The Yellow Dog by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page A

the latest, someone knew about Jean Servières’ disappearance, knew that the car was, or would be, abandoned near the Saint-Jacques River, and that there would be bloodstains on the
seat … And that same someone also knew that we’d discover the tracks of an unknown man with big feet …’
    â€˜It’s amazing!’ sighed Leroy. ‘But about those fingerprints – I wired them off to Quai des Orfèvres. They’ve already checked the files and called me back. The prints don’t match those of any known
offender.’
    There was no doubt about it: the tension was getting to Leroy. But the person most thoroughly infected, so to speak, by that virus was Ernest Michoux, who looked even more colourless in contrast to the newspapermen’s sporty clothes, easygoing
manner and self-assurance.
    He had no idea what to do with himself. Maigret asked him: ‘Aren’t you going to bed?’
    â€˜Not yet … I never fall asleep before one in the morning …’ He forced a feeble smile, which showed two gold teeth. ‘Frankly, what do you think?’
    The illuminated clock in the Old Town tolled ten. The inspector was called to the telephone. It was the mayor.
    â€˜Still nothing?’ It sounded as if he, too, was expecting trouble.
    But, actually, wasn’t Maigret expecting trouble himself? Frowning, he went out to visit the yellow dog. The animal had dozed off; now, without alarm, he opened one eye to watch Maigret approach. The inspector stroked his head, pushed a
handful of straw beneath his front legs.
    He felt the proprietor come up behind him.
    â€˜Do you suppose those newspaper people will be staying long? … Because if they are, I ought to think about supplies. The market opens at six tomorrow morning …’
    For anyone not used to Maigret, it could be unsettling to see his large eyes stare blankly at you, as now, then to hear him mutter something incomprehensible and move on as if you were not worth noticing.
    The reporter from the
Petit Parisien
returned, shaking his dripping raincoat.
    â€˜Is it raining?’ someone asked. ‘What’s new, Groslin?’
    The young man’s eyes sparkled as he spoke quietly to his photographer then picked up the telephone.
    â€˜
Petit Parisien
, operator … Press service – urgent! What? You have a direct line to Paris? … Well then, hurry … Hello!
Petit Parisien
? Mademoiselle Germaine? Give me the copy desk. This is
Groslin!’
    His tone was impatient. And he darted a challenging look at the colleagues listening to him. Passing by, Maigret stopped to listen.
    â€˜Hello, is that you, Mademoiselle Jeanne? … Rush this through! There’s still time to get the story into a few of the out-of-town runs. The other papers will only be able to get it into
their Paris editions. Tell the copy desk to rewrite what I give you; I don’t have time. Here we go.
    â€˜The Concarneau Case. Our predictions were correct: another crime … Hello? Yes,
crime
! A man’s been killed. Is that better?’
    Everyone was silent. Spellbound, the doctor drew close to the reporter as he went on, excited, triumphant.
    â€˜First Monsieur Mostaguen, then the newspaperman Jean Servières and now Monsieur Le Pommeret! … Yes, I spelled the name earlier. He’s just been found dead in his room … at home. No wound. His muscles are rigid. All
evidence points to poisoning. Wait – end with: “Terror reigns”… Yes! Rush this to the managing editor … I’ll call back in a while to dictate a piece for the Paris edition, but the information has to get to the out-of-town desks now.’
    He hung up, mopped his face, and threw a jubilant look around the room.
    The telephone was ringing again. ‘Hello. Inspector? We’ve been trying to get through to you for a quarter of an