The Late Monsieur Gallet by Georges Simenon

bang. I swear I felt the draught of a bullet passing through the air, so close to my eyes that I thought it had taken my pince-nez off. I flung myself backwards, and then at the same time, at
once, I mean after the first shot a second one was fired. I thought I was a dead man … there was such a racket in my head, as if my brain were boiling!’
    His smile was less forced now.
    â€˜Well, as you can see, it was nothing, just a little nick in
my ear. I ought to have run to the window, but I simply couldn’t move. I thought more shots might be fired – I had no idea what
it felt like to be under fire before …’
    He had to sit down. In some sort of delayed reaction, the shock had hit him, and he had gone weak at the knees. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he told Maigret. ‘Find whoever was firing that gun.’
    Drops of sweat suddenly stood out on his forehead, and Maigret, seeing that he was about to faint, ran to the door.
    â€˜Tardivon!’ he called. ‘See to Monsieur Moers here. Has a doctor come?’
    â€˜He’s not at home. But one of the guests staying here is a male nurse at the Hôtel-Dieu hospital in Paris …’
    Maigret pulled aside the blind and went out over the window-sill, automatically putting the stem of his empty pipe in his mouth. The nettle lane was deserted, half of it in the shade, the other half vibrant with light and warmth. The Louis XIV
gate at the end of it was closed.
    The inspector could see nothing unusual about the white wall facing the room. As for footprints, it would be no use looking for any in the dry grass, which, like places where the soil was too stony, did not preserve prints. He made for the bank,
where some twenty people had gathered, but hesitated to go any further.
    â€˜Were any of you on the terrace when those shots were fired?’
    Several voices replied, ‘I was!’ Their delighted owners stepped forward.
    â€˜Did you see anyone starting off along this road?’
    â€˜No, no one! Not for the last hour, anyway.’
    â€˜I never moved from the spot, inspector!’ said a thin little man in a multi-coloured sweater.
    â€˜Go back to Mama, Charlot! I was here, inspector. If the murderer had gone along the nettle lane I’d have been bound to see him. It could have been fatal!’
    â€˜Did you hear the shots?’
    â€˜Everyone did … I thought they were hunting in the property next door. I even took a few steps …’
    â€˜And you didn’t see anyone on the road?’
    â€˜No one at all.’
    â€˜But of course you wouldn’t have looked behind every tree trunk.’ Maigret did exactly that, to put his mind at rest, and then made for the front entrance of the chateau, where he saw the gardener pushing a wheelbarrow full of
gravel along a path.
    â€˜Your master’s not in, is he?’
    â€˜No, he’ll be at the notary’s place. This is the time of day when they play cards.’
    â€˜Did you see him leave?’
    â€˜I saw him as clearly as I see you now! It was about an hour and a half ago.’
    â€˜And you didn’t see anyone in the grounds?’
    â€˜Not a soul. Why?’
    â€˜Where were you ten minutes ago?’
    â€˜Right beside the water, loading up this gravel.’
    Maigret looked into his eyes. The man appeared to be telling the truth – in fact he looked too stupid to be telling a plausible lie.
    Without bothering about him any more, the inspector went over to the barrel propped against the wall enclosing the property, but he saw no indication that the murderer had gone that way. He had no more luck when he examined the rusty barred gate.
It did not look as if it had been opened since he himself had pushed it back into place that morning.
    â€˜Yet someone fired a gun, twice!’
    The people at the hotel were sitting down again now, but the conversation was general.
    â€˜I don’t expect it