The Late Monsieur Gallet by Georges Simenon Page A

means anything.’ Monsieur Tardivon came over to the inspector. ‘But I’ve just heard that the doctor has gone to see Petit, the notary. Should I send someone for him?’
    â€˜Where’s the notary’s house?’
    â€˜In the square beside the Commercial.’
    â€˜Whose is that bicycle?’
    â€˜I don’t know, but you can take it … are you going yourself?’
    The bicycle was too small for him, but Maigret mounted it, making the springs of the saddle groan under him. Five minutes later he was setting off a chime of bells at the front door of a huge house, very neat and clean, and an old maidservant in
a blue checked apron was looking out at him through a peephole.
    â€˜Is the doctor here?’
    â€˜Who’s it for?’
    But a half-open window was flung wide, and a man of jovial appearance holding playing cards in his hands leaned out.
    â€˜Is it for the guard’s wife? I’m just coming!’
    â€˜No, there’s a man wounded, doctor! Would you go straight to the Hôtel de la Loire, please?’
    â€˜Not another crime, at least I hope not!’
    Three other men, sitting at a table with gleaming crystal glasses on it, rose to their feet. Maigret recognized Saint-Hilaire among them.
    â€˜Yes, a crime! Come on, quick!’
    â€˜Anyone dead?’
    â€˜No … and make sure you bring something to dress a wound.’ Maigret was keeping his eyes on Saint-Hilaire, and he realized that the owner of the little chateau was absolutely
thunderstruck.
    â€˜One question, gentlemen,’ he began.
    â€˜Just a moment!’ the notary interrupted. ‘Why hasn’t anyone let you in?’
    Hearing this, the maid finally opened the door. The inspector went along a corridor and into the sitting room, where there was a pleasant smell of cigars and well-aged spirits.
    â€˜What has happened?’ asked the master of the house, a well-groomed old man with silky hair and skin as clear as a baby’s.
    Maigret pretended not to have heard him. ‘Gentlemen, I’d like to know how long you have been playing cards.’
    The notary glanced at a pendulum clock. ‘A good hour.’
    â€˜And none of you has left this room during that time?’
    They looked at each other in astonishment.
    â€˜Good heavens, no! There are only four of us – just the right number for bridge.’
    â€˜Are you
absolutely certain
?’
    Saint-Hilaire was crimson in the face.
    â€˜Who is the victim?’ he asked. His throat was evidently dry.
    â€˜An officer from Criminal Records. He was working in the room where the late Émile Gallet had stayed, concentrating on a part of the case involving the identity of one Monsieur Jacob …’
    â€˜Monsieur Jacob,’ repeated the notary.
    â€˜Do you know anyone of that name?’
    â€˜Why, no. Sounds like a Jewish surname.’
    â€˜Monsieur de Saint-Hilaire, I’m going to ask you a favour. I’d like you to move heaven and earth to find the key of that barred gate. If necessary I’ll lend you officers to
search the villa.’
    The owner of the chateau tossed the contents of a glass of spirits down his throat in a single gulp, something that did not escape Maigret’s notice.
    â€˜I’m sorry to have disturbed you, gentlemen.’
    â€˜Won’t you take a glass of something with us, inspector?’
    â€˜Not now, thank you … maybe another time.’
    He set off on the bicycle again, turned left and soon came to a rather dilapidated house with a barely legible board outside giving its name: Pension Germain.
    It was a poor sort of place, and Maigret doubted its cleanliness. A little boy, not very well washed, was standing in the doorway, where a dog was gnawing a bone picked up from the dusty road outside.
    â€˜Is Mademoiselle Boursang here?’ he asked.
    A woman carrying a baby in her arms appeared at the back of the room.