The Hanged Man of Saint-Pholien by Georges Simenon

the clothes horse!
     Although he hasn’t done badly for himself, seeing as he married the daughter
     of Morvandeau, the one who’s in sprung mattresses. All Belloir’s
     brothers-in-law are in industry. And him? He’s sitting pretty in the bank,
     where he’ll wind up director one of these days.’
    â€˜And the short man with the
     beard?’ asked Maigret.
    â€˜That one … He may yet
     find his way and make good. Meanwhile, I think he’s feeling the pinch, poor
     devil. He’s a sculptor, in Paris. And talented, it seems – but what do you
     expect? You saw him, in that get-up from another century … Nothing modern
     about him! And no business sense.’
    â€˜Jef Lombard?’
    â€˜They don’t make them any
     better! In his younger days, he was a real joker, could keep you laughing yourself
     silly for hours on end. He was going to be a painter … He earned a living
     as a newspaper artist, then worked as a photoengraver in Liège. He’s married.
     I believe they’re expecting their third child.
    â€˜What I’m saying is, when I
     was with them I felt as if I couldn’t breathe! Those petty lives, with their
     petty preoccupations and worries … It isn’t their fault, but I
     can’t wait to get back to the business world.’
    He drained his glass and considered the
     almost deserted room, where a waiter at a table in the back was reading a
     newspaper.
    â€˜It’s settled, then?
     You’re returning to Paris with me?’
    â€˜But aren’t you travelling
     with the short bearded fellow who came with you?’
    â€˜Janin? No, by this time he has
     already taken the train back.’
    â€˜Married?’
    â€˜Not exactly. But he always has
     some girlfriend or other who lives with him for a week, a year – and then he gets a
     new one! Whom he always introduces as “Madame Janin”. Oh, waiter! The
     same again, here!’
    Maigret had to be careful, at times, not
     to let his eyes give away how keenly he was listening. He had left the address of
     the Café de Paris back at headquarters, and the proprietor now came over to tell him
     personally that he was wanted on the phone.
    News had been wired from Brussels to the
     Police Judiciaire:
The 30,000-franc notes were handed over by the Banque
     Générale de Belgique to one Louis Jeunet in payment of a cheque signed by
     Maurice Belloir.
    Opening the door to leave the telephone
     booth, Maigret saw that Van Damme, unaware that he was being observed, had allowed
     himself to drop his mask – and now seemed deflated and, above all, less glowing with
     health and optimism.
    He must have felt those watchful eyes on
     him, however, for he shuddered, automatically becoming the jovial businessman once
     again.
    â€˜We’re set, then?’ he
     called out. ‘You’re coming with me?
Patron!
Would you arrange
     for us to be picked up here by car and driven to Paris? A comfortable car! See to
     it, will you? And in the meantime, let’s have another.’
    He chewed on the end of his cigar and
     just for an instant, as he stared down at the marble table, his eyes lost their
     lustre, while the corners of his mouth drooped as if the tobacco had left a bitter
     taste in his mouth.
    â€˜It’s when you live abroad
     that you really appreciate the wines and liqueurs of France!’
    His words rang
     hollow, echoing in the abyss lying between them and the man’s troubled
     mind.
    Jef Lombard went by in the street, his
     silhouette slightly blurred by the tulle curtains. He was alone. He walked with long
     strides, slowly and sadly, seeing nothing of the city all around him.
    He was carrying an overnight bag, and
     Maigret found himself thinking about those two yellow
     suitcases … Lombard’s was of better quality, though, with two straps
     and a sleeve for a calling card. The man’s shoe