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

until they reached the riverbank.
    A hundred metres away, across the water,
     they saw the lock at Luzancy: its gates were closed, and there was no one around.
     Right at their feet was a dam, with its milky overspill, churning waters and
     powerful current. The Marne was running high.
    In the darkness they could just make out
     branches, perhaps entire trees, smashing repeatedly into the barrier until swept at
     last over its edge.
    The only light came from the lock, on
     the far side of the river.
    Joseph Van Damme kept talking away.
    â€˜Every year the Germans make
     tremendous efforts to harness the energy of rivers, and the Russians are right
     behind them: in the Ukraine they’re constructing a dam that’ll cost 120
     million dollars but will provide electricity to three provinces.’
    It was almost unnoticeable, the way his
     voice faltered – briefly – at the word electricity. And then, coughing, Van Damme
     had to take out his handkerchief to blow his nose.
    They were on the very brink of the
     river. Shoved suddenly from behind, Maigret lost his balance, turning as he fell
     forwards, and grabbed the edge of the grassy riverbank with both hands, his feet now
     in the water, while his hat was already plunging over the dam.
    The rest happened quickly, for he had
     been expecting that push. Clods of earth were giving way under his right hand, but
     he had spotted a branch sturdy enough for him to cling to with his other hand.
    Only seconds later, he was on his knees
     on the towpath and then on his feet, shouting at a figure fading away.
    â€˜Stop!’
    It was strange: Van Damme didn’t
     dare run. He was heading towards the car in only a modest hurry and kept looking
     back, his legs wobbly with shock.
    And he allowed himself to be overtaken.
     With his head down and pulled like a turtle’s into the collar of his overcoat,
     he simply swung his fist once through the air, in rage, as if he were pounding on an
     imaginary table and growled through clenched teeth, ‘Idiot!’
    Just to be safe, Maigret had brought out
     his revolver. Gun in hand, without taking his eyes off the other man, he shook the
     legs of his trousers, soaked to the knees, while water spurted from his shoes.
    Back at the road, the driver was tapping
     on the horn to let them know that the car was roadworthy again.
    â€˜Let’s go!’ said the
     inspector.
    And they took their same seats in the
     car, in silence. Van Damme still had his cigar between his teeth but he would not
     meet Maigret’s eyes.
    Ten kilometres. Twenty kilometres. They
     slowed down to go through a town, where people were going about their business in
     the lighted streets. Then it was back to the highway.
    â€˜You still can’t arrest me,
     though,’ said Van Damme abruptly, and Maigret started with surprise. And yet
     these words – so unexpected, spoken so slowly, even stubbornly – had echoed his own
     misgivings …
    They reached Meaux. Countryside gave way
     to the outer suburbs. A light rain began to fall, and whenever the car passed a
     streetlamp, each drop became a star. Then the inspector leaned forwards to speak
     into the voice-pipe.
    â€˜You’re to take us to the Police Judiciaire, Quai des
     Orfèvres.’
    He filled a pipe he could not smoke
     because his matches were now wet. Van Damme’s face was almost completely
     turned away from him and further obscured in the dim light, but he could sense the
     man’s fury.
    There was now a hard edge to the
     atmosphere, something rancorous and intense.
    Maigret himself had his chin thrust out
     belligerently.
    This tension led to a ridiculous
     incident after the car pulled up in front of the Préfecture and the men got out, the
     inspector first.
    â€˜Come along!’
    The driver was waiting to be paid, but
     Van Damme was ignoring him. There was a moment of hesitation, indecision.
    â€˜Well?’ said Maigret, not