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

Armand
     Lecocq d’Arneville asked, ‘Could I see Jean’s body? Has it been
     brought here?’
    â€˜It will arrive in Paris
     tomorrow.’
    â€˜Are you sure that he really did
     kill himself?’
    Maigret looked away, disturbed by the
     thought that he was more than sure of it: he had witnessed the tragedy and been the
     unwitting cause of it.
    The other man was twisting his cap in
     his hands, shifting from one foot to the other, awaiting his dismissal. Lost within
     pale lids, his deep-set eyes with their pupils flecked grey like confetti reminded
     Maigret so poignantly of the humble, anxious eyes of the traveller from Neuschanz
     that within his breast the inspector felt a sharp pang that was very like
     remorse.

6. The Hanged Men
    It was nine o’clock in the evening.
     Maigret was at home in Boulevard Richard-Lenoir in his shirt-sleeves, his collar
     off, and his wife was sewing when Lucas came in soaked from the downpour outside,
     shrugging the rain from his shoulders.
    â€˜The man left town,’ he
     said. ‘Seeing as I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to follow him
     abroad …’
    â€˜Liège?’
    â€˜That’s it! You already
     knew? His luggage was at the Hôtel du Louvre. He had dinner there, changed and took
     the 6.19 Liège express. Single ticket, first class. He bought a whole slew of
     magazines at the station newsstand.’
    â€˜You’d think he was trying
     to get underfoot on purpose!’ groused the inspector. ‘In Bremen, when
     I’ve no idea he even exists, he’s the one who shows up at the morgue,
     invites me to lunch and plain latches on to me. I get back to Paris: he’s here
     a few hours before or after I arrive … Probably before, because he took a
     plane. I go to Rheims; he’s already there. An hour ago, I decided to return to
     Liège tomorrow – and he’ll be there by this evening! And the last straw?
     He’s well aware that I’m coming and that his presence there almost
     amounts to an accusation against him.’
    Lucas, who knew nothing about the case,
     ventured a suggestion.
    â€˜Maybe he
     wants to draw suspicion on himself to protect somebody else?’
    â€˜Are you talking about a
     crime?’ asked Mme Maigret peaceably, without looking up from her sewing.
    But her husband rose with a sigh and
     looked back at the armchair in which he’d been so comfortable just a moment
     before.
    â€˜How late do the trains run to
     Belgium?’
    â€˜Only the night train is left, at
     9.30. It arrives in Liège at around 6 a.m.’
    â€˜Would you pack my bag?’
     Maigret asked his wife. ‘Lucas, a little something? Help yourself, you know
     where everything is in the cabinet. My sister-in-law has just sent us some plum
     brandy, and she makes it herself, in Alsace. It’s the bottle with the long
     neck …’
    He dressed, removed clothing B from the
     yellow suitcase and placed it, well wrapped, in his travel bag. Half an hour later,
     he left with Lucas, and they waited outside for a taxi.
    â€˜What case is this?’ Lucas
     asked. ‘I haven’t heard anything about it around the shop.’
    â€˜I hardly know myself!’ the
     inspector exclaimed. ‘A very strange fellow died, in a way that makes no
     sense, right in front of me – and
that
incident is all tied up in the most
     ungodly tangle of events, which I’m attempting to figure out. I’m
     charging blindly at it like a wild boar and wouldn’t be surprised if I wound
     up getting my knuckles rapped … Here’s a taxi. Shall I drop you off
     somewhere?’
    It was eight in the morning when
     Maigret left the Hôtel du Chemin de Fer, across from Gare des Guillemins, in
Liège. He’d taken a bath, shaved
     and was carrying a package containing not all of clothing B, just the suit
     jacket.
    He found Rue Haute-Sauvenière, a