A Man's Head by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online

he specialized in the study of paper, inks and handwriting.
    He knew that it was him that Maigret had come to see.
    Yet the inspector had not looked his way once, but instead had wandered around aimlessly.
    Eventually, he took a pipe from his pocket, lit it and said in a voice that did not ring quite true:
    â€˜Right, then. Let’s get to work!’
    Moers, who knew where the inspector had just come from, got the message but pretended not to have noticed that something seemed wrong.
    Maigret took his top coat off, yawned and exercised the muscles of his face, as if he were trying to become himself again. He grabbed the back of a chair, dragged it close to the young man, straddled it and said affectionately:
    â€˜So, Moers?’
    It was over. He had finally shrugged off the weight he’d been carrying on his shoulders.
    â€˜So what have you got?’
    â€˜I spent all night on the note. It’s a pity it has been fingered by so many people. There’s no point looking for prints on it now …’
    â€˜I wasn’t counting on anything.’
    â€˜I spent over an hour this morning at the Coupole … I tested all the inkwells. Do you know the place? There are several separate rooms: first, the main café area, part of which becomes a restaurant at meal times. Then there’s
the room on the first floor, the terrace outside and finally a small American-type saloon bar on the left, where all the regulars go.’
    â€˜I know it.’
    â€˜It was the ink in the saloon bar that was used to write the note. The words were written with the left hand, not by a left-handed person, but by someone who knows that almost everything that is written with the left hand has a family
resemblance.’
    The letter sent to
Le Sifflet
was still displayed on the glass screen in front of Moers.
    â€˜One thing is certain. Whoever sent it is an educated man, and I’d swear that he speaks and writes fluently several languages. Now, if I try my hand at graphology … But we’re straying from the realm of the exact
sciences.’
    â€˜Stray away.’
    â€˜Well, if I’m not very mistaken, we have here someone exceptional. Very obviously, intelligence way above average. But the most disturbing thing is a mixture of strong will and weakness, coldness and emotivity. It’s a man’s
handwriting. Yet I have noted features denoting a definitely feminine nature …’
    Moers was now riding his hobby horse. He grew pink with pleasure. Unconsciously Maigret gave a little smile, and the young man looked embarrassed:
    â€˜Of course, I know all this isn’t very clear and that any examining magistrate wouldn’t even listen to the end of what I have to say. Even so … Look, sir, I’d bet that the man who wrote this letter is suffering
from serious illness and knows it … If he’d used his right hand, I could tell you a lot more. Oh! I forgot, there’s one more thing. There were stains on the paper, though they might have been left there in the print-room. But one of these stains is of café au lait. And
lastly, the top of the sheet was not cut off with a knife, but with a round object, like a spoon.’
    â€˜So, the note was written yesterday morning, in the bar of the Coupole, by a customer who’d ordered a café au lait and speaks several languages …’
    Maigret stood up, held out his hand and murmured:
    â€˜Thanks for that. Now, if you’ll let me have the note back …’
    He left and growled a goodbye to the other people there. As the door closed behind him, someone said with a certain admiration:
    â€˜See that? For someone who’s taken a tough blow …!’
    But Moers, whose worship of Maigret was well known, glared at him. The man said no more and went back to the analysis he was engaged on.
    Paris was wearing the cheerless face it always has in the unlovely days of October.