Friend of Madame Maigret by Georges Simenon

clients either.
    â€œAnd yet he came to see you that day. Did you send for him or did someone you know send him to you?”
    â€œI forbid you to answer.”
    But the Fleming made a gesture of impatience.
    â€œHe came on his own.”
    â€œYou are referring to Maître Liotard, aren’t you?”
    Then the bookbinder looked at each of the men around him, and his eyes twinkled as if he took a certain personal delight in putting his lawyer in an embarrassing position.
    â€œYes, Maître Liotard.”
    The latter turned to the police clerk, who was writing.
    â€œYou have no right to record these answers, which have nothing to do with the case. I did, in fact, go to see Steuvels, whose reputation was known to me, to ask him if he could do a binding job for me. Is that correct?”
    â€œThat’s correct.”
    Why on earth was a malicious little spark dancing in the bright pupils of the Fleming’s eyes?
    â€œIt was actually about an ex libris with the family crest—yes, indeed, Monsieur Maigret, my grandfather was known as the Comte de Liotard and voluntarily stopped using his title when he lost all his money. So I wanted a family crest and came to Steuvels, whom I knew to be the best binder in Paris, though I had been told he was terribly busy.”
    â€œYou didn’t talk to him about anything except your crest?”
    â€œPardon me. It seems that you are now interrogating me. Monsieur le Juge, this is your office, and I have no intention of being taken to task by a member of the police. Even when it was my client who was concerned I had serious objections. But for a member of the Bar . . .”
    â€œHave you any other questions to put to Steuvels, chief inspector?”
    â€œNo more, thank you.”
    It was funny. It still seemed to him that the bookbinder was not annoyed at what had happened and that he was even looking at him with newfound liking.
    As for the lawyer, he was sitting down again, picking up a file in which he pretended to be absorbed.
    â€œYou’ll find me in any time you want me, Maître Liotard. Do you know my office? The last but one on the left, at the end of the corridor.”
    He smiled at Judge Dossin, who was not feeling very comfortable, and walked toward the little door that connects Police Headquarters with the Palais de Justice.
    The place was more of a beehive than ever, telephones in use behind every door, people waiting at every corner, inspectors rushing up and down the corridors.
    â€œI think there’s someone waiting for you in your office, chief inspector.”
    When he pushed the door open, he found Fernande alone with young Lapointe, who, sitting in Maigret’s place, was listening to her and taking notes. He stood up in some confusion. The bookbinder’s wife was wearing a beige belted gabardine raincoat and a hat of the same stuff, without a trace of stylishness.
    â€œHow is he?” she asked. “Have you just seen him? Is he still up there?”
    â€œHe’s getting on very well. He admits that Liotard called at the studio on the afternoon of the twenty-first.”
    â€œA more disturbing thing has just happened,” she said. “Please, you must take what I’m about to tell you seriously. This morning I left the rue de Turenne as usual to take his dinner to the Santé. You know the little enamel casseroles I put it in?
    â€œI took the métro at the Saint-Paul station and changed at the Châtelet. I’d bought a paper on the way because I hadn’t had time to read one.
    â€œThere was a seat near the door. I sat down in it and began the article—you know the one I mean.
    â€œI had put the stack of casseroles on the floor beside me and I could feel the heat from them against my leg.
    â€œThere must have been a train due to leave because a few stations before Montparnasse a lot of people got into the carriage, a good many of them had suitcases.
    â€œI was busy reading and