Free The Late Monsieur Gallet by Georges Simenon

of blue smoke rose in the air above his head. The sergeant stayed in his corner, hesitating even to change the position of his legs.
    â€˜Didn’t you want to see my vagrants?’ he asked timidly.
    â€˜Oh, are they still there? You can let them go again.’
    Maigret went back to the table, rubbing his hair up the wrong way, tapped the pink file, changed the place of the photos and looked at the other man.
    â€˜Did you come on a bicycle? Would you go to the railway station and ask what time Henry Gallet – young man of about twenty-five, tall, thin, pale, dark clothes, horn-rimmed glasses – took the train to Paris on Saturday? And by the way, have
you ever heard of a Monsieur Jacob?’
    â€˜Only the one in the Bible,’ ventured the sergeant.
    Ã‰mile Gallet’s clothes were still on the floor, like the caricature of a corpse. Just as the sergeant was making for the door, someone knocked. It was Monsieur Tardivon, who said, ‘Someone to see you, inspector! A lady called Boursang
who says she’d like a word with you.’
    The sergeant would have liked to stay, but his companion did not invite him to do so. After a satisfied glance round the room, Maigret said, ‘Show her in.’
    And he leaned down to his insubstantial tailor’s dummy, hesitated, smiled, planted the knife in the place where the heart would have been and tamped the tobacco down in his pipe with one finger.
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    Ã‰léonore Boursang was wearing a pale, well-cut skirt suit, well cut although, far from making her appear
youthful, it made her look nearer to thirty-five than thirty. Her stockings fitted nicely, her
shoes were well chosen, and her fair hair was carefully arranged under a white straw toque. She was wearing gloves.
    Maigret had withdrawn into a shady corner, interested to see how she would present herself. When Monsieur Tardivon left her at the door she stopped, apparently taken aback by the sharp contrasts of light and shadow inside the room.
    â€˜Detective Chief Inspector Maigret?’ she asked at last, taking a few steps forwards and turning to the silhouette against the window, at whose identity she could so far only guess. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you.’
    He came over to her, entering the light. When he had closed the door again, he said, ‘Please sit down.’
    And he waited. His attitude gave her no help at all; on the contrary, he assumed a cantankerous manner.
    â€˜Henry must have mentioned me to you, and so when I found myself in Sancerre I hoped it would be all right to speak to you.’
    He still said nothing, but he had not managed to upset her. She spoke with composure, with a certain dignity that almost reminded him of Madame Gallet. A younger Madame Gallet, and no doubt a little prettier than Henry’s mother had been,
but just as representative of the same social class.
    â€˜You must understand my situation. After that … that dreadful tragedy, I wanted to leave Sancerre, but Henry wrote a letter advising me to stay here. I’ve seen you two or three times, and the local people told me that you
were in charge of the attempts to track down the murderer. So I decided to come and ask if you had found anything out.
I’m in a delicate situation, given that officially I don’t have any connection with Henry or his
family …’
    It didn’t sound like a speech she had prepared in advance. The words came easily to her lips, and she spoke with composure. Several times her eyes had gone to the knife placed on the bizarre shape traced by the clothes lying on the floor,
but she had not flinched at the sight of it.
    â€˜So your lover has told you to pick my brains?’ said Maigret suddenly, his voice intentionally harsh.
    â€˜He didn’t tell me to do anything! He’s devastated by what happened. And one of the worst things about it is that I couldn’t be at the funeral with