Maigret's Dead Man by Georges Simenon

Either he’s
one of them or else it’s sacrilege.’
    She had put water for the coffee on to boil. She
was absolutely determined to make Maigret drink a cup. She explained to him that the Petit
Albert was a book of magic dating from the fourteenth or fifteenth century.
    â€˜But what if his name happens to be Albert?
And if he is really little?’ replied Maigret.
    â€˜As a matter of fact he is short, I know.
I’ve seen him many times. But that’s not a proper reason. There are matters with
which it is unwise to meddle.’
    About Albert’s wife, she said:
    â€˜Tall woman, dark hair, not very clean. I
wouldn’t like to eat anything she cooked. It always reeks of garlic.’
    â€˜How long have the shutters been
closed?’
    â€˜I don’t know. The day after the day
I saw the car I stayed in bed. I had flu. When I was up and about again, the café was shut.
I thought: and good riddance too.’
    â€˜Was it a noisy place?’
    â€˜No. Hardly anyone ever went there. But
those menworking the crane you can see on the wharf used to go there for
their lunch. There was also the cellarman from Cess the wine merchants. And men from the boats
would go there and have a drink at the counter.’
    She had asked particularly about which newspapers
her photo would be in.
    â€˜But I must insist that they don’t
say in print that I tell fortunes. It would be a bit like them saying that you’re just a
policeman on the beat.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t take offence.’
    â€˜It wouldn’t be good for me,
professionally.’
    Time to get moving! He was done with the old
woman. He had drunk his coffee and then Lucas and he had walked to the café on the corner.
It was Lucas who had automatically tried the lever handle of the door. It was open.
    That was odd. A small bar whose door had been
left unlocked for four days and had survived unscathed, with bottles on the shelves behind the
bar and cash in the till.
    The bottom of the walls was painted in shiny
brown gloss up to a metre from floor level, then pale-green above it. There were the same
advertising calendars as are found in every country café.
    Basically, the Petit Albert was not really as
Parisian as all that, or rather, like most Parisians, it had stuck to its country roots. Just by
looking at it, it was obvious it had been done out like this deliberately, with almost loving
care, and its like would have been found in any village in France.
    The same was true of the bedroom upstairs:
Maigret, with his hands in his pockets, had inspected the premises from top to bottom. Lucas had
followed him with someamusement because, with his overcoat and hat removed,
Maigret seemed to be actually taking possession of a new house. In less than half an hour, he
had made himself more or less at home and from time to time went and stood behind the bar.
    â€˜Well, one thing’s for sure: Nine
isn’t here.’
    He had looked everywhere for some trace of her
from cellar to attic and also searched the yard and the small garden, which was cluttered with
old chests and empty bottles.
    â€˜What do you think, Lucas?’
    â€˜I don’t know, sir.’
    In the bar there were just eight tables, four
arranged along one wall, with two facing them and the last two in the middle of the room, by the
stove. It was to one of the latter that the two men kept being drawn from time to time, because
the sawdust under the legs of one of the chairs had been carefully swept up.
    Why, if not to remove bloodstains?
    But who had cleared away the victim’s
plates and cutlery? Who had washed them and the wine glasses?
    â€˜Maybe they came back later?’
suggested Lucas.
    But there was one very curious thing. Whereas
everything in the whole place was neat and tidy, a bottle, just the one, had been opened and
left on the counter. Maigret had been careful not to touch it. It was a bottle of cognac, and it
could only be supposed