The Yellow Dog by Georges Simenon Page B

square appeared on a wall. ‘A light’s gone on in Emma’s room, right below us. That’s the reflection.’
    â€˜Have you had any dinner, inspector?’
    â€˜I brought some bread and sausage … Are you cold?’
    The two of them were frozen. They saw the glowing beam from the lighthouse sweep the sky at regular intervals.
    â€˜She’s turned out the light.’
    â€˜Yes. Shh!’
    Five minutes of silence, a bleak wait. Then Leroy’s hand reached for Maigret’s, clasped it meaningfully. ‘Look down.’
    â€˜I saw.’
    A shadow moved on the rough whitewashed wall that separated the garden of the vacant house from the alley.
    â€˜She’s going to meet him,’ whispered Leroy, who could not keep silent.
    Up above, the man was still asleep in the light of his candle. A currant bush swayed in the garden. A cat fled along a roof gutter.
    â€˜You wouldn’t have a lighter with a long wick, would you?’
    Maigret had not dared relight his pipe. After hesitating a long time, he finally screened himself with his companion’s jacket and scratched a match sharply. Leroy soon smelled the warm odour of tobacco again.
    â€˜Look!’
    They said nothing more. The man stood up so abruptly he nearly knocked the candle over. He drew back into the darkness as the door opened, and Emma appeared in the light, uncertain and so abject that she looked guilty.
    From under her arm, she took a bottle and a package and set them on the floor. The paper, peeled back, showed a roast chicken.
    She spoke. That is, her lips moved. She said only a few words, humbly, sadly. Her companion was out of sight of the two watchers.
    Was she crying? She still had on her black waitress’s dress and the Breton headdress. She had taken off only her white apron, and without it she looked even more woebegone.
    Yes, she must have been crying as she said those few halting words. This was confirmed when she suddenly leaned against the door frame and buried her face in the crook of her arm. Her back shuddered fitfully.
    The man suddenly appeared, blacking out nearly the whole square of the window, but he freed the view as he
strode across the room. His great hand hit the girl’s shoulder with such a jolt that she made
a complete turn, nearly fell, and raised her poor pale face to him, her lips swollen with sobs.
    But the scene was as indistinct, as hazy as a film when the house lights come up. And something was missing: sounds, voices … Like a film, a silent film without music.
    Now the man was talking, apparently harshly. He was a bear. His head was hunched into his shoulders, and his sweater showed off his chest muscles. With his fists on his hips, he seemed to be shouting reproaches, or insults, perhaps even
threats.
    He looked so close to hitting the girl that Leroy drew closer to Maigret, as if for reassurance.
    Emma was still weeping. Her headdress had slipped sideways. Her chignon was coming loose. A window slammed shut somewhere and brought a moment’s distraction.
    â€˜Inspector … shouldn’t we …’ Leroy began.
    The scent of tobacco enveloped the two men and gave them an illusion of warmth.
    Why was Emma clasping her hands? She was speaking again. Her face was distorted in an expression of fright, of pleading, of pain, and Leroy heard Maigret cock his revolver.
    A mere fifteen or twenty metres separated the two pairs. A sharp report, a shattered windowpane, and the giant would be in no condition to do harm.
    Now he was striding the length and breadth of the room, his hands behind his back. He seemed shorter, broader. His foot jostled the roast chicken. He nearly slipped and furiously kicked it into the shadow.
    Emma looked in that direction.
    What could the two of them be saying? What was the subject of their heartbreaking dialogue?
    The man seemed to be repeating the same words over again. But was it possible he was saying them