Maigret's Dead Man by Georges Simenon Page A

that whoever had helped himself – or themselves – had not
bothered with glasses but had drunk straight from the bottle.
    The unknown visitors had been upstairs. They hadrummaged through all the drawers but had stuffed underwear and other
contents back inside them before shutting them again.
    The oddest thing of all was that two frames
hanging on the bedroom wall, which had probably contained photographs, were now empty.
    It was not Albert’s appearance that they
had wanted to suppress: there was another picture of him standing on the chest of drawers:
cheerful, round face, kiss-curl over his forehead, the look of a comedian about him, just as the
owner of the Caves du Beaujolais had said.
    A taxi pulled up outside. The sound of footsteps
on the pavement. Maigret walked to the door and drew back the bolt.
    â€˜Come in,’ he said to Moers, who was
carrying a rather heavy case. ‘Have you eaten? No? Would you like an aperitif?’
    It turned out to be one of the most curious
evenings and strangest nights of his life. From time to time he would go and watch Moers, who
had set to work on a lengthy task, looking everywhere, first in the bar itself, then the
kitchen, the bedroom, in all the rooms in the building, for the faintest trace of
fingerprints.
    â€˜Whoever picked up this bottle
first,’ he said, ‘was wearing rubber gloves.’
    He had also taken samples of sawdust from near
the all-important table. Meanwhile, Maigret had searched a dustbin and found remnants of
cod.
    Only a few hours earlier his dead man had no name
and in Maigret’s mind he had been just a blurred figure. Nownot only
did they have a photo of him, but he was living in his house, using his tables and chairs,
fingering the clothes which had belonged to him and handling objects which had been his. Almost
the moment they had arrived it was with a certain satisfaction that he had pointed out to Lucas
a coat on a clothes hanger upstairs: it was a jacket made of the same material as the dead
man’s trousers.
    In other words, he had been right. Albert had
come home and changed his clothes, as was his habit.
    â€˜Do you think, Moers, old son, that
it’s very long since anyone was here?’
    â€˜I’d say someone was here
today,’ replied the young man, after examining the traces of alcohol on the counter next
to the open bottle.
    It was quite possible. The place had been left
wide open to all and sundry. But pedestrians passing by didn’t know. When people see
closed shutters, it rarely occurs to them to try the handle of the door to see if it is
locked.
    â€˜So they were looking for something,
right?’
    â€˜That’s my view too.’
    Something not too big, most likely some sort of
paper, because they had even opened a very small cardboard box which had contained a pair of
earrings.
    Odd was the word for the dinner which Maigret and
Moers had eaten together in the bar of the café. Maigret had taken charge of serving it up.
In the pantry he had found sausage, tins of sardines and some Dutch cheese. He had gone down to
the cellar and tapped a barrel, which gave a muddy, bluish wine. There were also full bottles of
wine, but he had not touched them.
    â€˜Are you going to stay
here, chief?’
    â€˜Certainly. I don’t suppose anyone
will show up tonight, but I don’t feel like going home.’
    â€˜Do you want me to keep you
company?’
    â€˜Thanks, old son, but no. I’d much
rather you went straight off and started on your analyses.’
    Moers missed nothing, not even the woman’s
hair caught in a large-toothed comb on the dressing table upstairs. Very few sounds drifted in
from outside. Passers-by were rare. From time to time, especially after midnight, there was the
roar of a lorry coming in from the outskirts on its way to Les Halles.
    Maigret had phoned his wife.
    â€˜Are you sure you’re not going to
catch another cold?’
    â€˜Don’t