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

steep
     and busy street, where he asked for directions to Morcel’s. In the dim light
     of the tailor’s shop, a man in shirt-sleeves examined the jacket, turning it
     over and over carefully while questioning the inspector.
    â€˜It’s old,’ he finally
     announced, ‘and it’s torn. That’s about all I can tell
     you.’
    â€˜Nothing else comes to
     mind?’
    â€˜Not a thing. The collar’s
     poorly cut. It’s imitation English woollen cloth, made in Verviers.’
    And then the man became more chatty.
    â€˜You’re French? Does this
     jacket belong to someone you know?’
    With a sigh, Maigret retrieved the suit
     jacket as the man nattered on and at last wound up where he ought to have
     started.
    â€˜You see, I’ve only been
     here for the past six months. If I’d made the suit in question, it
     wouldn’t have had time to wear out like that.’
    â€˜And Monsieur Morcel?’
    â€˜In Robermont!’
    â€˜Is that far from here?’
    The tailor laughed, tickled by the
     misunderstanding.
    â€˜Robermont, that’s our
     cemetery. Monsieur Morcel died at the beginning of this year, and I took over his
     business.’
    Back out in the street with his package
     under his arm, Maigret headed for Rue Hors-Château, one of the oldest streets in the
     city, where, at the far end of a courtyard, he
found a zinc plaque announcing:
Photogravure Centrale
     – Jef Lombard – Rapid results for work of all kinds
.
    The windows had small panes, in the
     style of historic Liège, and in the centre of the courtyard of small, uneven paving
     stones was a fountain bearing the sculpted coat of arms of some great lord of long
     ago.
    The inspector rang. He heard footsteps
     coming down from the first floor, and an old woman peeked out from the
     ancient-looking door.
    â€˜Just push it open,’ she
     said, pointing to a glazed door. ‘The workshop’s all the way at the end
     of the passage.’
    A long room, lit by a glass roof; two
     men in blue overalls working among zinc plates and tubs full of acids; a floor
     strewn with photographic proofs and paper smeared with thick, greasy ink.
    The walls were crowded with posters,
     advertisements, magazine covers.
    â€˜Monsieur Lombard?’
    â€˜He’s in the office, with a
     gentleman. Please come this way – and don’t get any ink on you! Take a left
     turn, then it’s the first door.’
    The building must have been constructed
     piecemeal; stairs went up and down, and doors opened on to abandoned rooms.
    The feeling was both antiquated and
     weirdly cheerful, like the old woman who’d greeted him downstairs and the
     atmosphere in the workroom.
    Coming to a shadowy corridor, the
     inspector heard voices and thought he recognized that of Joseph Van Damme. He tried
     in vain to make out the words, and when he took a few steps closer, the voices
     stopped. A man stuck his head out of the half-open door: it was Jef Lombard.
    â€˜Is it for
     me?’ he called, not recognizing his visitor in the half-light.
    The office was smaller than the other
     rooms and furnished with two chairs, shelves full of photographic negatives and a
     table cluttered with bills, prospectuses and business letters from various
     companies.
    And perched on a corner of the table was
     Van Damme, who nodded vaguely in Maigret’s direction and then sat perfectly
     still, scowling and staring straight ahead.
    Jef Lombard was in his work clothes; his
     hands were dirty, and there were tiny blackish flecks on his face.
    â€˜May I help you?’
    He cleared papers off a chair, which he
     pushed over to his visitor, and then he looked around for the cigarette butt
     he’d left balanced on the edge of a wooden shelf now beginning to char.
    â€˜Just some information,’
     replied the inspector, without sitting down. ‘I’m sorry to bother you,
     but I’d like to know