worry. Iâve lit the
stove. In a while Iâll make myself a grog.â
âWonât you get any sleep
tonight?â
âOf course I will. I have a choice between
a bed and a couch.â
âAre the sheets clean?â
âThere are clean ones in a cupboard on the
landing.â
In fact, it meant remaking the bed with cold
sheets and sleeping in them. He thought about it and opted for the couch.
Moers left around one in the morning. Maigret
refilled the stove to the top, made himself a stiff grog, checked that everything was in order
and, after bolting the door, climbed up the spiral staircase on leaden legs like a man on his
way to bed.
There was a dressing gown in the wardrobe, blue,
madeof soft flannel with artificial silk lapels. But it was far too small
and not broad enough for him. The slippers at the foot of the bed werenât his size
either.
He kept his socks on, wrapped himself in a
blanket and settled on the couch with a pillow under his head. The upstairs windows did not have
shutters. The light from a gas streetlamp came through the elaborately patterned curtains and
cast baroque shapes on the walls.
He looked at them through half-closed eyes as he
puffed gently on one last pipe. He was acclimatizing himself. He was trying the house for size,
just as he might have tried a new coat. The smell of the place was already becoming familiar. It
was sweet and tart at the same time and it reminded him of the country.
Why had the photos of Nine been removed? Why had
she disappeared, deserting her home, without even taking the money in the till? True, it
amounted to less than a hundred francs. Obviously Albert kept his money somewhere else, and that
was what the intruders had taken just as they had taken all his private papers.
The oddest thing was that a thorough search of
the whole building had been made without disturbing anything or producing any mess whatsoever.
The clothes in the wardrobe had been checked through but had not been removed from their
hangers. Photos had been torn from their frames but the frames had been put back on their
nails.
Maigret fell asleep and when he heard someone
knocking on the shutters downstairs he would have sworn that he had dropped off only a few
minutes before.
But it was seven
oâclock and light. The sun was shining on the Seine, where the barges were beginning to
move and tugs were sounding their hooters.
He took a moment to slip his shoes on without
doing up the laces and went down the stairs, hair uncombed, collar unbuttoned and his jacket
creased.
It was Chevrier and a rather good-looking woman
wearing a blue two-piece suit and a small red hat on her frizzed hair.
âHere we are, sir.â
Chevrier had been with the Police Judiciaire for
only three or four years. He did not look like a goat, as his name suggested, but more like a
sheep; the contours of his face and body were soft and round. The woman tugged him by the
sleeve. He understood and stammered:
âSorry! Detective chief inspector, may I
introduce my wife?â
âNo need to worry,â she said
pluckily. âIâve done this before. My mother used to run the inn in our village and
sometimes, with just a couple of serving girls to help us, weâd lay on wedding receptions
for fifty or more people.â
She walked straight to the percolator and asked
her husband: âPass me your matches.â
The gas went âpftâ, and a few minutes
later a smell of coffee spread through the house.
Chevrier had taken good care to wear black
trousers and a white shirt. He too was dressed for the part. He took his place behind the
counter and moved a few things round.
âShall we open?â
âYes. It must be time.â
âWhich of us will get
the groceries?â asked the wife.
âIn a while I want you to take a taxi and
buy what you need from wherever is closest.â
âWill fricandeau of veal with sorrel be all
right?â
She had