The Yellow Dog by Georges Simenon

playing the lord of the manor … One detail out of the hundreds: the brother is probably the biggest manufacturer in the district, and he told me: “I’m happy to buy my clothes in Brest. Nothing fancy – just substantial,
comfortable
clothes. But Yves would go to Paris to order his clothes. And he had to have hand-made shoes signed by a famous bootmaker! Even my wife doesn’t wear custom-made shoes.”’
    â€˜That’s a joke!’ said Maigret, to his companion’s great bewilderment, if not indignation.
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜All right, then, it’s magnificent. To use your own expression, we’re immersing ourselves in small-town life. And it’s just like it’s always been! Knowing whether Le Pommeret wore ready-made or custom-made shoes – that
may not seem like much. But, believe it or not, that’s the key to the story, right there … Let’s go and get an aperitif, Leroy – like those fellows did every day at the Admiral café!’
    Again Leroy looked at his chief to determine whether the man was making fun of him. He had been hoping for congratulations on his morning’s work and for all his enterprise.
    Instead, Maigret was behaving as though the whole thing were a joke!
    The effect was the same as when the teacher enters a classroom where the students are chattering. Conversation stopped. The reporters rushed up to the inspector.
    â€˜Can we report the doctor’s arrest? Has he confessed?’
    â€˜Nothing at all!’
    Maigret waved them aside and called to Emma, ‘Two Pernods, my dear.’
    â€˜But look, if you’ve arrested Michoux—’
    â€˜You want to know the truth?’
    They already had their notebooks in hand. They waited, pens at the ready.
    â€˜Well then, there is no truth yet. Maybe there will be some day. Maybe not.’
    â€˜We hear that Jean Goyard—’
    â€˜Is alive. So much the better for him.’
    â€˜But still, there’s a man in hiding, and they can’t find him.’
    â€˜Which goes to prove the hunter’s not as smart as the prey.’
    Taking Emma by the sleeve, Maigret said gently, ‘I’ll have my lunch in my room.’
    He drank his aperitif down straight and got to his feet.
    â€˜A piece of advice, gentlemen! No jumping to conclusions. And no deductions, above all.’
    â€˜What about the criminal?’
    He shrugged his broad shoulders and murmured: ‘Who knows?’
    He was already at the foot of the stairs. Leroy threw him a questioning look.
    â€˜No, my friend. You eat down here. I need a rest.’
    He climbed the stairs with heavy tread. Ten minutes later, Emma went up after him with a plate of hors d’œuvres.
    Then she carried up a
coquille St Jacques
and roast veal with spinach.
    In the dining room, conversation languished. One of the reporters was called to the phone.
    â€˜Around four o’clock, yes,’ he declared. ‘I hope to have something sensational for you … Not yet! We’ve got to wait …’
    All alone at a table, Leroy ate with the manners of a well-bred boy, regularly wiping his lips with the corner of his napkin.
    People outside kept an eye on the Admiral café, hoping vaguely for something to happen.
    A policeman leaned against the building at the end of the alleyway where the vagrant had disappeared.
    â€˜The mayor is on the phone, asking for Chief Inspector Maigret,’ Emma announced.
    Leroy jumped. ‘Go up and tell him,’ he said to her.
    The waitress left, but came right back and said, ‘He’s not there!’
    Leroy bounded up the stairs four at a time, returned very pale and snatched the receiver.
    â€˜Hello! … Yes,
Monsieur le Maire
 … I don’t know. I … I’m worried. The inspector is gone … No, that’s all I can tell you. He had lunch in his room. I didn’t see him