Free The Night at the Crossroads by Georges Simenon Page B

you about all that when you return.’
    She smiled at him with gratitude and only a flicker of lingering fear.
    Walking past the millstone villa, Maigret looked up automatically at the first-floor window, which shone bright yellow in the darkness. Framed in the glowing shade was the silhouette of Monsieur Michonnet, sitting in his armchair.
    At the inn, the inspector simply gave Lucas a few orders without any explanation.
    â€˜See to it that half a dozen inspectors are posted around the crossroads. Once an hour make sure that Monsieur Oscar is still in Paris by phoning the restaurant, then the theatre and the hotel. Have everyone who leaves any of the three
houses here followed.’
    â€˜Where will you be?’
    â€˜At the Andersens’ place.’
    â€˜You think that …’
    â€˜I don’t think anything, old friend! I’ll see you later, or tomorrow morning.’
    Night had fallen. As he went back to the main road, the inspector made sure that his revolver was loaded and that he had sufficient tobacco.
    The moustachioed profile of the insurance agent and the shadow of his armchair were still visible in the Michonnets’ upstairs window.
    Else Andersen had changed her black velvet dress for the peignoir she had worn that morning and Maigret found her stretched out on the divan, smoking a cigarette, calmer than he had last seen her but frowning thoughtfully.
    â€˜If you only knew how relieved I am to know you’re here, chief inspector! Some people inspire confidence from the moment you meet them … but they are rare. In any case, I personally have met few people with whom I felt an
instinctive, sympathetic bond … Do smoke, if you like …’
    â€˜Have you eaten?’
    â€˜I’m not hungry. I don’t know any more what’s keeping me going … For four days, from the horrible instant that body was found in the car, I’ve been thinking, thinking … Trying to understand, to
make up my mind …’
    â€˜And you conclude that your brother is the guilty one?’
    â€˜No. I do not want to accuse Carl. Especially as, even if he actually were guilty, it would only be due to a moment of uncontrollable madness … You’ve chosen the worst armchair. If you would like to lie down at any point,
there is a cot in the next room.’
    She was calm and anxious at the same time. A seeming calm, deliberate, painfully achieved. An anxiety that still managed to surface at certain moments.
    â€˜Something terrible has already happened in this house, a long time ago, hasn’t it? Carl has spoken about it, but only vaguely … He was afraid of frightening me. He always treats me
like a little girl.’
    Her whole body leaned forwards, in a supple movement, as she flicked her cigarette ash into the china bowl on the lacquered table. Her peignoir fell open, as it had that morning, revealing a small, round breast. Only for an instant. And yet
Maigret had had time to notice a scar, and he frowned.
    â€˜You were wounded some time ago!’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    Blushing, she instinctively drew the edges of her peignoir closed over her chest.
    â€˜You have a scar on your right breast.’
    She was deeply embarrassed.
    â€˜Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’m used to dressing casually here, I never thought … As for that scar … There! Another thing I’ve suddenly recalled, but it’s certainly just a
coincidence … When we were still children, Carl and I used to play on the castle grounds and I remember that one day he was given a rifle, for Saint Nicholas’s Day. Carl must have been fourteen … It’s all so silly, you’ll see. At first he shot at a
target. After an evening at the circus, the next day he wanted to play at being William Tell. I held out a cardboard target in each hand. The first bullet hit me in the