Free A Man's Head by Georges Simenon Page B

mood.
    But suddenly, the minute he was alone, he grabbed the telephone receiver:
    â€˜Hello? Has Lucas been asking for me?’
    â€˜Nothing yet, sir.’
    Maigret’s teeth bit hard in the stem of his pipe. It was 9 a.m. Joseph Heurtin had been missing since five in the afternoon of the previous day, having disappeared from Boulevard Raspail with Sergeant Lucas on his tail.
    Was it likely that Lucas had been unable to find some way of phoning or of writing a note to give a passing uniformed officer?
    Maigret expressed what he had at the back of his mind by asking the switchboard to connect him with Inspector Dufour. Dufour himself answered.
    â€˜Feeling better?’
    â€˜I’m already walking around the apartment. Tomorrow I hope to come into the office … But just wait until you see the scar it’ll leave! … The doc took the bandage off last night, and I managed to get a glimpse
of it … It makes you wonder how I didn’t have my skull sliced open … But I assume that you’ve found the man at least?’
    â€˜Don’t worry about that … Listen, I’m going to hang up now because I can hear someone ringing the switchboard and I’m expecting a call …’
    It was stifling in the office. The stove was glowing white hot.
    Maigret had been right. The moment he replaced the receiver, his phone rang. He heard Lucas’ voice.
    â€˜Hello! Is that you, chief? … Don’t cut me off, operator … Police business … Hello? Are you there?’
    â€˜I’m listening … Where are you?’
    â€˜Morsang.’
    â€˜Where?’
    â€˜It’s a small village thirty-five kilometres from Paris, on the Seine.’
    â€˜And … where is
he
?’
    â€˜He’s safe … He’s in his own house!’
    â€˜Is Morsang anywhere near Nandy?’
    â€˜It’s four kilometres away … I’ve come here so as not to give the game away … What a night I’ve had, sir.’
    â€˜Tell me about it.’
    â€˜At first, I thought he’d go on wandering around Paris for ever … He didn’t look as if he knew where he was going … At eight o’clock, we both stopped at the soup kitchen in Rue Réaumur, and he waited
around almost two hours for his grub …’
    â€˜Which means he has no money.’
    â€˜Then he set off again … It’s amazing how drawn to the Seine he seems to be … He walked along it one way and then came back the other … Hello? … Don’t cut us off! … Are you still
there?’
    â€˜Go on.’
    â€˜In the end, he headed off towards Charenton along the riverbank … I was expecting him to doss down under a bridge … I really did! He was nearly out on his feet … But no! He passed Charenton and went on to
Alfortville, where he didn’t hesitate but set off on the road to Villeneuve-Saint-George … The road was sodden … Cars speeding past every thirty seconds … If I had to do that again …’
    â€˜You’d do it all over again! … Carry on.’
    â€˜That’s how it was. Thirty-five kilometres of it! Can you imagine? It started to rain, and it came down harder and harder. He didn’t seem to notice. At Corbeil I almost flagged down a taxi so it would be easier to keep tabs on
him … But at six this morning, we were still walking, still one behind the other, through the woods which run from Morsang to Nandy.’
    â€˜How did he get into his house? Through the door?’
    â€˜Do you know the inn there? It’s not up to much. A stopping-place for carters, a mixture of inn and café where you can get newspapers and cigarettes. I think it also serves as a general shop. But he went round it along an