The Yellow Dog by Georges Simenon Page A

I, this unconscionable nightmare will come to an end.’
    She left, with a rustle of silk. A blue plush drape fell back into place at the door.
    The huge library had walls lined with fine panelling and exposed ceiling beams, like those in an English manor house. Fairly rich bindings could be seen on the shelves, but more precious ones were apparently kept in a closed bookcase that covered
one whole wall.
    The setting was one of real luxury, faultless taste, utter comfort. There was central heating, but logs blazed in a monumental fireplace. There was no comparison with the false elegance of the doctor’s house.
    The mayor selected a box of cigars and held it out to Maigret.
    â€˜Thank you! If you’ll allow me, I’ll smoke my pipe.’
    â€˜Please sit down … Will you have a whisky?’
    He pressed a buzzer, then lit a cigar. The butler came in to serve them. And, perhaps on purpose, Maigret
seemed to have the awkward manner of a petit bourgeois visiting an aristocratic house. His features
looked heavy, his gaze vague.
    His host waited for the butler to leave. ‘I’m sure you understand, chief inspector, that this series of crimes cannot go on. It’s been … let’s see … three days now since you arrived. And in all that
time—’
    From his pocket Maigret drew his cheap little oilcloth-covered notebook.
    â€˜May I?’ he interrupted. ‘You mention a series of crimes … Now I’d like to point out that all the victims are alive except one. A single death: Monsieur Le Pommeret’s … As for the customs guard,
you’ll admit that anyone who really wanted to kill him would not have shot him in the leg. You know the place where the shot was fired. The attacker was hidden, so he could take all the time he needed. Unless he’d never held a revolver before …’
    The mayor looked at him with astonishment and, seizing his glass, said, ‘So you claim—’
    â€˜That the assailant meant to wound him in the leg … At least until we have proof to the contrary.’
    â€˜Did Monsieur Mostaguen’s assailant mean to hit him in the leg, too?’
    The sarcasm was obvious, and the man’s nostrils quivered. He was straining to be polite, to keep calm, because he was in his own home. But there was a disagreeable edge to his voice.
    His manner that of a proper civil servant reporting to his superior, Maigret went on:
    â€˜If you’ll allow me, we’ll go over my notes one by one … I read from the date of Friday, 7 November:
A bullet is fired through the letterbox of a vacant house towards Monsieur
Mostaguen
. Remember, to begin with, that no one, not even the victim, could have known that at a given moment Monsieur Mostaguen would get the idea of stopping in a doorway to light his cigar. A little less wind and the crime would never have
occurred … Of course, there was a man with a revolver behind the door … Either he was crazy or he was waiting for
someone who was supposed to come
. Now then, remember what time it was. Eleven o’clock at night. The whole town was asleep, except for the little
group at the Admiral café.
    â€˜I’m drawing no conclusions, but let’s run through the possible guilty parties. Le Pommeret and Jean Servières, and Emma too, are out of the running, because they were still in the café.
    â€˜That leaves Dr Michoux, who had left fifteen minutes earlier, and the vagrant with the enormous footprints. Plus an unknown person we’ll call X. Are we in agreement? … We should add, parenthetically, that Monsieur Mostaguen
did not die and that in two weeks he’ll be on his feet again …
    â€˜Let’s go to the second incident.
The following day, Saturday, I enter the café. After introductions, I am about to drink an aperitif with Messieurs Michoux, Le Pommeret, and Jean