The Yellow Dog by Georges Simenon Page A

come
down … I … I’ll phone you back.’
    Leroy, who had not put his napkin down, used it now to wipe his brow.

7. The Couple by Candlelight
    Half an hour later, Leroy went up to his own room. On his table, he found a note in Morse code.
Go up to the roof tonight at eleven. Let no one see you. I’ll be there. No noise. Bring gun. Say that I left for Brest and phoned you from there. Don’t leave hotel. Maigret.
    A little before eleven, Leroy took off his shoes and put on some felt slippers he had bought that afternoon expressly for this expedition. He was somewhat apprehensive.
    At the third floor, the staircase ended, but a fixed ladder led to a trapdoor in the ceiling. In the icy, draughty attic above, Leroy took the risk of lighting a match.
    A few moments later, he climbed out through a skylight, but he didn’t dare move down towards the eaves immediately. It was bitterly cold. His fingers froze on contact with the zinc shingles. And he had decided, unfortunately, not to saddle
himself with an overcoat.
    When his eyes adapted to the darkness, he seemed to make out a darker, stocky mass, like a huge animal lying in wait. He smelled pipe smoke and whistled softly.
    A moment later he was crouched on the ledge next to Maigret. Neither the sea nor the town was visible; they were on the slope of the roof facing away from the quay and over a dark chasm that was the very alleyway through which the big-footed man
had escaped.
    The view was made up of irregular planes: there were
some very low roofs and others at eye level. Some windows were lighted here and there. A few had blinds drawn, and a kind of Chinese shadow play moved
across them. In a distant room, a woman was washing a baby in an enamel basin.
    The inspector moved, or, rather, shuffled, his large bulk over until his mouth was pressed to his companion’s ear.
    â€˜Be careful! No sudden movements. The ledge isn’t too solid, and right below us there’s a gutter pipe that could fall off at any moment and make a racket. What about the reporters?’
    â€˜They’re downstairs, except for one, who’s gone to look for you in Brest. He’s convinced you’re on Goyard’s trail.’
    â€˜Emma?’
    â€˜I don’t know. I wasn’t keeping track of her … She did serve me coffee after dinner.’
    It was unsettling to be up here, unsuspected, on top of a house full of life – people moving around in warmth, in light, with no need to lower their voices.
    â€˜Now – turn carefully towards the house that’s for sale … Careful!’
    The house was the second to the right, one of the few as tall as the hotel. It was part of a block of total darkness, and yet the inspector made out what seemed to be a glint reflecting off a curtainless window on the third floor.
    Little by little, he realized that it was not a reflection from outside, but a feeble light inside. He stared at that single point until things began to take shape. A shiny floor … a half-consumed candle, its flame burning straight up,
ringed by a halo.
    â€˜He’s there!’ Leroy said suddenly, louder than he intended.
    â€˜Shh! Yes.’
    Someone was lying on the bare floor, half in candlelight, half in shadow. An enormous shoe, a broad torso moulded by a sailor’s sweater.
    Leroy knew that there was a policeman at the end of the alley, another in the square, and still another patrolling the quay.
    â€˜Do you want to arrest him?’
    â€˜I don’t know. He’s been sleeping for three hours now.’
    â€˜Is he armed?’
    â€˜He wasn’t this morning.’
    Their words were scarcely audible: an indistinct murmur, almost like breathing.
    â€˜What are we waiting for?’
    â€˜I’m not sure. I’d like to know why he’s kept a candle burning while he’s asleep, especially when people are after him … Look!’
    A yellow