Read Online The Late Monsieur Gallet by Georges Simenon - Free Book Online Page A

the tables and the bay trees in their
containers were lined up properly.
    â€˜Aren’t you going to say good morning to the inspector?’ asked Monsieur Tardivon, and then, lowering his voice to a confidential tone, ‘He’s in the room that was the scene of the crime at this very moment. He’s
had all kinds of papers sent to him from Paris, and big photographs too …’
    It worked; a little later the sergeant knocked on the door and said, apologetically, ‘It was Monsieur Tardivon, inspector. When he told me you were examining the scene I was tempted … I know you have special methods in
Paris … if I’m not in the way I’d really like to learn from seeing how you do it.’
    He was an amiable man whose round, pink face showed an ingenuous wish to please, and he made himself as small
as possible, not entirely easy in view of his hobnailed boots and his gaiters. He
couldn’t decide where to put his képi.
    The window was wide open, the morning sun fell right on the nettle lane so that against the light the room was almost dark. And Maigret, in his shirtsleeves, pipe between his teeth, detachable collar unbuttoned, tie loose, gave an impression of
well-being that was bound to strike the local policeman.
    â€˜Sit down, do, by all means. But there’s nothing interesting to see, you know.’
    â€˜Oh, you’re too modest, inspector.’
    It was so naive that Maigret turned his head to hide a smile. He had brought everything to do with the case into the room with him. After making sure that the table, covered with an Indian tablecloth that had a reddish leaf pattern, could tell
him nothing, he had spread out all his files on it, from the medical examiner’s report to photos of the scene and the victim sent to him from Criminal Records that very morning. Finally, giving way to a feeling that was superstitious rather than scientific, he had put the picture of
Émile Gallet on the black marble mantelpiece, which had a copper candlestick on it by way of an ornament.
    There was no carpet on the varnished oak boards of the floor, on which the first officers to come on the scene had drawn the outline of the body they found there in chalk.
    In all the greenery outside the window there was a confused murmuring made up of birdsong, rustling leaves, the buzzing of flies and the distant clucking of chickens on the lane, all of it punctuated by the rhythmic blows of the hammer on the
anvil in the forge. Confused voices
sometimes came up from the terrace, or the sound of a cart crossing the suspension bridge.
    â€˜Well, you’re not short of documents! I’d never have thought …’
    But the inspector wasn’t listening. Calmly, taking little puffs at his pipe, he put a pair of black trousers on the floor where the corpse’s legs had lain. The fabric was such a fine weave that, after having been worn for some ten
years, judging by their shininess, they could surely have been worn for another ten.
    Maigret also laid out a percale shirt and, in its usual place, a starched shirt-front. However, there was no shape to this collection, and it was only when he put a pair of elastic-sided shoes at the ends of the trouser legs that it became both
absurd and touching.
    In fact it did not look like a body, it was more of a caricature, and it was so unexpected that the sergeant glanced at his companion and uttered an embarrassed little laugh.
    Maigret did not laugh. Heavy and bent on his task, he was walking up and down slowly, conscientiously. He examined the jacket and put it back in the travelling bag, after making sure that there was no hole in the fabric where the blade of the
knife had gone in. The waistcoat, which was torn level with its left pocket, took its place on the shirt-front.
    â€˜That’s how he was dressed,’ he said under his breath.
    He consulted one of the police photographs and adjusted his handiwork by giving his