The Hanged Man of Saint-Pholien by Georges Simenon Page A

heels were starting to wear
     down on one side, and his clothes did not look as if anyone brushed them regularly.
     Jef Lombard was walking all the way to the station.
    Van Damme, sporting a large platinum
     signet ring on one finger, was wreathing himself in a fragrant cloud of cigar smoke
     heightened by the alcohol’s sharp bouquet. Off in the background, the
     proprietor could be heard on the phone, arranging for the car.
    Belloir was probably setting out from
     his new house for the marble portal of the bank, while his wife took their son for a
     walk along the avenues. Everyone would wish Belloir a good afternoon. His
     father-in-law was the biggest businessman around. His brothers-in-law were ‘in
     industry’. A bright future lay ahead of him.
    As for Janin, with his black goatee and
     his artistic
lavallière
bow tie, he was on his way to Paris – in third
     class, Maigret would have bet on it.
    And down at the bottom of the heap was
     the pale traveller of Neuschanz and Bremen, the husband of the herbalist in Rue
     Picpus, the milling machine operator from Rue de la Roquette, the solitary drinker
     who went to gaze at his wife through the shop window, sent himself
banknotes as if they were a package of old newspapers,
     bought sausages in rolls at a station buffet and shot himself in the mouth because
     he’d been robbed of an old suit that wasn’t even his.
    â€˜Ready, inspector?’
    Maigret flinched and stared in confusion
     at Van Damme, his gaze so vacant that the other man tried uneasily to laugh and
     botched it, stammering, ‘Were you daydreaming? Wherever you were, it was far
     away … I suspect it’s that suicide of yours you’re still
     worried about.’
    Not entirely. When startled from his
     reverie, Maigret – and even he did not know why – had been concentrating on an
     unusual list, counting up the children involved in this case: one in Rue Picpus, a
     small figure between his mother and grandmother in a shop smelling of mint and
     rubber; one in Rheims, who was learning to hold his elbow up by his chin while
     drawing his bow across the strings of a violin; two in Liège, in the home of Jef
     Lombard, where a third was on the way …
    â€˜One last Armagnac, what do you
     say?’
    â€˜Thank you: I’ve had
     enough.’
    â€˜Come on! We’ll have a
     stirrup cup, or in our case one for the road!’
    Only Joseph Van Damme laughed, as he
     constantly felt he must, like a little boy so afraid to go down into the cellar that
     he tries to whistle up some courage.

5. Breakdown at
     Luzancy
    As they drove at a fast clip through the
     gathering dusk, there was hardly a moment’s silence. Joseph Van Damme was
     never at a loss for words and, fuelled by the Armagnac, he managed to keep up a
     stream of convivial patter. The vehicle was an old sedan, a saloon car with worn
     cushions, flower holders and marquetry side pockets. The driver was wearing a trench
     coat, with a knitted scarf around his neck.
    They had been driving for about two
     hours when the driver pulled over to the side of the road and stopped at least a
     kilometre from a village, a few lights of which gleamed in the misty evening.
    After inspecting the rear wheels, the
     driver informed his passengers that he had found a flat tyre, which it would take
     him fifteen minutes or so to repair.
    The two men got out. The driver was
     already settling a jack under the rear axle and assured them that he did not need
     any help.
    Was it Maigret or Van Damme who
     suggested a short walk? Neither of them, actually; it seemed only natural for them
     to walk a little way along the road, where they noticed a path leading down to the
     rushing waters of a river.
    â€˜Look! The Marne!’ said Van
     Damme. ‘It’s in spate …’
    As they strolled slowly along the little
     path, smoking
their cigars, they heard a
     noise that puzzled them