Maigret's Dead Man by Georges Simenon

to her, that announcer on Radio-Toulouse has just got a bit of a twang
… Right, let’s have the bill … By the way, landlord, aren’t we
forgetting our manners?’
    Chevrier frowned, disconcerted. But Maigret
understood and it was he who replied:
    â€˜He’s right! When a bar gets a new
landlord, it’s drinks on the house!’
    There were only seven customers all that
lunchtime. One of them was a cellarman from Cess, middle-aged and with a surly manner, who ate
by himself in a corner and found fault with everything: with the cooking, which wasn’t the
same, with his table, which wasn’t his usual table, with the white wine he was given
instead of the red he was used to …
    â€˜This place is going to turn into a dump
just like all the others,’ he grumbled as he left. ‘It’s always the
same.’
    Chevrier was no longer enjoying himself as much
as he had that morning. Only Irma seemed to stay cheerful, juggling with the dishes and the
piles of plates, and she attacked the washing-up, humming a tune to herself.
    At 1.30, only Maigret and Lucas were still in the
bar. There followed the quiet, slow period when they saw a customer only from time to time, a
passer-by who happened to be thirsty, or a couple of river men who were passing the time while
their boats were being loaded.
    Maigret smoked his pipe quietly, paunch very much
inevidence, for he had eaten a great deal, perhaps to please Irma. The sun
warmed one of his ears, and he wore an expression of utter contentment. Then all of a sudden the
sole of one shoe came down heavily on Lucas’ toes.
    A man had just walked past on the pavement. He
had stared intently into the bar, paused uncertainly, then turned and was now approaching the
door.
    He was of average height. He was not wearing a
hat or a cap. He had red hair, and there were reddish blotches on his face. His eyes were blue
and his lips fleshy.
    He reached for the lever handle. He entered,
still hesitating. There was something loose-limbed about his bearing and an odd reticence in his
gestures.
    His shoes were worn and had not been polished for
several days. His dark suit was shiny, his shirt of dubious cleanliness and his tie badly
knotted.
    He was like a cat stepping warily into an
unfamiliar room, observing everything around it and alert to possible danger. He must have been
of less than average intelligence – village idiots often have eyes like his, which
expressed only low cunning and mistrust.
    Was it that Maigret and Lucas had aroused his
curiosity? He was suspicious of them, sidled up to the bar without taking his eyes off them and
tapped the metal counter with a coin.
    Chevrier emerged from the kitchen, where he was
eating his lunch in a corner.
    â€˜What’ll it be?’
    The man hesitated again. He appeared to have a
bad cold. He growled something incomprehensible then gaveup trying to speak
and instead pointed at the bottle of cognac on a shelf.
    It was straight into Chevrier’s eyes that
he now looked. There was something here that he did not understand, something beyond his
comprehension.
    With the toe of one shoe, Maigret unobtrusively
nudged Lucas’ foot again.
    The whole episode was brief, though it seemed
long. The man dug in his pockets for change with his left hand while with the right he raised
the glass to his lips and downed the contents in one gulp.
    The strong spirit made him cough. His eyes
watered.
    He tossed some coins on the counter and, with a
few very long, quick strides, was gone. Through the window, they could see him scurry off in the
direction of Quai de Bercy, pause and turn round.
    â€˜Over to you,’ said Maigret to Lucas.
‘But I’m afraid he’ll lose you …’
    Lucas hurried out.
    â€˜Phone for a taxi!’ Maigret called to
Chevrier, ‘and quick about it!’
    Quai de Bercy was long and straight, without
sidestreets. Maybe in a car he would be in time to catch up with