Andindeed,hehaddifficultyinimagininghernibblingasandwichlikethefirsttoarriveataparty,anddrinkingwarmwinefromthecateringcompany’soiledpapercup.Youcouldtellthatdignitymeantagreatdealtoher.Shecouldneverhavebeenpretty,butshehadregularfeatures,andifshehadnotbeensoexpressionlessshewouldnothavebeenwithoutcharm,thankstoacertainmelancholyinherfacewhichwasemphasizedbyherwayofholdingherheadononeside.‘Whywouldanyonekillmyhusband?’shewonderedaloud.

‘Youdon’tknowofanyenemieshemayhavehad?’‘Noenemies,nofriendseither!Weliveveryquietly,likeeveryonewho’s

knownatimebeforeallthebrutalityandvulgarityyoufindnowthatthewarisover.’‘Isee.’Thejourneyseemedinterminable.SeveraltimesMaigretwentoutintothe

corridorforafewpuffsathispipe.Hisdetachablecollarhadgonelimpowingtotheheatandhisprofuseperspiration.HeenviedMadameGallet,whodidn’tevennoticetemperaturesof33or34degreesintheshadeandstayedinexactlythesamepositionasatthestartofthejourney,asifforabustrip,handbagonherknees,headslightlyturnedtothewindow.‘Howwasth…thatmankilled?’‘Thetelegramdoesn’tsay.Igatheredthathewasfounddeadinthemorning.’MadameGalletjumped,andittookheramomenttogetherbreathbackas

shesatwithhermouthhalfopen.‘Itcan’tpossiblybemyhusband.Surelythatcardprovesit?Ishouldn’teven

havehadtogotoallthisbother.’Withoutknowingjustwhy,Maigretregrettednotbringingthephotofromthe

piano,becausehewasalreadyhavingtroublereconstructingthetoppartofthefaceinhismind.Ontheotherhand,heclearlyvisualizedtheover-longmouth,thesmall,thickbeard,thepoorlycutshouldersofthejacket.ItwassevenintheeveningwhenthetrainstoppedatTracy-Sancerrestation,

andtheystillhadtowalkakilometrealongthemainroadandcrossthesuspensionbridgeovertheRiverLoire,whichdidnotofferthemajesticviewofariverbutthesightofagreatmanystreamsofwaterrunningfastbetweensandbanksthecolourofover-ripewheat.Amaninanankeensuitwasfishingononeoftheseislets.AndnowtheHôteldelaLoirecameintoview,itsyellowfaçaderunningalongthebank.Theraysofthesunslantedmorenow,butitwasstilldifficulttobreathetheair,thickwithsomuchwatervapour.MadameGalletwasintheleadnow,andseeingamanwhomustbea

colleagueofhispacingupanddownoutsidethehotel,Maigretdislikedthethoughtthatheandhiscompanionlookedaperfectlyridiculouscouple.Peopleonholiday,mostlyfamilies,wearingpaleclothes,weresittingattables

underaglazedroof,withwaitressesinapronsandwhitecapswalkingaround.

MadameGallethadseenthesignbearingthenameofthehotelsurroundedbythecrestsofseveralclubs.Shemadestraightforthedoor.‘PoliceJudiciaire?’askedthemanpacingupanddown,stoppingMaigret.‘Yes,whatisit?’‘He’sbeentakentothetownhall.You’dbetterhurryup–thepost-mortemis

ateight.You’llbejustintime.’

•••

Justintimetogetacquaintedwiththedeadman.Atthatmoment,Maigretwasstilldragginghimselfaboutlikeamandoingadifficultandunattractivetask.Later,hehadtimetorememberthesecondpointofcontactathisleisure.It

couldnotbefollowedbyanother.Thevillagewasglaringwhiteinthestormylightofthatlateafternoon.

Chickensandgeesecrossedthemainroad,andfiftymetresawaytwomeninapronswereshoeingahorse.Oppositethetownhall,peopleweresittingattablesonacaféterrace,and

fromtheshadeofredandyellowstripedawningsroseanatmosphereofcoolbeer,icecubesfloatinginsweet-smellingdrinksandnewspapersjustarrivedfromParis.Threecarswereparkedinthemiddleofthesquare.Anursewaslookingfor

thepharmacy.Inthetownhallitself,awomanwaswashingdownthegrey-tiledcorridor.‘Excuseme.Thebody?’‘Backthere!Intheschoolplayground.Thegentlemenareoverthere…you

cancomethisway.’Shepointedtoadoorwiththeword‘Girls’overit;itsaid‘Boys’abovethe

otherwingofthebuilding.MadameGalletwentaheadwithunexpectedself-assurance,butallthesame

Maigretthoughtshewasmorelikelyinsomekindofdaze.Intheschoolyard,adoctorinawhitecoatwassmokingacigaretteand

walkingaboutlikeamanexpectingsomething.Sometimesherubbedhisverydelicatehandstogether.Twootherpeopleweretalkingundertheirbreath,nearatablewithabodystretchedoutonitunderawhitesheet.

Theinspectortriedtoslowhiscompaniondown,buthehadnotimetogettherefirst.Shewasalreadyintheyard,whereshestoppedinfrontofthetable,heldherbreathandsuddenlyraisedthesheetoverthedeadman’sface.Shedidnotcryout.Thetwomenwhoweretalkinghadturnedtoherin

surprise.Thedoctorputonrubbergloves,wentovertoadoorandasked,‘Isn’tMademoiselleAngèlebackyet?’WhilehetookoffoneofhisglovestolightanothercigaretteMadameGallet

stoodtheremotionless,verystiff,andMaigretpreparedtogotoheraid.Sheabruptlyturnedtohim,herfacefullofhatred,andcried,‘Howcouldthis

happen?Whodaredto…?’‘Comethisway,madame…itishim,isn’tit?’Hereyesmovingfastnow,shelookedatthetwomen,thedoctorinwhite,the

nursewhowasonherway,waddling.‘Whatdowedonow?’shemanagedtosay,hervoicehoarse.AndwhenMaigret,embarrassed,hesitatedtoreply,shefinallyflungherself

onherhusband’sbody,castafuriousglanceofangeranddefianceattheyardandeveryoneinitandshouted,‘Idon’twantto!Idon’twantto!’Shehadtobeforciblyremovedandhandedovertotheconcierge,who

abandonedherbucketsofwater.WhenMaigretreturnedtotheyardthedoctorhadasurgicalknifeinhishandandamaskoverhisface,andthenursewashandinghimafrostedglassbottle.Unintentionally,theinspectorkickedasmallblacksilkhat,decoratedwitha

mauvebowandanimitationdiamondgemstone.

•••

Hedidnotwatchthepost-mortem.Duskwasnear,andthedoctorhadannouncedthathehadsevenguestscomingtodinneratNevers.Thetwomenweretheexaminingmagistrateandtheclerkofthecourt.Aftershakingtheinspector’shand,themagistratemerelysaid,‘Asyoucansee,thelocalpolicehavebeguntheirinvestigations.It’saterriblyconfusedcase.’Thebodywasnakedunderthesheetlaidoverit,andthedismalconversation

lastedonlyafewseconds.ThecorpsewasmuchasMaigretwouldhaveimaginedfromthephotoofthelivingman:long,bony,withabureaucrat’s

hollowchest,apaleskinthatmadehishairlookverydark,whilethebodyhaironhischestwasreddish.Onlyhalfhisfacewasstillintact;theleftcheekhadbeenblownawaybya

gunshot.Hiseyeswereopen,butthemid-greyiriseslookedevenmorelifelessthanin

hisphotograph.Hewasdieting,MadameGallethadsaid.Underhisleftbreasttherewasaneat,regularwoundretainingtheshapeofa

knife-blade.BehindMaigret,thedoctorwasdancingonthespotwithimpatience.‘DoI

sendmyreporttoyou?Whereareyoustaying?’‘AttheHôteldelaLoire.’Themagistrateandhisclerklookedelsewhereandsaidnothing.Maigret,

lookingforthewayout,triedthewrongdoorandfoundhimselfamongthebenchesinoneoftheschoolclassrooms.Itwaspleasantlycoolinthere,andtheinspectorlingeredforamomentinfrontofsomelithographsentitled‘Harvest’,‘AFarminWinter’and‘MarketDayinTown’.Onashelfallthemeasuresofweightandvolume,madeofwood,tinandiron,werearrangedinorderofsize.Theinspectormoppedhisface.Ashelefttheroomagain,hemetthepolice

inspectorfromNevers,whowaslookingforhim.‘Oh,good,thereyouare!NowIcanjoinmywifeinGrenoble.Wouldyou

believeit…yesterdaymorningwhenthephonecallcameIwasabouttogoonholiday!’‘Haveyoufoundanythingout?’‘Nothingatall.Asyou’llsee,it’samostimprobablecase.Ifyou’dlikewe

candinetogether,andI’llgiveyouthedetails,ifyoucancallthemdetails.Nothingwasstolen.Noonesaworheardanything!Anditwouldbeacleverfellowwhocouldsaywhythemanwaskilled.There’sonlyoneoddity,butIdon’tsupposeitwillgetusveryfar.WhenhestayedattheHôteldelaLoire,ashedidfromtimetotime,hecheckedinunderthenameofMonsieurClément,amanofprivatemeans,fromOrleans.’‘Let’sgoandhaveanaperitif,’suggestedMaigret.Herememberedthetemptingatmosphereoftheterrace.Justnowithad

lookedtohimliketherefugehedreamedof.However,whenhewassittingin

frontofanice-coldbeer,hedidnotfeelthesatisfactionhehadanticipated.‘Thisisthemostdisappointingimaginablecase,’sighedhiscompanion.‘You

justtakealookatit!Nothingtogiveusalead!Andwhat’smore,nothingoutoftheordinary,exceptthatthemanwasmurdered…’Hewentoninthisveinforseveralminutes,withoutnoticingthattheinspector

washardlylistening.Therearesomepeoplewhosefacesyoucan’tforgetevenifyoumerelypassed

themonceinthestreet.AllthatMaigrethadseenofÉmileGalletwasaphotograph,halfofhisface,andhispalebody.Again,itwasthephotothatlingeredinhismind.Andhewastryingtobringittolife,toimagineMonsieurGallethavingaprivateconversationwithhiswife,inthediningroomatSaint-Fargeau,orleavingthevillatocatchhistrainatthestation.Infitsandstarts,thetoppartoftheman’sfacetookclearershapeinhismind.

Maigretthoughtherememberedthathehadashenbagsunderhiseyes.‘I’llbethehadlivertrouble,’hesuddenlysaidunderhisbreath.‘Well,hedidn’tdieofit,anyway!’saidhiscompaniontartly,annoyed.‘Liver

troubledoesn’tblowoffhalfyourfaceandstabyouthroughtheheart!’Thelightsofafunfaircameoninthemiddleofthesquare,whereacarousel

ofwoodenhorseswasbeingdismantled.

2.AYoungManinGlasses

Therewereonlytwoorthreegroupsofhotelguestsstillsittingattheirtables.Howlsofindignationfromchildrenbeingmadetogotobedcamefromtheroomsonthefirstfloor.Fromtheothersideofanopenwindow,awoman’svoiceasked,‘Seethatbig

man,didyou?He’sapoliceman!He’llputyouinprisonifyou’renaughty…’Stilleating,andlettinghiseyeswanderoverthescenebeforehim,Maigret

heardapersistentdroningsound.ItwasInspectorGrenierfromNevers,talkingforthesheerpleasureoftalking.‘Nowifonlyhe’dhadsomethingstolenfromhim.Thenthecasewouldbe

child’splay.ThisisMonday…thecrimewascommittedonthenightofSaturdayintoSunday…itwasaholiday.Thesedays,aswellasthetravellingshowmen,andIdistrustthemonprinciple,youseeallsortsofpeopleprowlinground.Youdon’tknowwhatthecountryside’slike,inspector!YoumaywellbeabletofindnastiercharactersherethanamongthedregsofParis…’‘Thefactis,’saidMaigret,interruptinghim,‘ifithadn’tbeenfortheholiday

thecrimewouldhavebeendiscoveredatonce.’‘Whatdoyoumean?’‘Imeanitwasbecauseoftheriflerangeonthefairgroundandthefirecrackers

goingoffthatnooneheardthegunshot.Didn’tyoutellmethatGalletdidn’tdieoftheinjurytohishead?’‘Sothedoctorsays,andthepost-mortemwillconfirmthathypothesis.The

mangotabulletinhishead,butitseemsthathecouldhavelivedanothertwoor

threehours.Directlyaftertheshot,however,hewasstabbedintheheartwithaknife,anddeathwasinstantaneous.Theknifehasbeenfound.’‘Howabouttherevolver?’‘Wehaven’tfoundthat.’‘Theknifewasintheroomwithhim?’‘Withinafewcentimetresofthebody,andtherearebruisesonGallet’sleft

wrist.Itlooksasif,knowinghewaswounded,heraisedtheknifeintheairashemadeforhisattacker,buthewasweakened…Thenthemurderergrabbedhiswrist,twistedit,andranthebladethroughhisheart.That’snotjustmyownopinion,thedoctorthinkssotoo.’‘Soifithadn’tbeenforthefair,Galletwouldn’tbedead!’Maigretwasnottryingtoindulgeiningeniousdeductionsorstartlehis

provincialcolleague,buttheideastruckhimandnowhewasthinkingitthrough,curioustoseewhereitwouldleadhim.Butforallthenoiseofthewoodencarouselhorses,theriflerangeandthe

firecrackers,thedetonationwouldhavebeenheard.Peoplefromthehotelwouldhavecomerunning,andmighthaveintervenedbeforetheknifewentintothevictim.Nighthadfallennow;allyoucouldseewereafewreflectionsofmoonlight

ontheriverandthetwolampsattheendsofthebridge.Insidethecafé,guestswereplayingbilliards.‘Astrangestory,’concludedInspectorGrenier.‘It’snotelevenyet,isit?My

trainleavesateleventhirty-two,anditwilltakemequarterofanhourtogettothestation.Iwassayingthatifanythinghadgonemissing…’‘Whattimedothefairgroundstallsclose?’‘Midnight.That’sthelaw!’‘Whichmeansthatthecrimewascommittedbeforemidnight,andthatinturn

meansthatnoteveryoneinthehotelwillhavebeeninbed.’Whilebothofficerspursuedtheirowntrainsofthought,theconversationwent

onindesultoryfashion.‘Likethatfalsenamehegave,MonsieurClément.Theproprietorshouldhave

toldyou…hestayedherefromtimetotime.Abouteverysixmonths,I’dsay.Itmustbetenyearsagothathefirstcamehere.HealwaysusedthenameofClément,amanofprivatemeans,fromOrleans.’

‘Didhehaveacasewithhim–thekindofthingcommercialtravellersusefortheirsamples?’‘Ididn’tseeanythinglikethatinhisroom…butthehotelproprietorcantell

you.MonsieurTardivon!Comehereaminute,wouldyou?ThisisInspectorMaigretfromParis,andhe’dliketoaskyouaquestion.DidMonsieurClémentusuallyhaveacommercialtraveller’scasewithhim?’‘Containingsilverware,’InspectorMaigretadded.‘Ohno.Healwayshadatravellingbagforhispersonalthings,becausehewas

verycarefulaboutlookingafterhimself.Waitaminute!Ididn’tseehimmuchinanordinaryjacket.Mostofthetimeheworeawaistedonewithtails,eitherblackordarkgrey.’‘Thankyou.’MaigretthoughtaboutthefirmofNieletCie,whichMonsieurGallet

representedalloverNormandy.Itspecializedingoldandsilverwareforgifts:rattles,reproductionmugs,silverplacesettings,fruitbaskets,setsofknives,cakeslices…Heatethetinypieceofalmondcakethatawaitresshadputinfrontofhim

andfilledhispipe.‘Alittleglassofsomething?’askedMonsieurTardivon.‘Idon’tmindifIdo.’MonsieurTardivonwentinsearchofthebottlehimselfandthensatdownat

thetablewiththetwopoliceofficers.‘Soyou’llbeinchargeoftheinquiries,inspector?Whatathing,eh?Rightat

thebeginningoftheseason,too!WhatwouldyousayifItoldyousevenguestsleftthishotelthismorningtogototheCommercialHotelinstead!Yourverygoodhealth,gentlemen!Now,asforthisMonsieurClément…I’musedtocallinghimthat,yousee…andwhocouldhaveknownitwasn’thisrealname?’Moreandmorepeoplewereleavingtheterrace.Awaiterwastakingthebay

treesinwoodencontainersthatstoodamongthetablesandliningthemupagainstthewall.Agoodstrainpassedalongtheoppositebank,andtheeyesofthethreemenautomaticallyfollowedthereddishlightasitmovedalongthefootofthehill.MonsieurTardivonhadbegunhiscareerasacookinabighouseandstillhad

acertainairofsolemnityfromthosedays,averyslightlycontrivedwayof

bowingtowardsthepersonhewastalkingto.‘Thereallyextraordinarything,’hesaid,cradlinghisglassofArmagnacinthe

palmofhishand,‘isthatthecrimewaswithinahair’sbreadthofnotbeingcommittedatall…’‘Yes,thefunfair,’Grenierquicklyputin,glancingatMaigret.‘Idon’tknowwhatyoumean…no,whenMonsieurClémentarrivedon

SaturdaymorningIgavehimtheblueroom,theonethatlooksoutonwhatwecallthenettlelane.It’sthelaneoverthereontheleft.Wecallitthatbecausenowit’snotusedforanythingit’sbeeninvadedbynettles…’‘Whyisn’titusedforanything?’askedMaigret.‘Seethatwalljustbeyondthelane?It’sthewallofMonsieurdeSaint-

Hilaire’svilla.Well,hereinthecountryweusuallycallitthelittlechateau,todistinguishitfromthebigone,theoldchateauofSancerreabovethehill.Youcanseeitsturretsfromhere,andithasveryfinegrounds.Well,intheolddays,beforetheHôteldelaLoirewasbuilt,thegroundscameuptohere,andthegrandfrontentrancewithawrought-irongatewasattheendofthenettlelane.Thegateisstillthere,butnooneusesit,becausethey’vemadeanotherentranceontheriverbank500metresaway…Inshort,IgaveMonsieurClémenttheblueroomwithwindowslookingoutthisway.It’squiet,nooneevergoesalongthelanebecauseitdoesn’tleadanywhere.Idon’tknowwhy,buttheafternoonwhenhecamebackheaskedifIdidn’thavearoomwithaviewoftheyard.ButIdidn’thaveanothervacancy.There’sabigchoiceinthewinterbecauseIgethardlyanyonethenbuttheregulars,commercialtravellersgoingroundatfixedtimes,butthesummer…that’sdifferent!Believeitornot,mostofmyguestscomefromParis!There’snothingliketheairoftheLoire…Well,soItoldMonsieurClémentthatIcouldn’tobligehim,andIdidpointoutthathisroomwasthebestinthehotel.Withaviewoftheyardyougetchickensandgeese,andwaterbeingdrawnfromthewellatallsortsoftimes.Andnomatterhowmuchgreaseweputonit,thatchainmakesascreechingnoise.Hedidn’tpersist…butifonlyIhadhadaroomwithaviewoftheyard,justthink…hewouldn’tbedeadnow!’‘Whynot?’murmuredMaigret.‘Didn’tanyonetellyouthattheshotwasfiredfromatleastsixmetresaway?

Andtheroomisonlyfivemetreswide,sothemurderermusthavebeenoutside,

takingadvantageofthefactthatthenettlelaneisdeserted.Hecouldn’thavegotintotheyardtofirehisgun,andbesides,peoplewouldhaveheardit.Anotherlittledrink,gentlemen?It’sonthehouse,ofcourse.’‘Sothatmakestwo!’saidtheinspector.‘Twowhat?’askedGrenier.‘Twocoincidences.Firstthefairhadtobeinfullswing,tomufflethesound

oftheshot.Andthenalltheroomslookingoutontheyardhadtobeoccupied…’HeturnedtoMonsieurTardivon,whohadjustrefilledtheirglasses.‘Howmanyguestsdoyouhavehereatthemoment?’‘Thirty-four,countingthechildren.’‘Andnoneofthemhaveleftsincethecrimewascommitted?’‘Yes,Itoldyou.Sevenhaveleft:afamilyfromthesuburbsofParis–Saint-

Denis,Ithink.Amechanicofsomekind,withhiswife,hismother-in-law,hissister-in-lawandtheirkids.Notverywell-educatedpeople,incidentally.Ican’tsayIwassorrytoseethemmovetotheCommercial.Weallhaveourownkindsofregulars,andhere,aseveryonewillagree,youmeetonlyaniceclassofguests…’‘HowdidMonsieurClémentspendhisdays?’‘Icouldn’treallysay…hewentforwalks.Waitamoment,Ihadanideathat

hehasachildsomewherearoundhere…achildoutofwedlock.That’sjustanidea,becauseinspiteofyourselfyoutrytoworkthingsout.Hewasverypolite,andtherewasalwaysasadlookabouthim.Ineversawhimeatingatthetabled’hôte–wedohaveatabled’hôteinwinter,buthelikedtositinacornerdiningbyhimself…’Maigrethadtakenanotebookoutofhispocket,anordinarynotebookwitha

blackwaxedcover,thekindalaundrywomanwoulduse.Hemadesomenotesinpencil.

1. SendtelegramtoRouen;2. SendtelegramtoNieletCie;3. Lookathotelyard;4. FindoutaboutSaint-Hilaireproperty;5. Takefingerprintsfromknife;6. Getlistofguests;7. MechanicandfamilyatCommercialHotel;8. PeoplewholeftSancerreonSundaythe26th;9. GetthetowncriertoannouncearewardforanyonewhometMonsieurGalletonSaturdaythe

25th.

HiscolleaguefromNevers,aforcedsmileonhislips,wasfollowingMaigret’severymovementwithhiseyes.‘Well?Haveyoucomeupwithanideaalready?’‘No,nothingofthesort!Ihavetwotelegramstosendnow,andthenI’m

goingtobed.’Theonlypeopleleftinthecaféwerethelocalsfinishingtheirgameof

billiards.Maigretglancedatthenettlelane,whichhadoncebeenthecentralavenuegoinguptothelittlechateauandstillhadtworowsoffineoaktreesliningit.Thesedaysdensevegetationhadinvadedeverything,andtherewasnothingtobeseenatthishour.Grenierpreparedtosetoffforthestation,andMaigretretracedhisstepsto

shakehandsandsaygoodbye.‘Goodluck,’saidGrenier.‘Betweenourselves,thisisabruteofacase,don’t

youagree?Nothingsensational,andnokindofusefulleadeither.Sooneryouthanme,tobefrankwithyou.’Maigretwasshowntoaroomonthefirstfloor,wheremosquitoesbeganto

whinearoundhishead.Hewasinabadtemper.Thejobaheadwasagloomyprospect,anondescriptcasewithnothinginterestingaboutit.Andyetoncehewasinbed,insteadofgoingtosleephebeganseeingGallet’s

faceinhismind’seye,sometimesonlyonecheek,sometimesonlythelowerpartoftheface.Hetossedandturnedawkwardlyinthedampsheets.Hecouldhearthe

murmuringoftheriverasitlappedagainstthesandbanks.Everycriminalcasehasafeatureofitsown,onethatyouidentifysooneror

later,anditoftenprovidesthekeytothemystery.Hethoughtthatthefeatureofthisonewas,surely,itssheermediocrity.MediocrityinSaint-Fargeau!Amediocrehouse!Undistinguishedinterior

decoration,withtheportraitphotooftheboyabouttotakehisFirstCommunionandtheoneofhisfatherinanoverlytightjacket,bothonthepiano.MoremediocrityinSancerre!Alow-budgetholidayresort!Asecond-class

hotel!Allthesedetailsaddedtothedull,greyatmospheresurroundingthecase.

AcommercialtravellerforthefirmofNiel:fakesilverware,fakeluxury,fakestyle!Afunfair,andonewithariflerangeandfirecrackersintothebargain…AndthentherewasthedistinctionlenttoitallbyMadameGallet,whosehat

adornedwithpastediamondshadfallenintothedustoftheschoolplayground.ItwasarelieftoMaigrettofindout,inthemorning,thatthewidowhadtaken

thefirsttrainbacktoSaint-Fargeau,andthecoffincontainingtheremainsofÉmileGalletwasonitswaybacktoLesMargueritesinahiredvan.Hewasinahurrytogetthiscaseoveranddonewith.Everyoneelsehadleft:

themagistrate,thedoctorwithhissevenguestscomingtodinner,andInspectorGrenier.Asaresult,Maigretwasleftalonewithsomeprecisetaskstocarryout.First,hemustwaitforrepliestothetwotelegramshehadsenttheprevious

evening.Thenexaminetheroomwherethecrimehadbeencommitted.Finally,think

aboutallthosewhocouldhavecommittedthecrimeandwhowerethereforesuspects.HedidnothavetowaitlongforthereplyfromRouen.Itcamefromthepolice

ofthatcity:HavequestionedstaffofHôteldelaPoste.Cashier,IrmaStrauss,saidamancalledÉmileGalletsentheranenvelopecontainingpostcardstobeforwarded.Received100francsamonthforhertrouble.Hasbeendoingthisforfiveyears,andthinksthatthecashierbeforeherdidthesame.

Halfanhourlater,atteno’clock,atelegramfromthefirmofNielarrived:ÉmileGallethasnotworkedforourfirmsince1912.

Thiswasthemomentwhenthetowncrierbegandoinghisrounds.Maigret,whohadjustfinishedbreakfast,wasexaminingthehotelyard(whichhadnothinginparticularaboutit)whenhewastoldthattheroad-menderwouldlikeawordwithhim.‘IwasontheroadtoSaint-Thibaut,’heexplained,‘whenIsawthatMonsieur

Clément.Iknewhim,see,becauseI’dmethimafewtimes,andIknewhisjacket.Therewasayoungmanjustcomingdowntheroadfromthefarm,andtheymetfacetoface.Iwassortoflikeahundredmetresfromthem,butIcouldseetheywerearguing…’‘Anddidtheywalkawayfromeachotheratonce?’

‘Ohno,theylikewentupthehillattheendoftheroad.Thentheoldmancamebackonhisown,anditwasn’t’tilhalfanhourlaterinthesquarethatIsawtheyoungmanagainattheCommercial.’‘Whatdidhelooklike?’‘Tall,thin…withalongfaceandglasses.’‘Whatwashewearing?’‘Couldn’trightlysay.Might’vebeensomethinggrey…orblack.SodoIget

thefiftyfrancs?’MaigretgavehimthemoneyandsetofffortheCommercialHotel,wherehe

haddrunkhisaperitiftheeveningbefore.Yes,hewastold,theyoungmanhadhadlunchthereonSaturday25June,but

thewaiterwhoservedhimwasnowonholidayatPouilly,sometwentykilometresaway.‘Areyousurehedidn’tspendthenighthere?’‘He’dbeinourregisterifhehad.’‘Andnooneremembershim?’Thecashierrecollectedthatsomeonehadaskedforpastawithoutanybutter,

andsheaddedthatithadtobecookedspeciallyforhim.‘Itwasayoungmansittingoverthere,totheleftofthatpillar.Hehadan

unhealthycomplexion.’Itwasbeginningtogethot,andMaigretnolongerfeltthesamebored

indifferenceashehadearlyinthemorning.‘Didhehavealongface?Thinlips?’‘Yes,akindofawidemouthwithascornfullooktoit.Hedidn’twantcoffee

oraliqueuroranything…someguestsarelikethat,youknow…’WhathadmadeMaigretthinkofthephotographoftheladdressedforhis

FirstCommunion?Theinspectorwasforty-fiveyearsold.Hehadspenthalfhislifeinvarious

branchesofthepoliceforce:ViceSquad,Traffic,DrugSquad,RailwayPolice,GamblingSquad.Itwasquiteenoughtodispelanyvaguelymysticalideasandkillfaithinintuitionstonedead.Butallthesame,foralmosttwenty-fourhourshehadbeenhauntedbythose

twoportraitphotographs,fatherandson,andalsobyanordinarylittlephrasefromMadameGallet:‘Hewasonadiet…’

Itwaswithoutanyveryclearideainhismindthathemadeforthepostofficeandatelephone,andaskedforthetownhallofSaint-Fargeau.‘Hello.PoliceJudiciaire…canyoutellmewhenMonsieurGallet’sfuneralis

takingplace?’‘Ateighto’clocktomorrow.’‘InSaint-Fargeau?’‘Here,yes.’‘Onemorequestion!WhoamIspeakingto?’‘TheSaint-Fargeauschoolteacher.’‘DoyouknowMonsieurGalletjunior?’‘Well,I’veseenhimseveraltimes.Hecameforthepapersthismorning.’‘Whatdoeshelooklike?’‘Howdoyoumean?’‘Ishetall,thin?’‘Yes…yes,rather.’‘Doeshewearglasses?’‘Waitaminute.Yes,nowIremember.Horn-rimmedglasses.’‘Youdon’thappentoknowifhe’sunwell?’‘HowwouldIknow?He’spale,certainly.’‘Thankyouverymuch.’Tenminuteslater,theinspectorwasbackattheCommercial.‘Madame,canyoutellmewhetheryourguestatlunchonSaturdaywore

glasses?’Thecashiersearchedhermemoryandfinallyshookherhead.‘Yes…well,

no,Ican’tremember.Wegetsomuchpassingtradeinthesummer!ItwashismouthInoticedmost.Infact,Ievensaidtothewaiter,thatmanhasamouthlikeatoad’s…’IttookMaigretlongertotracktheroad-menderdown,becausehewasbusy

drinkinghisfiftyfrancsawaywithsomefriendsinalittlebistrotuckedawaybehindthechurch.‘Youtoldmethatthemanyousawworeglasses.’‘Theyoungone,that’sright.Nottheoldone.’‘Whatsortofglasses?’‘Well,round,knowwhatImean?Withdarkrims…’

Ongettingupthatmorning,Maigrethadbeengladtohearthatthebodyhadbeentakenaway.AndMadameGallet,themagistrate,thedoctorandthelocalpoliceofficershadalsoleft.Hehopedthatnowhecouldfocusonanobjectiveproblematlast,andputthestrangeappearanceoftheoldmanwiththebeardoutofhismind.HetookthetrainforSaint-Fargeauatthreeintheafternoon.ForastartallhehadseenofÉmileGalletwasaphotograph.Thenhehadseen

halfhisface.Nowallhewouldfindwouldbeacoffinpermanentlyclosed.Andyet,asthe

trainmovedaway,hehadthedisagreeablefeelingthathewasrunningafterthedeadman.BackinSancerreadisappointedMonsieurTardivontoldhisregularsashe

offeredthemaglassofArmagnac:‘Amanwholookedtheseriouskind…amanofourownage!Andheheads

offwithoutevengoingintotheroom!Doyouwanttoseetheplacewherehedied?Funnything,that.However,theNeverspolicearenobetter…whentheytookthebodyawaytheydrewitsoutlineonthefloorfirst,inchalk.Mindyoudon’ttouchanything…huh!Youneverknowwhereathinglikethiswillleadyou.’

3.HenryGallet’sReplies

Maigret,whohadspentthenightathomeintheBoulevardRichard-Lenoir,arrivedinSaint-FargeauontheWednesdayalittlebeforeeightinthemorning.Hewasalreadyoutofthestationwhenhehadsecondthoughts,retracedhisstepsandaskedtheclerkintheticketoffice,‘DidMonsieurGalletoftentravelbytrain?’‘Fatherorson?’‘Thefather.’‘Hewentawayforthreeweekseverymonth.Hetravelledsecondclassto

Rouen.’‘Whatabouttheson?’‘HearrivesfromParisalmosteverySaturdayeveningonathird-classreturn

ticket,andgoesbackbythelasttrainonSunday…Whocouldeverhaveforeseenthat…!Icanstillseehimopeningthefishingseason…’‘Fatherorson?’‘Thefather,forheaven’ssake!Bytheway,theblueskiffyoucanseeamong

thetreesishis.Everyone’sgoingtowanttobuythatskiff.Hemadeithimselfoutofbestoak,thinkingupallsortsoflittleimprovements.Itwaslikethegadgetshemade…’Conscientiously,Maigretaddedthislittledetailtothestillverysketchyidea

hehadofthedeadman.Helookedattheskiff,theSeine,triedtoimaginethemanwiththegoateebeardsittingperfectlystillforhourswithabamboofishingrodinhishand.

ThenhesetoffforLesMarguerites,noticingthatanempty,fairlywell-appointedhearsewastravellingthesameway.Therewasnoonetobeseennearthehouse,exceptforamanpushingawheelbarrow,whostoppedatthesightofthehearse,nodoubtinterestedtoseethefuneralprocession.Thebellonthegatehadbeenwrappedinalinencloth,andthefrontdoorwas

drapedinblack,withthedeadman’sinitialspickedoutinsilverembroidery.Maigrethadnotexpectedsomuchpompandceremony.Totheleft,inthe

corridor,therewasatraywithasinglecardonit,onecornerturneddown,fromtheMayorofSaint-Fargeau.ThesittingroomwhereMadameGallethadreceivedtheinspectorhadbeen

turnedintoatemporarychapelofrest.Itsfurnituremusthavebeenmovedintothediningroom.Blackhangingscoveredthewalls,andthecoffinstoodinthemiddleoftheroom,surroundedbycandles.Itwashardtosaywhythesceneseemedsoodd.Perhapsbecausetherewere

novisitors,andyoucouldguessthattherewouldnotbeany,althoughthehearsewasalreadyatthedoor.Thatlonevisitingcard,afakelithograph!Allthosesilvertears!Andtwo

silhouettes,oneoneachsideofthecoffin:MadameGalletontherightinfullmourning,acrapeveiloverherface,arosaryofmattbeadsinherfingers;HenryGalletontheleft,alsoentirelyinfunerealblack.Maigretmovedforwardinsilence,dippedasprigofboxintotheholywater

andsprinkledthewateroverthecoffin.Hefeltthatmotherandsonwerefollowinghimwiththeireyes,butnoonesaidaword.Thenhemovedbackintoacorner,onthealertforsoundsfromoutsideandatthesametimewatchingtheyoungman’sfacialexpressions.Sometimesoneofthehorsesdrawingthehearsepawedthepathwithahoof.Theundertakers’menweretalkingundertheirbreathoutinthesunlight,closetothewindow.Inthefunerealroom,litonlybythecandles,youngMonsieurGallet’sirregularfacelookedevenmoreirregularbecausealltheblackemphasizedtheunhealthypallorofhisskin.Hishair,separatedbyaparting,clungclosetohisscalp.Hehadahigh,bumpyforehead.Itwasdifficulttocatchhistroubledgazeashepeeredshort-sightedlythroughthethicklensesofhishorn-rimmedglasses.SometimesMadameGalletdabbedhereyeswithhermourninghandkerchief.

Henry’sgazeneverfocusedonanythingforlong.Itslidoverthings,always

avoidingtheinspector,whowasrelievedtohearthestepsoftheundertaker’smen.Alittlelater,thestretcherbumpedintothecorridorwallsasitwascarriedin.

MadameGalletutteredasmallsob,andhersonpattedherontheshoulderwhilestilllookingelsewhere.Therewasagreatcontrastbetweentheostentatioussplendourofthehearse

andthetwofigureswhobegantowalkafterit,precededbyapuzzledmasterofceremonies.Itwasstillashotasever.Themanwiththewheelbarrowmadethesignofthe

cross,andwentoffalonganotherpath,whilethefuneralprocession,takingsmallsteps,wentdowntheavenue,whichwaswideenoughforregimentstomarchdownit.

•••

Asmallgroupoflocalsgatheredinthesquareasthereligiousceremonytookplace,butMaigretwentoffintothetownhall,wherehefoundnoone.Hehadtogoandfetchtheschoolteacher,whoseclassroomwasnexttothetownhall,andthechildrenwerelefttotheirowndevicesforalittlewhile.‘AllIcantellyou,’saidtheteacher,‘iswhat’srecordedinourregisters.Wait,

hereweare:‘Gallet,ÉmileYvesPierre,bornNantes,1879,marriedAurorePréjeanin

Paris,October1902…Ason,Henry,borninParis1906,registeredatthetownhalloftheIXtharrondissement…’‘Don’tthelocalpeoplelikethem?’‘It’sjustthattheGallets,whohadthevillabuiltin1910whentheforestwas

soldoffinplots,neverwantedtoseeanyone…they’reveryproud.I’vebeenknowntospendawholeSundayfishinginmyskifflessthantenmetresawayfromGallet’s.IfIneededsomethinghe’dletmehaveit,butIwouldn’tgettheslightestbitofconversationoutofhimafterwards…’‘Howmuchdoyouthinkthislifestylecost?’‘Ican’tsayexactly,becauseIdon’tknowwhathespentwhenhewasaway,

butthey’llhaveneededatleast2,000francsamonthjustfortheupkeepoftheirhousehold.Ifyou’veseenthevilla,you’llknowthatithaseveryconvenience.

TheysendtoCorbeilorMelunforalmosteverythingtheyneed…andthat’sanotherthingthat…’Butlookingoutofthewindow,Maigretsawthefuneralprocessiongoing

roundthechurchandintothegraveyard.Hethankedtheteacherand,onceoutintheroadagain,heardthefirstspadefulofearthfallingonthecoffin.Hedidnotletthemournersseehimbutwentalongwayroundbacktothe

villaandwascarefultoarrivealittlewhileaftertheGallets.Themaidopenedthedoortohimandlookedathimhesitantly.‘Madamecan’t…’shebegan.‘TellMonsieurHenrythatIneedtotalktohim.’Thesquintingmaidservantlefthimoutside.Afewmomentslater,thefigureof

theyoungmanappearedinthecorridor.Hecametowardsthedoorwayandasked,lookingpastMaigret,‘Couldn’tyoupostponethisvisittoanotherday?Mymotherisabsolutelydevastated.’‘Ihavetotalktoyoutoday.PleaseforgivemeifIinsist.’Henryhalfturned,thusimplyingthatthepoliceofficerhadonlytofollow

him.Hehesitatedatthedoorsonthegroundfloorandfinallyopenedthedoortothediningroom,wherethesitting-roomfurniturehadbeenstackedsothatyoucouldhardlygetroundit.MaigretsawtheportraitphotoofHenryasaboyreadyforhisFirstCommunion,butlookedinvainforthephotoofÉmileGallet.Henrydidnotsitdownorsayanything,buthetookoffhisglassestocleanthelenseswithagestureofannoyance,whilehiseyelashesflutteredasheadjustedtothebrightlight.‘I’msureyouknowthatitismyjobtofindwhoeverkilledyourfather.’‘Yes,whichiswhyI’msurprisedtoseeyouhere,atatimewhenitwouldbe

morepropertoleavemymotherandmealone!’AndHenryputhisglassesbackon,pullingupadoublecuffthathadslipped

downoverahandcoveredwiththesamereddishhairsasthechestofthedeadmaninSancerre.Therewasnotsomuchasatwitchonhisbonyandratherhorsyface,withitsstrongfeaturesandgloomyexpression.Hewasleaninghiselbowonthepiano,whichhadbeenmovedsideways,showingitsgreenbaizeback.‘I’dliketoaskyouforsomeinformationaboutbothyourfatherandthewhole

family.’

Henrydidnotopenhismouthormoveamusclebutstoodinthesameplace,icyandfunereal.‘PleasewouldyoutellmewhereyouwereonSaturday25June,aroundfour

intheafternoon?’‘BeforethatI’dliketoaskyouaquestion.AmIobligedtoseeyouandreply

toyouatatimelikethis?’Hespokeinthesameneutralvoicesuggestingboredom,asifeverysyllabletiredhim.‘You’reatlibertynottoanswer.However,letmepointoutthat…’‘AtwhatpointinyourinquiriesdidyoufindoutwhoIwas?’Maigretdidnotreplytothat,andtotellthetruthhewasstunnedbythis

unexpectedturningofthetables.Itwasallthemoreunexpectedbecauseitwasimpossibletodetecttheleastsubtletyontheyoungman’sfeatures.Henryletseveralsecondspass,andthemaidcouldbehearddownstairsreplyingtoasummonsfromthefirstfloor.‘Justcoming,madame!’‘Well?’‘Sinceyouknowitalready,Iwasthere.’‘InSancerre?’Henrystilldidnotmoveamuscle.‘Andyouwerehavingadiscussionwithyourfatheronthelaneleadingtothe

oldchateau.’Maigretwasthemorenervousofthetwoofthem,sincehefeltthathisremarksweregettingnowhere.Hisvoicesoundedflat,therewasnoechoofresponsetohissuspicions.ButthemostunnervingthingaboutitwasHenryGallet’ssilence;hewasnottryingtoexplainhimself,justwaiting.‘CanyoutellmewhatyouweredoinginSancerre?’‘Goingtovisitmymistress,ÉléonoreBoursang,whoisonholidayand

stayingatthePensionGermainontheroadfromSancerretoSaint-Thibaut.’Healmostimperceptiblyraisedhiseyebrows,whichwereasthickasÉmileGallet’s.‘Youdidn’tknowyourfatherwasinSancerre?’‘IfI’dknownI’dhaveavoidedmeetinghim.’Stilltheminimumof

explanation,forcingtheinspectortorepeathisquestions.‘Didyourparentsknowyouwerehavinganaffair?’‘Myfathersuspected.Hewasagainstit.’‘Whatwasthesubjectofyourconversation?’

‘Areyoumakinginquiriesaboutthemurdererorhisvictim?’askedtheyoungmandeliberatelyslowly.‘I’llknowwhothemurdererwaswhenIknowenoughaboutthevictim.Was

yourfatherangrywithyou?’‘Sorry…Iwastheangryone–Iwasangrywithhimforspyingonme.’‘Andthen?’‘Thennothing!Hetreatedmelikeadisrespectfulson.Howkindofyouto

remindmeofthattoday.’Tohisrelief,Maigretheardfootstepsonthestairs.MadameGalletappeared,

asdignifiedasever,herneckadornedbyatriplenecklaceofheavydarkstones.‘Whatisgoingon?’sheasked,lookingatMaigretandhersoninturn.‘Why

didn’tyoucallme,Henry?’Therewasaknock,andthemaidcamein.‘Theupholsterershavecometo

takethedraperiesaway.’‘Keepaneyeonthem,’saidMadameGallet.‘IcameinsearchofinformationwhichIconsiderindispensableforfinding

outwhothemurdereris,’saidMaigret,inavoicethatwasbecomingrathertoodry.‘Irecognizethatthisisnottheidealmoment,asyoursonhaspointedout.Buteveryhourthatpasseswillmakeitmoredifficulttoarrestthemanwhokilledyourhusband.’HiseyesmovedtoHenry,whowasstilllookinggloomy.‘WhenyoumarriedÉmileGallet,madame,didyouhaveafortuneofyour

own?’Shestiffenedslightly,andthen,withatremorofprideinhervoice,

announced,‘IamthedaughterofAugustePréjean!’‘Forgiveme,butI…’‘TheformersecretarytothelastBourbonprinceandeditorofthelegitimist

journalLeSoleil.Myfatherspentallhehadonpublishingthatjournal,whichwentonfightingthegoodfight.’‘Doyoustillhaveanyfamily?’‘Imusthave,butIhaven’tseenthemsincemymarriage.’‘YouwereadvisedagainstmarryingMonsieurGallet?’‘WhatI’vejusttoldyououghttohelpyoutounderstand.Allmyfamilyare

royalists.Allmyunclesoccupiedprominentpositions,andsomeofthemstilldo.TheydidnotlikeitwhenImarriedacommercialtraveller.’

‘Thenyouwerepennilessonyourfather’sdeath?’‘Myfatherdiedayearaftermymarriage.Atthetimewhenwemarriedmy

husbandhadsome30,000francs…’‘Whatabouthisfamily?’‘Ineverknewthem.Heavoidedmentioningthem…allIknowisthathehad

anunhappychildhoodandthathespentseveralyearsinIndochina.’Therewasthesuggestionofascornfulsmileonherson’slips.‘Iamaskingyouthesequestions,madame,becauseforonethingIhavejust

heardthatyourhusbandhasnotinfactworkedforthefirmofNielforthelasteighteenyears.’Shelookedattheinspector,andthenHenry,andprotestedemphatically,

‘Monsieur…’‘IhavetheinformationfromMonsieurNielhimself.’‘Perhaps,monsieur,itwouldbebetter…’begantheyoungman,moving

towardsMaigret.‘No,Henry!Iwanttoprovethatwhathesaysisfalse,it’sanodiouslie!Come

withme,inspector.Comealong,followme!’And,showingsomelivelinessforthefirsttime,shemadeforthecorridor,

whereshecameupagainstthepilesofblackdraperiesbeingrolledupbytheupholsterers.Shetooktheinspectoruptothefirstfloor,throughabedroomwithpolishedwalnutfurniture,whereÉmileGallet’sstrawhatstillhungonahook,aswellasacottondrilloutfitthathemusthavewornforfishing.Nextcameasmallroomfurnishedasastudy.‘Lookatthat!Herearehissamples.Andthoseplacesettings,forinstance,in

thatdreadfulArtDecostyle,youwouldn’tsaytheywereeighteenyearsold,wouldyou?Here’sthebookofordersthatmyhusbandwroteupattheendofeverymonth.Herearesomelettersthathereceivedregularly,ontheNielletterhead…’Maigretwaspayingverylittleattentiontothis.Hefeltsurethathewould

havetocomebacktothisroomandjustnowhepreferredtoletitsatmospheresinkin.HetriedtoimagineÉmileGalletsittinghereintheswivelchairathisdesk.Onthedeskitselftherewasawhitemetalinkwellandaglassglobeactingasapaperweight.Throughthewindowyoucouldseethecentralavenueandtheredroofofanotheruninhabitedvilla.

ThelettersontheNielletterheadweretypedinanalmostregulartypeface:Dearsir,Wehavereceivedyourletterofthe15thinst.,aswellasthestatementofordersforJanuary.

Weshallexpectyouattheendofthemonthtosettleouraccount,asusual,andwewillthengiveyousomeinformationabouttheexpansionofyoursphereofactivity.

Withgoodwishes,

Signed:JeanNiel

Maigretpickedupsomeofthelettersandputthemintohiswallet.‘Sowhatdoyouthinknow?’askedMadameGallet,withatouchofdefiance.‘What’sthat?’‘Oh,nothing…myhusbandlikedtodothingswithhishands.Here’sanold

watchthathetookapart…andoutintheshedthereareallkindsofthingsthathemadehimself,includingfishinggear.Everymonthhehadafullweektospendhere,andwritinguphisaccountsandsoforthtookhimonlyanhourortwointhemorning…’Maigretwasopeningdrawersatrandom.Hesawalargepinkfileinoneof

them,withtheword‘Soleil’writtenonit.‘Someofmyfather’spapers,’explainedMadameGallet.‘Idon’tknowwhy

wekeptthem.Therearecopiesofallthenumbersofthejournalinthatcupboard,rightuptothelastone.Myfathersoldhisbondstobringthatout.’‘MayItakethisfileaway?’Sheturnedtothedoorasiftoconsultherson,butHenryhadnotfollowed

them.‘Butwhatcanitpossiblytellyou?It’sakindofrelic…Still,ifyouthink.…Oh,butlisten,inspector,itsurelymustbeimpossiblethatMonsieurNielsaid…Imean,it’slikethosepostcards!Ihadanotheroneyesterday,andinhiswriting,I’msureofit.SentfromRouen,liketheothercard.Readit!Allgoingwell.WillbehomeonThursday…’Onceagainsomeemotionbrokethrough,butwithdifficulty.‘Ishallalmostbeexpectinghim.Thursdayistomorrow.’Andshesuddenlyburstintoafitoftears,butanextraordinarilybriefone,justtwoorthreehiccups.Sheraisedherblack-borderedhandkerchieftohermouthandsaidinamutedvoice,‘Well,let’snotstayhere.’Theyhadtogothroughthebedroomagainwithitswalnutfurniture–ordinary

butofgoodquality:awardrobewithafull-lengthmirroronit,twobedsidetablesandanimitationPersiancarpet.

Downintheground-floorcorridor,Henrywaswatchingtheupholsterersloadingthedraperiesintoavanwithoutseemingtoseethem.HedidnoteventurnhisheadwhenMaigretandhismotherdescendedthepolishedstaircase,causingthestairstocreak.Therewasanuntidylooktothehouse.Themaidcameintothesittingroom,

carryingalitreofredwineandglasses.Twomeninoverallsweredraggingthepianobackintoit.‘Won’tdousanyharm!’oneofthemenwassayingindifferently.Maigrethadanimpressionthathehadneverhadbefore,anditunnervedhim.

Itseemedtohimthatthewholetruthwashere,scatteredroundhim,andeverythinghesawhaditsmeaning.Buttounderstandit,hewouldhavehadtoseeitclearly,notthroughasortoffogthatdistortedtheview.Andthefogpersisted,createdbythiswomanwhoresistedheremotions,byHenrywhoselongfacewasasimpregnableasasafe,bytheblackdraperiesnowontheirwayout,infactbyeverythingandmostofallbyMaigret’sowndiscomfort,outofplaceashewasinthishouse.Hefeltashamedofthepinkfilethathewastakingawaylikeathief,andhe

wouldhavehaddifficultyinexplainingwhyitmightcomeinuseful.Hewouldhavelikedtostayupstairsforsometime,aloneinthedeadman’sstudy,andwanderroundtheshedwhereÉmileGalletworkedonperfectinghisfishingequipment.Therewasamomentofwavering,witheveryonecomingandgoinginthe

corridoratonce.Itwaslunchtime,anditwasobviousthattheGalletswereonlywaitingforthepoliceofficertoleave.Asmelloffriedonionscamefromthekitchen.Themaidwasasdistraughtastheothers.Allanyonecoulddowaswatchtheupholsterersrestoringthesittingroomtoitsusualstate.OneofthemfoundthephotoofGalletunderneathatrayofliqueurs.‘MayItakethatwithme?’Maigretintervened,turningtothewidow.‘Imay

needit.’HesensedthatHenry’seyeswerefollowinghimwithmorescornthanever.‘Ifyoumust…Idon’thavemanyphotographsofhim.’‘Ipromisetoletyouhaveitback.’Hecouldnotbringhimselftoleave.Atthemomentwhentheworkmenwere

unceremoniouslycarryinginanenormousfakeSèvresvase,MadameGallet

hurriedforwards.‘Careful!You’regoingtocollidewiththemantelpiece.’Andthesamemixtureofgriefandthegrotesque,thedramaticandthepetty,

wasstillweighingdownonMaigret’sshouldersinthisdesolatehouse,wherehefeltasifhecouldseeÉmileGallet,whomhehadnotknownalive,wanderinginsilence,hiseyesashenwithhislivertrouble,hischesthollow,wearinghispoorlycutjacket.Hehadslippedtheportraitphotointothepinkfile.Hehesitated.‘Pleaseforgivemeagain,madame…I’mleaving,butI’dbegladifyourson

wouldcomealittlewaywithme.’MadameGalletlookedatHenrywithananxietythatshecouldnotrepress.

Forallherdignifiedmanner,hermeasuredgestures,hertriplenecklaceofblackstones,shetoomustbefeelingsomethingintheair.Buttheyoungmanhimself,indifferenttoanythingofthekind,wenttocollect

hishatwithitscrapehatbandfromahook.Theirdepartureseemedmorelikeanescape.Thefilewasheavy.Itwasonlya

cardboardfolder,andthepapersthreatenedtofallout.‘Wouldyoulikesomenewspapertowrapthatin?’askedMadameGallet.ButMaigretwasalreadyoutofthehouse,andthemaidwasmakingforthe

diningroomwithatableclothandsomeknives.Henrywaswalkingtowardsthestation,tallandsilent,hisexpressioninscrutable.Whenthetwomenwere300metresawayfromthehouse,andthe

upholstererswerestartingtheengineoftheirvan,theinspectorsaid,‘Ionlywanttoaskyoufortwothings:firstÉléonoreBoursang’saddressinParis,andsecondyourown,andtheaddressofthebankwhereyouwork.’Hefoundapencilinhispocketandwroteonthepinkcoverofthefilehewas

holding:ÉléonoreBoursang,27RuedeTurenne.BanqueSovrinos,117BoulevardBeaumarchais.HenryGallet,HôtelBellevue,19RuedelaRoquette.

‘Isthatall?’askedtheyoungman.‘Thankyou,yes.’‘InthatcaseIhopeyou’llbeputtingyourmindtothemurderernow.’Hedidnottrytojudgetheeffectofthisremark,buttouchedthebrimofhis

hatandsetoffbackupthecentralavenue.

ThevanpassedMaigretjustbeforehereachedthestation.Thelastfacthepickedupthatdaywasbysheerchance.Maigretarrivedatthe

stationanhourbeforethetrainwasdueinandfoundhimselfaloneinthedesertedwaitingroom,inthemiddleofaswarmofflies.Thenhesawapostmanwiththepurpleneckofanapoplecticarriveonabicycleandputhisbagsdownonthetableforluggage.‘DoyoucallatLesMarguerites?’askedtheinspector.Thepostman,whohadnotnoticedhim,swunground.‘Whatdidyousay?’‘Police!DoyougetalotofmailtobedeliveredtoMonsieurGallet?’‘Alot,no.Lettersfromthefirmthepoorgentlemanworkedfor.Theyalways

cameonacertainday.Andthentherewerenewspapers…’‘Whatnewspapers?’‘Provincialpapers,mostlyfromtheBerryandCherregions.Andmagazines:

CountryLifestyles,HuntingandFishing,CountryHomes…’Theinspectornoticedthatthepostmanwasavoidinghiseyes.‘IsthereaposterestanteofficeinSaint-Fargeau?’‘Howdoyoumean?’‘Didn’tMonsieurGalletgetanyotherletters?’Thepostmansuddenlyseemedflustered.‘Well,seeingasyouknow,and

seeingashe’sdead,’hestammered.‘Andanywayit’snotlikeIwasevenbreakingtherules…hejustaskedmenottoputsomelettersintotheboxbutkeepthemuntilhewasback,whenhewentaway…’‘Whatletters?’‘Oh,notmany…hardlyoneeverytwoorthreemonths.Blueenvelopes,the

cheapsort,withtheaddresstyped.’‘Theydidn’thavethesender’saddressonthem?’‘Nottheaddress,no.ButIcouldn’tgowrongbecauseitsaidontheback,and

thatwastypedtoo,From:MonsieurJacob.DidIdowrong?’‘Wheredidtheseletterscomefrom?’‘Paris.’‘Isupposeyoudidn’tnoticethearrondissement?’‘Ididlook…butitchangedeverytime.’‘Whendidthelastonearrive?’

‘Let’ssee…todayisthe29th,right?Wednesday.Well,itwasThursdayevening,butIdidn’tseeMonsieurGalletuntilFridaymorning,whenhewasgoingfishing…’‘Sohewentfishing?’‘No,hewenthomeafterhegavemefivefrancs,sameasusual.Icameover

allfunnywhenIheardhe’dbeenkilled…doyouthinkthatletter…?’‘Didheleavethatsameday?’‘Yes…hey,isitthetrainfromMelunyou’rewaitingfor?Theyjustrangthe

bellatthelevelcrossing…Willyouhavetomentionthistoanyone?’Maigrethadnotimetodoanythingbutruntotheplatformandjumpintothe

onlyfirst-classcarriage.

4.TheCrookamongtheLegitimists

ArrivingforthesecondtimeattheHôteldelaLoire,MaigretrespondedwithoutwarmthtoMonsieurTardivon,whoreceivedhimwithaconfidentialair,tookhimtohisroomandshowedhimsomelargeyellowenvelopesthathadarrivedforhim.Theycontainedthecoroner’sreportandthereportsofthegendarmerieandtheNeversmunicipalpolice.TheRouenpolicehadsentfurtherinformationaboutthecashierIrmaStrauss.‘Andthat’snotall!’saidthehotelmanagerexultantly.‘Thesergeantfromthe

gendarmeriecametoseeyou.Hewantsyoutophonehimassoonasyouarrive.Andthenthere’sawomanwho’salreadyturnedupthreetimes,nodoubtbecauseofthetowncrierandhissalespitch.’‘Whatwoman?’‘MotherCanut,thewifeofthegardeneropposite.Itoldyouaboutthelittle

chateau,remember?’‘Didn’tshesayanything,then?’‘She’snotthatstupid!Sincethere’sarewardonoffershe’snotabouttogive

anythingaway,butforallthatshemayknowsomething.’MaigrethadputthepinkfileonthetablealongwiththephotographofGallet.‘Asksomeonetofindthewomanandgetmethegendarmerieonthephone.’Alittlelaterhewasspeakingtothesergeant,whotoldhimthat,accordingto

instructions,hehadpickedupallthevagrantsintheneighbourhoodandwasholdingthematMaigret’sdisposal.‘Anyoneinterestingamongthem?’‘They’revagrants,’wasallthesergeantsaidtothat.

Maigretstayedaloneinhisroomforthreeorfourminutes,facingapileofpaperwork.Andtherewasmoreofittocome!HehadsentatelegramtoParisaskingforinformationaboutHenryGalletandhismistress,andjustincasehehadalertedOrleanstofindoutiftherewasaMonsieurClémentinthatcity.Finally,hehadn’thadtimeyettolookattheroomwherethecrimewas

committed,ortheclothingwornbythedeadman,whichhadbeenplacedinthatroomafterthepost-mortem.Atfirstthecasehadlookedlikenothingtospeakof.Amanwhodidnotseem

outoftheordinaryhadbeenkilledbysomeoneunknowninahotelroom.Buteachnewitemofinformationcomplicatedtheprobleminsteadofsimplifyingit.‘DoIgethertocomeinandseeyou,inspector?’calledavoiceintheyard.

‘I’vegotMotherCanuthere.’Astrong,dignifiedoldlady,whohadprobablycleanedherselfupmore

thoroughlythanusualfortheoccasion,camein,immediatelylookingforMaigretwiththewaryglanceofacountrywoman.‘Doyouhavesomethingtotellme?’heasked.‘AboutMonsieurClément?’‘It’saboutthegentwhodiedandgothispictureinthepaper.You’rehanding

outfiftyfrancs,right?’‘Yes,ifyousawhimonSaturday25June.’‘SupposeIsawhimtwice?’‘Well,maybeyou’llgetahundred!Comeon,outwithit!’‘Firstyou’vegottopromisenottosayawordtomyoldman.It’snotsomuch

thathelikestobethebossasonaccountofthehundredfrancs.Allthesame,I’dnotlikeMonsieurTiburcetoknowIbeentalking,becauseitwaswithhimIsawthegentwhogotkilled.Firsttimewasinthemorning,abouteleven,whentheywerewalkinginthegrounds.’‘Areyousureyourecognizedhim?’‘SureasI’drecognizeyou!Therearen’tsomanylooklikehim.Well,they

werechattingformaybeanhour.ThenIsawthemthroughthesitting-roomwindowintheafternoon,anditlookedliketheywerearguing.’‘Whattimewasthat?’‘Ithadjuststruckfive…sothatmakestwice,right?’HereyeswerefixedonMaigret’shandashetookahundred-francnoteoutof

hiswallet,andshesighedasifshewassorryshehadn’tstuckclosetoMonsieur

Clément’strailallthatSaturday.‘AndcouldbeIsawhimathirdtime,’shesaidhesitantly,‘ButIs’posethat

doesn’tcount.AfewminuteslaterIsawMonsieurTiburcetakinghimbacktothegate.’‘You’reright,itdoesn’tcount,’agreedMaigret,impellinghertowardsthe

door.Helitapipe,puthishatonandstoppedoppositeMonsieurTardivoninthe

café.‘HasMonsieurdeSaint-Hilairelivedinthelittlechateauforlong?’‘Abouttwentyyears.’‘Whatkindofmanishe?’‘Verypleasantfellow!Alittle,fatman,cheerful,straightforward.WhenIhave

guestsinsummerwehardlyseehim,because,well,they’renothisclass.Butheoftendropsinhereinthehuntingseason.’‘Doeshehaveanyfamily?’‘He’sawidower.WealmostalwayscallhimMonsieurTiburce,becausethat’s

notacommonfirstname.Heownsallthevinesyoucanseeontheslopethere.Hetendsthemhimself,goestoliveitupinParisnowandthenandcomesbacktogethishobnailedboots.WhatdidMotherCanuthavetotellyou?’‘DoyouthinkMonsieurTiburceisathomenow?’‘Couldbe.Ididn’tseehiscarpassthismorning.’Maigretwenttothebarredgateandrangthebell,noticingthatastheLoire

describedabendjustoutsidethehotel,andthevillawasthelastpropertyinthearea,youcouldgoinandoutofitatanytimewithoutbeingseen.Beyondthegate,thewallsurroundingthevineyardwentonforanotherthree

orfourhundredmetres,andafterthattherewasnothingbutundergrowth.Amanwithadroopingmoustache,wearingagardener’sapron,cametoopen

thegate,andtheinspectorconcluded,fromthestrongsmellofalcoholabouthim,thathewasprobablyMadameCanut’shusband.‘Isyourmasterhere?’Atthesamemoment,Maigretcaughtsightofamaninshirtsleevesinspecting

amechanicalsprinkler.Thegardener’sglancetoldhimthatthiswasindeedTiburcedeSaint-Hilaire,andmoreover,abandoningthedevice,heturnedtothevisitorandwaited.

Then,asCanutlookedawkward,tosaytheleastofit,hefinallypickedupthejacketthathehadleftonthegrassandcameover.‘Isitmeyouwanttosee?’‘DetectiveChiefInspectorMaigretofthePoliceJudiciaire.Wouldyoube

kindenoughtogivemeamomentofyourtime?’‘Thatcrimeagain,isit?’Theownerofthepropertyjerkedhischinatthe

HoteldelaLoire.‘WhatcanIdoforyou?Comethisway.Iwon’tinviteyouintothedrawingroom,becausethesun’sbeenbeatingonthewallsallday.We’llbemorecomfortableunderthatarbour.Baptiste!Glassesandabottleofthesparklingwine…therowattheback.’Hewasjustasthehotelierhaddescribedhim,smallandstout,red-faced,with

shorthandsnotverywellcaredfor,wearinganoff-the-pegkhakihuntingandfishingoutfit.‘DidyouknowMonsieurClément?’askedMaigret,sittingdownononeofthe

wrought-ironchairs.‘Accordingtothenewspaperthatwasn’thisrealname,hewascalled…what

wasit?…Grelet?Gellet?’‘Gallet,yes.Itdoesn’tmatter.Wereyouinbusinesswithhim?’Atthatmoment,Maigretcouldhaveswornthattheothermanwasnotentirely

athisease.Furthermore,Saint-Hilairefeltaneedtoleanforwardsoutofthearbour,murmuring,‘ThatfoolBaptisteisperfectlycapableofbringingusthedemi-sec,andI’msureyou’dratherhavethesec,likeme.It’sourownwine,madebythechampenoisemethod…Now,aboutthisMonsieurClément–mightaswellgooncallinghimthat–whatshallIsay?ItwouldbeexaggeratingtosayIwasinbusinesswithhim!Butitwouldn’tbeexactlytruetosayI’dneverseenhimeither…’Ashewastalking,Maigretthoughtofanotherinterrogation,thequestionshe

hadaskedHenryGallet.Thetwomenhadentirelydifferentattitudes.Themurdervictim’ssondidnothingtoappearlikeable,andhedidn’tcareabouttheoddityofhisattitudeeither.Hewaitedforquestionswithasuspiciousair,tookhistimeandweigheduphiswords.Tiburcetalkedawaywithanimation,smiled,gesturedwithhishands,paced

upanddown,appearedextremelyfriendly–andyettherewasthesamelatentanxietyineachofthem:perhapsthefearofbeingunabletohidesomething.

‘Well,youknowhowitis.Wecountrylandownerscomeintocontactwithallsorts.AndI’mnotjusttalkingaboutvagrants,commercialtravellers,peripateticsalesmen.Now,toreturntothisMonsieurClément…Ah,herecomesthewine!That’sfine,Baptiste.Right,youcanbeoffnow.I’llcomeandlookatthatsprinklersoon.Whateveryoudodon’ttouchit.’Ashespoke,heslowlyremovedthecorkandfilledtheglasseswithout

spillingadrop.‘Sotocutalongstoryshort,hecamehereonce,it’ssometimeagonow.I

expectyouknowthattheSaint-Hilairesareaveryoldfamily,andatthemomentI’mthelastoffshootofthefamilytree.Infactit’samiraclethatI’mnotaclerkinsomeofficeinParisorfurtherafield.IfIhadn’tinheritedmoneyfromacousinwhomadehisfortuneinAsia…butnevermind,Iwasgoingtotellyouthatmynamefeaturesinalltheyearbooksofthearistocracy.Myfather,somefortyyearsago,wasnotedforhislegitimistopinions…butsofarasImyselfamconcerned,well,youknow!’Hesmiled,drankhissparklingwine,clickinghistongueinadistinctly

democraticwayandwaitedforMaigrettoemptyhisownglassbeforerefillingit.‘SothisMonsieurClément,whomIdon’tknowfromAdamorEve,came

lookingforme,gotmetoreadhisreferencesfromRoyalHighnessesinFranceandelsewhereandthengavemetounderstandthathewas,sotospeak,theofficialrepresentativeofthelegitimistmovementinFrance.Ilethimgoontalking,andhetookhischancetogetwhathewanted:hewasaskingmefor2,000francsforthepropagandafund.AndwhenIsaidno,hecarriedonabout–oh,someancientfamilyorotherreducedtopenury,andasubscriptionthathadbeenopenedforit…Webeganat2,000francs,andhaggledthesumdowntoahundred.IntheendIgavehimfifty.’‘Howlongagowasthis?’‘Oh,severalmonths.Ican’tsayexactly.Itwasinthehuntingseason.The

beaterswereatworkinthegroundsofoneofthelocalchateauxherealmosteveryday.IheardaboutthatfelloweverywhereandIfeltsurehewasaspecialistinthatkindofswindle.ButIwasn’tabouttosuehimoverfiftyfrancs,wasI?Toyourverygoodhealth!Onlytheotherdayhehadthenervetocomeback…that’sallIknow!’

‘Whatdaywasit?’‘Erm…attheweekend.’‘OnSaturday,yes.Infacthecalledtwice,ifIremembercorrectly…’‘You’rebrilliant,inspector!Yes,you’reright,twice.Irefusedtoseehiminthe

morning.Buthebuttonholedmeinthegroundsthatafternoon.’‘Hewasaftermoney?’‘Youbethewas,butI’dbehardputtoittosaywhatfor.However,hewasstill

onabouttherestorationofthemonarchy.Comeon,drinkup!It’snotworthleavinganyinthebottle.Goodlord…youdon’tthinkhecommittedsuicide,doyou?Hemusthavebeenattheendofhistether…’‘Theshotwasfiredfromsevenmetresaway,andtherevolverhasn’tbeen

found.’‘Inthatcase,thenhedidn’t.Whatdoyouthinkofit?Avagrantwhohappened

tobepassingand…?’‘That’sdifficulttoaccept.Thewindowsoftheroomlookoutonalanethat

leadsonlytoyourproperty.’‘Byadisusedentrance,’objectedMonsieurdeSaint-Hilaire.‘It’smanyyears

sincethegatetothenettlelanewaslastopened,andI’dbehardputtoittosaywherethekeyis…Howaboutgettinganotherbottlebroughtout?’‘No,thankyou…Idon’tsupposeyouheardanything?’‘Whatkindofthing?’‘ThegunbeingfiredonSaturdayevening.’‘No,nothinglikethat.Igotobedearly.Ididn’thearaboutthecrimeuntilthe

nextmorning,whenmymanservanttoldme.’‘Andyoudidn’tthinkofmentioningMonsieurClément’svisittothepolice?’‘Goodheavens,no…’Hetriedtolaugh,coveringupforhisuneasiness.‘I

toldmyselfthepoordevilhadbeenpunishedenoughanyway.Whenyouhaveanamelikemine,youdon’tmuchlikeseeingitinthepapersanywherebutthesocietycolumn.’Maigretstillhadthesamevagueandannoyingsensation,comingbackagain

andagainlikeamusicalchorus:thesensationthateverythingtouchingonthedeathofÉmileGalletcreaked,soundedoutoftuneandwrong,fromthedeadmanhimselftohisson’svoice,andTiburcedeSaint-Hilaire’slaughter.

‘You’restayingatoldTardivon’splace,aren’tyou?Didyouknowheusedtobeacookatthechateau?He’smadeapacketsincethen.Areyousureyouwon’thaveanotherlittleglass?…Thatfoolofagardenerhasdonesomethingorothertothemechanicalsprinkler,andIwasjusttryingtoputitrightwhenyouturnedup…outhereinthecountrywehavetodoeverythingforourselves.Well,ifyou’rehereforafewdays,inspector,comeandhaveachatwithmeintheeveningnowandthen.Lifeinthehotelmustbetediouswithallthosetourists…’Atthegate,hetookthehandthatMaigrethadnotofferedhimandshookit

withexcessivecordiality.WalkingalongthesideoftheLoire,Maigretmadeamentalnoteoftwo

points.First,TiburcedeSaint-Hilaire,whomustknowaboutthetowncrier’sannouncementandthustheimportancethatthepoliceascribedtowhatMonsieurClémentdidontheSaturday,hadexpectedtobeinterrogatedandhadnotinfactsaidanythinguntilherealizedthathisinterrogatorwasuptodatewiththefactsalready.Second,hehadliedatleastonce.HehadsaidthatonSaturdaymorninghe

hadrefusedtoseethevisitor,whothenbuttonholedhiminthegrounds.However,itwasthemorningwhenthetwomenwentwalkinginthegrounds.

Andintheafternoontheyhadcertainlybeenengagedinconversationinthedrawingroomofthevilla.Sotherestofitcouldalsobeuntrue,theinspectorconcluded.Hewasjust

reachingthenettlelane.OnonesideofhimwasthewhitewashedwallenclosingSaint-Hilaire’sgrounds.Ontheotherroseasingle-storeybuilding,partoftheHôteldelaLoire.Thegroundherewasovergrownwithlonggrass,bramblesanddeadnettles,andthewaspswererevellinginitall.Theoaktreescastacomfortableshadeontheavenue,whichendedatanold,beautifullyworkedgate.Maigretfeltcuriousenoughtogouptothisgate,which,accordingtothe

owneroftheproperty,hadnotbeenopenedforyearsandhadlostitskey.Assoonashelookedatthelock,coveredwithathicklayerofrust,henoticedthatinsomeplacesthatrusthadrecentlybeenchippedaway.Thiswasbetter!Hetookoutamagnifyingglassandsaw,withoutashadowofdoubt,thatakeyhadleftscratchmarksasitwentintothecomplicatedwardsofthelock.

I’llgetthatphotographedtomorrow,hethought,makingamentalnote.Heretracedhissteps,headbent,rearrangingthepicturehehadofMonsieur

Galletinhismind’seye,bringingittolight,sotospeak.Butinsteadoffillingoutandbecomingmorecomprehensible,wasitnotmoreevasivethanever?Thefaceofthemaninthetight-fittingjacketwasblurredtothepointofhavingnothinghumanaboutit.Insteadoftheportraitphoto,theonlytangibleandtheoreticallycomplete

pictureofthemurdervictimthatMaigrethad,hesawfleetingimageswhichoughttohavemadeupnothingbutoneandthesameman,butrefusedtobesuperimposedintoasinglewhole.Onceagaintheinspectorsawthehalfofhisface,thethinandhairychest,as

hehadseenitintheschoolplaygroundwhilethedoctordancedupanddownwithimpatiencebehindhisback.HealsocalledupimagesoftheblueskiffthatÉmileGallethadmadeinSaint-Fargeau,andtheperfectlyfashionedfishingtackle,MadameGalletinmauvesilkandtheninfullmourning,thequintessenceofthediscreetandformalmiddleclass.Hethoughtofthewardrobewiththefull-lengthmirror.Galletmusthavestood

infrontofitasheputonhisjacket…Andallthatcorrespondenceontheletterheadsofthefirmthathedidn’tworkforanylonger.Themonthlystatementsthathedrewupcarefully,eighteenyearsaftergivinguphisjobasacommercialtraveller!Thosegobletsandcakeslicesthathehadtobuyhimself!Waitaminute,hiscaseofsampleshasn’tbeenfoundyet,thoughtMaigretin

passing.Hemusthaveleftitsomewhere…Hehadautomaticallystoppedafewmetresfromthewindowthroughwhich

themurdererhadaimedathisvictim.However,hewasnotevenlookingatthewindow.Hewasfeelingslightlyfeverishbecause,atcertainmoments,hehadtheimpressionthatwithabitofefforthewouldbeabletoreunitealltheaspectsofÉmileGalletintoasingleimage.ButthenhethoughtofHenryagain,bothasheknewhim,stifflyuprightand

disdainful,andasaboywithanasymmetricalfacereadyforhisFirstCommunion.Thiscase,describedbyInspectorGrenierofNeversas‘anannoyinglittle

case’,andonethatMaigrethadtackledreluctantly,wasvisiblygrowinglargeras

thedeadmanwastransformedtothepointofbecomingatrulyoutlandishfigure.Tentimes,Maigretbrushedasideawasphoveringclosetohisheadwitha

noiselikeaminiatureaeroplane.‘Eighteenyears!’hesaidunderhisbreath.EighteenyearsofforgedletterssignedNiel,ofpostcardssentonfromRouen,

andallthetimehewaslivinghisordinarylittlelifeatSaint-Fargeau,withoutluxuries,withoutanyemotionalcomplications!Theinspectorknewthementalityofmalefactors,criminalsandcrooks.He

knewthatyoualwaysfindsomekindofpassionattherootofit.Andthatwasexactlywhathewaslookingforinthebeardedface,theleaden

eyelids,theexcessivelywidemouth.Hemadeperfectlyconstructedfishingtackle,andhetookoldwatchesapart!AtthispointMaigretrebelled.Youdon’ttellliesforeighteenyearsjustforthat,hethought.Youdon’ttie

yourselftoadoublelifethatissodifficulttoorganize!Thatwasn’tthemostdisturbingpartofit.Therearedifficultsituationsin

whichyoucanmanagetoliveforseveralmonths,evenseveralyears.Buteighteenyears!Gallethadgrownold!MadameGallethadputonweightandassumedanairoftoomuchdignity!Henryhadgrownup…hehadtakenhisFirstCommunion,passedhisschool-leavingexams,comeofage,gonetoliveinParis,foundamistress…AndÉmileGalletwentonsendinghimselflettersfromthefirmofNiel,wrote

postcardsaddressedtohiswifeinadvance,patientlycopiedoutfakelistsoforders!Hewasonadiet…MaigretcouldstillhearMadameGallet’svoice.Hewassodeepinhis

thoughts–thoughtsthatmadehispulsebeatfaster–thathehadlethispipegoout.Eighteenyearswithoutbeingdetected!Itwassounlikely.Theinspector,whoknewthebusinessofcrime,wasbetter

awareofthatthananyone!Butforthemurder,Galletwouldhavediedpeacefullyinhisbed,afterleavingallhispapersinorder.AndMonsieurNielwouldhavebeenastonishedtogetanannouncementofhisdeath.

Itwassoextraordinarythatthepicturetheinspectorwasconstructingforhimselfmadehimfeelanindefinableanxiety,asifitevokedcertainphenomenathatshakeoursenseofreality.Soitwaspurechancethat,ashelookedup,theinspectorsawadarkermarkonthewhitewallroundtheproperty,oppositetheroomthatwasthesceneofthecrime.Hewentoverandsawthatthemarkwasaspacebetweentwostonesthathad

recentlybeenenlargedandscuffedbythetoeofashoe.Therewasasimilarmarkalittlehigherup,butlessvisible.Someonehadclimbedupthewall,usingabranchthathungdowntohelphim…Attheverymomentwhenhewasabouttoreconstructtheclimb,theinspector

swunground.Hehadtheimpressionthattherewasanunexpectedpresenceattheendoftheroad,neartheLoire.Hewasjustintimetoseeafemininefigure,tallandquitestrong,withblonde

hairandtheregular,clear-cutprofileofaGreekstatue.TheyoungwomanhadbegunwalkingonwhenMaigretturnedround,whichsuggestedthatshehadpreviouslybeenwatchinghim.Anamesprangtothedetective’smindofitsownaccord:ÉléonoreBoursang!

UptothispointhehadnottriedtoimagineHenryGallet’smistress.Yethewassuddenlyasgoodascertainthatthiswasthelady.Hequickenedhispaceandreachedtheembankmentjustasshewasturning

thecornerofthemainroad.‘Backinaminute!’hetoldthehotelier,whotriedtostophimashewas

passing.Heranforalittlewaywhilehewasoutofthefugitive’ssight,toreducethe

distancebetweenthem.Notonlydidthewoman’sfiguresuitthenameofÉléonoreBoursang,shewasexactlythewomanthatamanlikeHenrywouldhavechosen.Butonarrivingatthecrossroadshimself,Maigretwasannoyed.Shehad

disappeared.Helookedintothedimlylitwindowofasmallgrocerystoreandthenintotheforgenexttoit.Butitdidnotmattermuch,sinceheknewwheretofindher.

5.TheThriftyLovers

ThesergeantfromthegendarmeriemusthaveformedaseductiveideathatmorningofthekindoflifeledbyapoliceofficerfromParis.Hehimselfhadbeenupatfourinthemorningandhadalreadycycledsomethirtykilometres,firstintheearly-morningcold,theninincreasinglyhotsunlight,whenhereachedtheHôteldelaLoirefortheperiodiccheckcarriedoutontheregisterofitsguests.Itwasnow10a.m.Mostoftheguestswerewalkingbesidethewateror

bathingintheriver.Twohorsedealersweretalkingontheterrace,andthehotelier,anapkininhishand,wasmakingsurethatthetablesandthebaytreesintheircontainerswerelinedupproperly.‘Aren’tyougoingtosaygoodmorningtotheinspector?’askedMonsieur

Tardivon,andthen,loweringhisvoicetoaconfidentialtone,‘He’sintheroomthatwasthesceneofthecrimeatthisverymoment.He’shadallkindsofpaperssenttohimfromParis,andbigphotographstoo…’Itworked;alittlelaterthesergeantknockedonthedoorandsaid,

apologetically,‘ItwasMonsieurTardivon,inspector.WhenhetoldmeyouwereexaminingthesceneIwastempted…IknowyouhavespecialmethodsinParis…ifI’mnotinthewayI’dreallyliketolearnfromseeinghowyoudoit.’Hewasanamiablemanwhoseround,pinkfaceshowedaningenuouswishto

please,andhemadehimselfassmallaspossible,notentirelyeasyinviewofhishobnailedbootsandhisgaiters.Hecouldn’tdecidewheretoputhisképi.Thewindowwaswideopen,themorningsunfellrightonthenettlelaneso

thatagainstthelighttheroomwasalmostdark.AndMaigret,inhisshirtsleeves,

pipebetweenhisteeth,detachablecollarunbuttoned,tieloose,gaveanimpressionofwell-beingthatwasboundtostrikethelocalpoliceman.‘Sitdown,do,byallmeans.Butthere’snothinginterestingtosee,youknow.’‘Oh,you’retoomodest,inspector.’ItwassonaivethatMaigretturnedhisheadtohideasmile.Hehadbrought

everythingtodowiththecaseintotheroomwithhim.Aftermakingsurethatthetable,coveredwithanIndiantablecloththathadareddishleafpattern,couldtellhimnothing,hehadspreadoutallhisfilesonit,fromthemedicalexaminer’sreporttophotosofthesceneandthevictimsenttohimfromCriminalRecordsthatverymorning.Finally,givingwaytoafeelingthatwassuperstitiousratherthanscientific,hehadputthepictureofÉmileGalletontheblackmarblemantelpiece,whichhadacoppercandlestickonitbywayofanornament.Therewasnocarpetonthevarnishedoakboardsofthefloor,onwhichthe

firstofficerstocomeonthescenehaddrawntheoutlineofthebodytheyfoundthereinchalk.Inallthegreeneryoutsidethewindowtherewasaconfusedmurmuringmade

upofbirdsong,rustlingleaves,thebuzzingoffliesandthedistantcluckingofchickensonthelane,allofitpunctuatedbytherhythmicblowsofthehammerontheanvilintheforge.Confusedvoicessometimescameupfromtheterrace,orthesoundofacartcrossingthesuspensionbridge.‘Well,you’renotshortofdocuments!I’dneverhavethought…’Buttheinspectorwasn’tlistening.Calmly,takinglittlepuffsathispipe,heput

apairofblacktrousersonthefloorwherethecorpse’slegshadlain.Thefabricwassuchafineweavethat,afterhavingbeenwornforsometenyears,judgingbytheirshininess,theycouldsurelyhavebeenwornforanotherten.Maigretalsolaidoutapercaleshirtand,initsusualplace,astarchedshirt-

front.However,therewasnoshapetothiscollection,anditwasonlywhenheputapairofelastic-sidedshoesattheendsofthetrouserlegsthatitbecamebothabsurdandtouching.Infactitdidnotlooklikeabody,itwasmoreofacaricature,anditwasso

unexpectedthatthesergeantglancedathiscompanionandutteredanembarrassedlittlelaugh.Maigretdidnotlaugh.Heavyandbentonhistask,hewaswalkingupand

downslowly,conscientiously.Heexaminedthejacketandputitbackinthe

travellingbag,aftermakingsurethattherewasnoholeinthefabricwherethebladeoftheknifehadgonein.Thewaistcoat,whichwastornlevelwithitsleftpocket,tookitsplaceontheshirt-front.‘That’showhewasdressed,’hesaidunderhisbreath.Heconsultedoneofthepolicephotographsandadjustedhishandiworkby

givinghisimaginarydummyaveryhighdetachablecelluloidcollarandablacksatintie.‘Seethat,sergeant?HedinedateightonSaturday–hehadsomepasta

becausehewasonadiet.Thenhereadthepaperanddrankmineralwater,asusual.Alittlewhileafter10p.m.heenteredthisroomandtookoffhisjacket,keepingonhisshoesandhisdetachablecollar.’InfactMaigretwastalkingnotsomuchtothesergeant,whowaslistening

intentlyandthoughtithisdutytonodapprovalofeveryremark,astohimself.‘Nowwherewouldhisknifehavebeenatthatmoment?Itwasapocketflick-

knife,thekindalotofpeoplecarryonthem.Waitaminute…’Hefoldedbackthebladeoftheknifethatwaslyingonthetablewiththeother

exhibitsandslippeditintotheleft-handpocketoftheblacktrousers.‘No,thatmakescreasesinthewrongplace.’Hetriedtheright-handpocket

andseemedsatisfied.‘Thereweare!Hehashisknifeinhispocket.He’salive.Andbetweenelevenandtwelvethirtyatnighthedied.There’schalkandstonedustonthetoesofhisshoes.I’vefoundmarksleftbythesamekindofshoesoppositethewindow,onthewallsurroundingTiburcedeSaint-Hilaire’sproperty.Didhetakeoffhisjackettoclimbthewall?Wehavetorememberthathewasn’tamantomakehimselfcomfortable,evenathome.’Maigretwasstillwalkingroundtheroom,leavingsomeofhissentences

unfinishedandneverglancingatthelistenersittingmotionlessonhischair.‘I’vefoundsomeremnantsofburnedpaperinthefireplace–they’dtakenthe

stoveoutofitforthesummer.Nowlet’sgooverthemovementhemusthavemade:hetakesoffhisjacket,burnsthepapers,crushesouttheasheswiththefootofthatcandlestick(Ifoundsweatonthecopper),heclimbsthewalloppositeaftergettingoutoverthewindow-sill,andheclimbsbackinthesameway.Thenhetakestheknifeoutofhispocketandopensit.It’snotmuch,butifweknewtheorderinwhichthosethingshappened…Betweenelevenandtwelvethirtyhe’sbackhereagain.Thewindowisopen,andsomeoneshootshim

inthehead.There’snodoubtaboutthat–thebulletcamebeforetheknifewound,anditwasfiredfromoutside.SoGallettookouthisknife.Hedidn’ttrytogetout,whichwouldsuggestthatthemurderercameintotheroom,becauseyoudon’tfightsomeonesevenmetresawayfromyouwithaknife.Andthere’smoretocome:Gallethadhalfhisfaceblownaway.Thewoundwasbleeding,andthere’snotadropofbloodtobefoundnearthewindow.Thebloodstainswedofindshowthat,oncewounded,hemovedinacirclewithadiameterofnomorethantwometres.Severeecchymosisonleftwrist,writesthedoctorwhoperformedthepost-mortem.Soourmanisholdinghisknifeinhislefthand,andthemurdererseizedthathandtoturntheweaponagainsthim.Thebladepierceshisheart,andhefallsallatonce,droppingtheknife.Thatdoesn’tbotherthemurderer,whoknowsthatitwillhaveonlythevictim’sownfingerprintsonit.Gallet’swalletisstillinhispocket;nothinghasbeenstolenfromhim.However,CriminalRecordsclaimsthattherearetinytracesofrubberonthetravellingbaginparticular,asifsomeonehadbeenholdingitwithrubbergloveson.’‘Strange!Verystrange!’saidthedelightedsergeant,althoughhewouldnot

havebeenabletorepeataquarterofwhathadbeensaid.‘Thestrangestthingofallisthataswellasthosetracesofrubbertheyfound

somepowderedrust.’‘Maybetherevolverwasrusty!’Maigretsaidnothinginreplytothisbutwenttostandatthewindow,where,

lookingsomewhatunkempt,withthesleevesofhiswhiteshirtbillowingout,hisoutlinelookedenormousagainstthelightedrectangle.Athintrailofbluesmokeroseintheairabovehishead.Thesergeantstayedinhiscorner,hesitatingeventochangethepositionofhislegs.‘Didn’tyouwanttoseemyvagrants?’heaskedtimidly.‘Oh,aretheystillthere?Youcanletthemgoagain.’Maigretwentbacktothetable,rubbinghishairupthewrongway,tappedthe

pinkfile,changedtheplaceofthephotosandlookedattheotherman.‘Didyoucomeonabicycle?Wouldyougototherailwaystationandask

whattimeHenryGallet–youngmanofabouttwenty-five,tall,thin,pale,darkclothes,horn-rimmedglasses–tookthetraintoParisonSaturday?Andbytheway,haveyoueverheardofaMonsieurJacob?’‘OnlytheoneintheBible,’venturedthesergeant.

ÉmileGallet’sclotheswerestillonthefloor,likethecaricatureofacorpse.Justasthesergeantwasmakingforthedoor,someoneknocked.ItwasMonsieurTardivon,whosaid,‘Someonetoseeyou,inspector!AladycalledBoursangwhosaysshe’dlikeawordwithyou.’Thesergeantwouldhavelikedtostay,buthiscompaniondidnotinvitehimto

doso.Afterasatisfiedglanceroundtheroom,Maigretsaid,‘Showherin.’Andheleaneddowntohisinsubstantialtailor’sdummy,hesitated,smiled,

plantedtheknifeintheplacewheretheheartwouldhavebeenandtampedthetobaccodowninhispipewithonefinger.

•••

ÉléonoreBoursangwaswearingapale,well-cutskirtsuit,wellcutalthough,farfrommakingherappearyouthful,itmadeherlooknearertothirty-fivethanthirty.Herstockingsfittednicely,hershoeswerewellchosen,andherfairhairwascarefullyarrangedunderawhitestrawtoque.Shewaswearinggloves.Maigrethadwithdrawnintoashadycorner,interestedtoseehowshewould

presentherself.WhenMonsieurTardivonleftheratthedoorshestopped,apparentlytakenabackbythesharpcontrastsoflightandshadowinsidetheroom.‘DetectiveChiefInspectorMaigret?’sheaskedatlast,takingafewsteps

forwardsandturningtothesilhouetteagainstthewindow,atwhoseidentityshecouldsofaronlyguess.‘I’msosorrytodisturbyou.’Hecameovertoher,enteringthelight.Whenhehadclosedthedooragain,he

said,‘Pleasesitdown.’Andhewaited.Hisattitudegavehernohelpatall;onthecontrary,he

assumedacantankerousmanner.‘Henrymusthavementionedmetoyou,andsowhenIfoundmyselfin

SancerreIhopeditwouldbeallrighttospeaktoyou.’Hestillsaidnothing,buthehadnotmanagedtoupsether.Shespokewith

composure,withacertaindignitythatalmostremindedhimofMadameGallet.AyoungerMadameGallet,andnodoubtalittleprettierthanHenry’smotherhadbeen,butjustasrepresentativeofthesamesocialclass.‘Youmustunderstandmysituation.Afterthat…thatdreadfultragedy,I

wantedtoleaveSancerre,butHenrywrotealetteradvisingmetostayhere.I’ve

seenyoutwoorthreetimes,andthelocalpeopletoldmethatyouwereinchargeoftheattemptstotrackdownthemurderer.SoIdecidedtocomeandaskifyouhadfoundanythingout.I’minadelicatesituation,giventhatofficiallyIdon’thaveanyconnectionwithHenryorhisfamily…’Itdidn’tsoundlikeaspeechshehadpreparedinadvance.Thewordscame

easilytoherlips,andshespokewithcomposure.Severaltimeshereyeshadgonetotheknifeplacedonthebizarreshapetracedbytheclotheslyingonthefloor,butshehadnotflinchedatthesightofit.‘Soyourloverhastoldyoutopickmybrains?’saidMaigretsuddenly,his

voiceintentionallyharsh.‘Hedidn’ttellmetodoanything!He’sdevastatedbywhathappened.Andone

oftheworstthingsaboutitisthatIcouldn’tbeatthefuneralwithhim.’‘Haveyouknownhimforlong?’Shedidnotseemtonoticethattheconversationhadturnedintoan

interrogation.Hervoiceremainedlevel.‘Threeyears.I’mthirty,whileHenryisonlytwenty-five.AndI’mawidow.’‘AreyouanativeofParis?’‘No,I’mfromLille.Myfatherischiefaccountantinatextilefactory,and

whenIwastwentyImarriedatextilesengineerwhowaskilledinanaccidentbyamachineamonthafterourwedding.Ioughttohavebeenpaidapensionatoncebythefirmthatemployedhim,buttheyclaimedthattheaccidentwasbecauseofmyhusband’sowncarelessness.SoasIhadtoearnmyownliving,andIdidn’twanttotakeajobinaplacewhereeveryoneknewme,IwenttoParisandstartedworkasacashierinashopinRueRéaumur.Ibroughtanactionagainstthetextilesfactory.Thecasewentonandonthroughthecourts,anditwassettledinmyfavouronlytwoyearsago.OnceIknewthatIwouldnotbeinwantIwasabletoleavemyjob.’‘SoyouwereworkingasacashierwhenyoumetHenryGallet?’‘Yes,he’sadirectmarketingagent,andheoftencametoseemyemployerson

behalfoftheSovrinosBank.’‘Didn’tthetwoofyoueverthinkofmarrying?’‘Wediddiscussitatfirst,butifIhadmarriedagainbeforemycasewas

decidedincourtIwouldn’thavebeeninsuchagoodpositionoverthepension.’‘SoyoubecameHenryGallet’smistress?’

‘Yes,I’mnotafraidoftheword.HeandIareunitedjustasmuchasifwe’dgonethroughaweddingceremonyatthetownhall.We’vebeenseeingeachotherdailyforthelastthreeyears,andheeatsallhismealsatmyplace…’‘Buthedoesn’tactuallylivewithyouinRuedeTurenne?’‘That’sbecauseofhisfamily.Theyhaveverystrictprinciples,likemyown

parents.Henrydecidedhe’dratheravoidfrictionwithhisbyleavingtheminignoranceofourrelationship.Butallthesameit’salwaysbeenagreedthatwhentherearenomoreobstaclesandwehaveenoughtogoandliveinthesouthofFrancew