A Man's Head by Georges Simenon Page A

crystal chandelier tinkled softly, and the boards of the wooden floor creaked as he walked over them.
    Out of curiosity, he tried the light switch. Ten out of twelve lamps came on. The bulbs were so thickly encrusted with dust that their light was dimmed.
    In one corner were valuable carpets which had been rolled up. The armchairs had been pushed to the far end of the room, and assorted travelling trunks had ended up there in no particular order. One was empty. Another still contained some of the
dead man’s clothes, with mothballs sprinkled over them. Yet he had been deceased for more than four years! The house had been accustomed to stylish living. In this very room there had been receptions which had been reported in the press.
    In full view on the enormous mantelpiece was a half-opened box of Havanas.
    It was probably at this spot that the visitor had the clearest impression of just how overwhelming the house was.
    Mrs Henderson was almost seventy when she had been widowed.
    She had been too fatigued to make the effort to organize a new life for herself.
    She had settled for shutting herself away in her rooms and had left the rest to go to seed.
    They had probably been happy together; at any rate they had made a brilliant couple and had cut a figure in most of the world’s capitals.
    And all that had been left of it was an old woman shut away with her companion!
    And one night, that old lady …
    Maigret walked through two other reception rooms, then a dining room and emerged at the foot of a great staircase with steps which, up to the first floor, were made of marble.
    The faintest sounds reverberated in the absolute silence of the house.
    The Crosbys had not touched anything. It was even possible that after their aunt’s funeral they had never been back.
    The house had been completely neglected, to the point where on the carpet the inspector found a candle he had used during his original investigation.
    When he reached the first-floor landing, he suddenly stopped, aware of a certain uneasiness which it took him a moment to analyse. Then he held his breath and listened hard.
    Had he heard something? He wasn’t sure. But for one reason or another, he’d had a feeling that he was not alone in the house. He seemed to sense, as it were, a stirring of life. At first he gave a shrug. But just as he was opening a
door directly facing him, he frowned and simultaneously began breathing more quickly.
    A smell of tobacco smoke had reached his nostrils.
    Someone had been smoking in the room only moments before. Maybe that someone still was?
    He took a few quick paces forwards and found himself in the dead woman’s dressing room. The door to the bedroom was half open, but when he went through it he saw nothing. On the other hand, the smell of smoke was stronger here. Moreover there
was fine cigarette ash on the floor.
    â€˜Who’s there?’
    He would have liked to be less uneasy but though he tried he could not fight the feeling. Didn’t it look as if everything was joining forces to unsettle him?
    Hardly any attempt had been made to clear up traces of the carnage from the bedroom. A dress belonging to Mrs Henderson was still draped over the easy chair. The venetian blinds allowed only uniform bars of light to filter through.
    But in that atmospheric gloom someone moved.
    For a sound had come from the bathroom, a metallic noise. Maigret leaped forwards, saw no one, then heard, distinctly this time, the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door of a lumber room.
    His hand automatically felt the pocket where he kept his revolver. He hurled himself at the door, ran through the room and saw a back stairway.
    Here it was lighter because the windows overlooking the Seine were not fitted with venetian blinds.
    Someone was climbing the stairs and trying to muffle the sounds of his footsteps. Again Maigret called:
    â€˜Who’s there?’
    His excitement was growing. Would it turn out that