The Late Monsieur Gallet by Georges Simenon

because
he’s always been very fond of her, and he foresaw that she’d
try to turn him against me … I’m not a young girl any more! There are five years between us. And, after all, I’ve been his mistress. I can’t wait
to hear that the murderer is behind bars, especially for Henry’s sake. He’s clever enough to know that his meeting with his father could give rise to terrible suspicions.’
    Maigret went on looking at her with the same surprise. He was wondering why this behaviour, which after all did her some credit, did not move him. Even as she uttered those last phrases with a certain vehemence, Éléonore Boursang was still in
control of herself. He moved the papers to show a large photo from Criminal Records of the corpse as it had been found, and the young woman’s eyes moved over the disturbing image without lingering on it.
    â€˜Have you found out anything yet?’ she asked.
    â€˜Do you know a Monsieur Jacob?’
    She raised her eyes to him as if inviting him to see the sincerity in them. ‘No, I don’t know the name. Who is he? The murderer?’
    â€˜Perhaps,’ he said, as he went towards the door.
    Ã‰léonore Boursang left in much the same way as she had come into the room. ‘May I come to see you now and then, inspector, to ask if you have any news?’
    â€˜Whenever you like.’
    The sergeant was waiting patiently in the corridor. When the visitor had disappeared, he cast an inquiring glance at the inspector.
    â€˜What did you find out at the station?’ Maigret asked.
    â€˜The young man took the Paris train at eleven thirty-two with a third-class return ticket.’
    â€˜And the crime was committed between eleven and half
past twelve,’ murmured the inspector thoughtfully. ‘If you hurried you could get from here to Tracy-Sancerre in ten minutes. The
murderer could have done the deed between eleven and eleven twenty. If it takes ten minutes to reach the station, then you wouldn’t need any longer to get back … so Gallet could have been killed between eleven forty-five and half past twelve
by someone coming back from
the station …
Except there’s that business of the barred gate! And what the devil was Émile Gallet doing on the wall?’
    The sergeant was sitting in the same place as before, nodding his approval and waiting to hear what followed. But nothing followed.
    â€˜Come on, let’s go and have an aperitif!’ said Maigret.

6. The Meeting on the Wall
    â€˜Still nothing?’
    â€˜â€¦Â 
bution!
’
    â€˜What word did you say just now?’
    â€˜
Preparations.
At least, I suppose so. The
ions
bit is missing. Or it could be
preparation
, singular. Or
preparatory
.’
    Maigret sighed, shrugged his shoulders and left the cool room, where a tall, thin, red-haired young man with a tired face and the phlegmatic manner typical of northerners had been bending over a table since that morning, devoting himself to work
that would have discouraged even a monk. His name was Joseph Moers, and his accent showed that he was of Flemish origin. He worked in the labs of Criminal Records and had come to Sancerre at Maigret’s request, to set up shop in the dead man’s hotel room, where he had arranged his
instruments, including a strange kind of spirit stove.
    He had hardly looked up since seven in the morning, except when the inspector entered the room abruptly or stood at the window looking out on the nettle lane.
    â€˜Anything?’
    â€˜I … you …’
    â€˜Huh?’
    â€˜I’ve just found an
I
and a
you
, except that the
u
is missing too.’
    He had spread out some very thin sheets of glass on
the table, and as he went along with his work was coating them with liquid glue heated on the spirit stove. From time to time he went over to the
fireplace, delicately picked up one of the pieces of burned paper and put it