The Hanged Man of Saint-Pholien by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page A

noticed him. He left
     shortly before you did, and later on, after you’d left your friends, he
     approached you.’
    â€˜I have a vague
     recollection … He asked me for a light.’
    â€˜And you came back here with him,
     isn’t that right?’
    Belloir smiled rather nastily.
    â€˜I’ve no idea who told you
     such nonsense. I’m hardly the sort of person to bring home tramps.’
    â€˜You might have recognized him –
     as an old friend, or …’
    â€˜I have better taste in
     friends!’
    â€˜You’re saying that you went
     home alone?’
    â€˜Absolutely.’
    â€˜Was that man the same one in the
     photo I just showed you?’
    â€˜I have no idea. I never even
     looked at him.’
    Listening with obvious impatience, Van
     Damme had been on the verge of interrupting several times. As for the third man, who
     had a short brown beard and was dressed all in black in a bygone but
     ‘artistic’ fashion, he was
looking out of the window, occasionally wiping away the
     fog his breath left on the pane.
    â€˜In which case, I must now simply
     thank you and apologize once again, Monsieur Belloir.’
    â€˜Just a minute, inspector!’
     exclaimed Joseph Van Damme. ‘You’re not going to leave just like that?
     Please, do stay here with us for a moment, and Belloir will offer us some of that
     fine brandy he always keeps on hand … Do you realize that I’m rather
     put out with you for not coming to dinner with me, in Bremen? I waited for you all
     evening!’
    â€˜Did you travel here by
     train?’
    â€˜By plane! I almost always fly,
     like most businessmen, in fact! Then, in Paris, I felt like dropping in on my old
     friend Belloir. We were at university together.’
    â€˜In Liège?’
    â€˜Yes. And it’s almost ten
     years now since we last saw each other. I didn’t even know that he’d got
     married! It’s odd to find him again – with a fine young son!
     But … are you really still working on that suicide of yours?’
    Belloir had rung for the maid, whom he
     told to bring brandy and some glasses. His every move was made slowly and carefully,
     but with each move he betrayed the gnawing uncertainty he felt.
    â€˜The investigation has only just
     begun,’ said Maigret quietly. ‘It’s impossible to tell if it will
     be a long one or if the case will be all wrapped up in a day or two.’
    When the front doorbell rang, the other
     three men exchanged furtive glances. Voices were heard; then someone with a strong
     Belgian accent asked, ‘Are they all upstairs? Don’t bother, I know the
     way.’
    From the doorway he called out,
     ‘Hello, fellows!’
    And met with dead
     silence. When he saw Maigret, he looked questioningly at the others.
    â€˜Weren’t
     you … expecting me?’
    Belloir’s expression tightened.
     Walking over to the inspector, he said, as if through clenched teeth, ‘Jef
     Lombard, a friend.’
    Then, pronouncing every syllable
     distinctly: ‘Inspector Maigret, of the Police Judiciaire.’
    The new arrival gave a little start, and
     stammered in a flat voice that squeaked in the most peculiar way,
     ‘Aha! … I see … Well, fine …’
    After which, in his bewilderment, he
     gave his overcoat to the maid, only to chase after her to retrieve the cigarettes he
     had left in a pocket.
    â€˜Another Belgian,
     inspector,’ observed Van Damme. ‘Yes, you’re witnessing a real
     Belgian reunion! You must think this all looks like a conspiracy … What
     about that brandy, Belloir? Inspector, a cigar? Jef Lombard is the only one who
     still lives in Liège. It just so happens that business affairs have brought us all
     to the same place at the same moment, so we’ve decided to celebrate, and have
     a grand old time! And I