A Man's Head by Georges Simenon

conspicuous was a man whose hair alone could not fail to attract attention. It was red, curly and exceptionally long.
    He wore a dark suit which was shiny and tired, and a blue shirt with no tie. His collar was undone, and the shirt open on his chest.
    He was ensconced at the far end of the bar, and the way he sat marked him out as a fixture, a regular whom no one would dare disturb. He was eating a pot of yogurt, spoonful by spoonful.
    Were there even five francs in his pocket? Where had he come from? Where was he going? And how did he manage to get hold of the few coins he needed to pay for the yogurt, which was probably his only meal of the day?
    Like the Russian girl, he had an eager gleam in his eyes and tired-looking eyelids, but there was also something infinitely disdainful and haughty in the cast of his features.
    No one went out of their way to shake his hand or speak to him.
    Suddenly, the revolving door admitted a man and woman, and in the mirror Maigret recognized the Crosbys, who had just got out of an American car worth at least 250,000 francs.
    He could see it parked at the kerb. It was all the more eye-catching because the bodywork was entirely nickel-plated.
    William Crosby held his hand over the mahogany counter between two customers who stood to one side, shook the bartender’s fingers and said:
    â€˜How are you today, Bob?’
    Meanwhile Mrs Crosby rushed over to the blonde Swedish girl, kissed her cheek and started speaking volubly in English.
    None of them needed to order. Bob steered a whisky and soda in Crosby’s direction, made a Jack Rose for the girl and asked:
    â€˜Back from Biarritz so soon?’
    â€˜We only stayed three days. It rains down there even more than it does here.’
    Then Crosby caught sight of Maigret and nodded to him.
    He was a tall man of about thirty, with brown hair, and he moved with loose-limbed grace.
    Of all those assembled in the bar at that moment, he was the one whose elegant appearance was freest of bad taste.
    He shook hands perfunctorily and asked friends:
    â€˜What’ll you have?’
    He was rich. At the door was a sports car, which he used for driving to Nice, Biarritz, Deauville or Berlin, as the fancy took him.
    He had lived in a palace in Avenue Georges-V for a number of years and from his aunt had inherited, in addition to the villa at Saint-Cloud, fifteen or twenty million francs.
    Mrs Crosby was petite but vivacious and she never stopped talking, mixing English and French with an inimitable accent all in a high-pitched voice which was enough for anyone to identify her without actually having to see her.
    Maigret was separated from them by a number of customers. A member of parliament he knew walked in and shook the young American’s hand warmly.
    â€˜Shall we have lunch together?’
    â€˜Not today. We’ve been invited out.’
    â€˜Tomorrow then?’
    â€˜Fine. Let’s meet here.’
    A messenger boy came in and called: ‘Telephone for Monsieur Valachine!’
    A man stood up and made for the phone booths.
    â€˜Two Jack Roses, two!’
    The clatter of plates. Background noise which grew louder.
    â€˜Can you change some dollars for me?’
    â€˜Check the exchange rate in the paper.’
    â€˜Suzy not here?’
    â€˜She just left. I think she’s having lunch at Maxim’s.’
    Maigret had a thought for the fugitive with the hydrocephalic head and long arms who was submerged in the madding crowd of Paris with just a little over twenty francs in his pocket and was even then being hunted high and low by the entire police
force of France.
    He remembered the pale face he had seen slowly climbing up the dark wall of the Santé.
    Then Dufour’s voice on the phone:
    â€˜
He’s sleeping
 …’
    He’d slept for a whole day!
    Where was he now? And why, yes, why on earth would he have killed this Mrs Henderson, whom he’d never met and from whom he had stolen