The Hanged Man of Saint-Pholien by Georges Simenon Page B

– presumably the artist’s wife – in a flattering way.
    When Maigret looked around the room he
     was not surprised to find more hanged men. The best ones, considered good enough to
     frame!
    â€˜You’ll have a glass of
     genever?’
    The inspector could feel Van Damme
     glaring coldly at him, obviously infuriated by the whole situation.
    â€˜You were saying a moment ago that
     you knew Jean Lecocq d’Arneville …’
    Steps sounded on the floor above,
     probably from the lying-in room.
    â€˜But only casually,’ the
     distracted father replied, listening intently to the faint whimpering of the
     new-born infant.
    And raising his
     glass, he exclaimed, ‘To the health of my little girl! And my wife!’
    Turning abruptly away, he drained his
     glass in one go, then went to the sideboard and pretended to look for something
     while he recovered from his emotions, but Maigret still caught the soft hiccup of a
     stifled sob.
    â€˜I’m sorry, I have to go up
     there! On a day like today …’
    Maigret and Van Damme had not exchanged
     one word. As they crossed the courtyard, passing by the fountain, the inspector
     glanced with a faint smile at the other man, wondering what he would do next.
    Once out in the street, however, Van
     Damme simply touched the brim of his hat and strode off to the right.
    There aren’t many taxis in Liège.
     Unfamiliar with the tram lines, Maigret walked back to the Hôtel du Chemin de Fer,
     where he had lunch and made inquiries about the local newspapers.
    At two o’clock, he entered the
La Meuse
newspaper building at the very moment when Joseph Van Damme
     was leaving it: the two men passed silently within arm’s reach of each
     other.
    â€˜He’s still one step ahead
     of me!’ Maigret grumbled under his breath.
    When he asked the usher with his silver
     chain of office about consulting the newspaper’s archives, he was told to fill
     out an authorization form and wait for its approval.
    Maigret thought over certain striking
     details in his case: Armand Lecocq d’Arneville had told him that his brother
     had left Liège at around the same time that Jef Lombard was drawing hanged men with
     such morbid fascination.
    And clothing B,
     which the tramp of Neuschanz and Bremen had carried around in the yellow suitcase,
     was at least six years old, according to the German technician,
and perhaps even
     ten …
    And now Joseph Van Damme had turned up
     at
La Meuse
! Didn’t that tell the inspector something?
    The usher showed Maigret into a room
     with heavy formal furniture, where the parquet gleamed like a skating rink.
    â€˜Which year’s collection do
     you wish to consult?’
    Maigret had already noticed the enormous
     cardboard cases arrayed around the entire room, each containing the issues of a
     particular year.
    â€˜I’ll find it myself, thank
     you.’
    The room smelled of polish, musty paper
     and formal luxury. On the moleskin tabletop were reading stands to hold the
     cumbersome volumes. Everything was so neat, so clean, so austere that the inspector
     hardly dared take his pipe from his pocket.
    In a few moments he was leafing page by
     page through the newspapers of the ‘year of the hanged men’.
    Thousands of headlines streamed past his
     gaze, some recalling events of worldwide importance, others dealing with local
     incidents: a big department store fire (a full page for three days running), an
     alderman’s resignation, an increase in tram fares.
    Suddenly: torn newsprint, all along the
     binding. The daily paper for 15 February had been ripped out.
    Hurrying into the reception room,
     Maigret fetched the usher.
    â€˜Someone came here before I did,
     isn’t that right? And it was this same collection he asked for?’
    â€˜Yes. He was
     here only five minutes or so.’
    â€˜Are you from Liège? Do you
     remember what happened back