inspector concluded. He was just reaching the nettle lane. On one
side of him was the whitewashed wall enclosing Saint-Hilaireâs grounds. On the other
rose a single-storey building, part of the Hôtel de la Loire. The ground here was overgrown with long grass, brambles and dead nettles, and the wasps were revelling in it all. The oak trees cast a comfortable shade on the avenue, which ended at an old, beautifully worked gate.
Maigret felt curious enough to go up to this gate, which, according to the owner of the property, had not been opened for years and had lost its key. As soon as he looked at the lock, covered with a thick layer of rust, he noticed that in some
places that rust had recently been chipped away. This was better! He took out a magnifying glass and saw, without a shadow of doubt, that a key had left scratch marks as it went into the complicated wards of the lock.
Iâll get that photographed tomorrow, he thought, making a mental note.
He retraced his steps, head bent, rearranging the picture he had of Monsieur Gallet in his mindâs eye, bringing it to light, so to speak. But instead of filling out and becoming more comprehensible, was it not more evasive than ever? The
face of the man in the tight-fitting jacket was blurred to the point of having nothing human about it.
Instead of the portrait photo, the only tangible and theoretically complete picture of the murder victim that Maigret had, he saw fleeting images which ought to have made up nothing but one and the same man, but refused to be superimposed into a
single whole.
Once again the inspector saw the half of his face, the thin and hairy chest, as he had seen it in the school playground while the doctor danced up and down with impatience behind his back. He also called up images of
the blue skiff that Ãmile Gallet had made in Saint-Fargeau, and the perfectly fashioned fishing tackle, Madame Gallet in mauve silk and then in full mourning, the quintessence of the discreet and formal middle class.
He thought of the wardrobe with the full-length mirror. Gallet must have stood in front of it as he put on his jacket â¦Â And all that correspondence on the letterheads of the firm that he didnât work for any longer. The monthly
statements that he drew up carefully, eighteen years after giving up his job as a commercial traveller!
Those goblets and cake slices
that he had to buy himself
!
Wait a minute, his case of samples hasnât been found yet, thought Maigret in passing. He must have left it somewhere â¦
He had automatically stopped a few metres from the window through which the murderer had aimed at his victim. However, he was not even looking at the window. He was feeling slightly feverish because, at certain moments, he had the impression that
with a bit of effort he would be able to reunite all the aspects of Ãmile Gallet into a single image.
But then he thought of Henry again, both as he knew him, stiffly upright and disdainful, and as a boy with an asymmetrical face ready for his First Communion.
This case, described by Inspector Grenier of Nevers as âan annoying little caseâ, and one that Maigret had tackled reluctantly, was visibly growing larger as the dead man was transformed to the point of becoming a truly outlandish
figure.
Ten times, Maigret brushed aside a wasp hovering close to his head with a noise like a miniature aeroplane.
âEighteen years!â he said under his breath.
Eighteen years of forged letters signed Niel, of postcards sent on from Rouen, and all the time he was living his ordinary little life at Saint-Fargeau, without luxuries, without any emotional
complications!
The inspector knew the mentality of malefactors, criminals and crooks. He knew that you always find some kind of passion at the root of it.
And that was exactly what he was looking for in the bearded face, the leaden eyelids, the excessively wide mouth.
He made perfectly constructed fishing
side of him was the whitewashed wall enclosing Saint-Hilaireâs grounds. On the other
rose a single-storey building, part of the Hôtel de la Loire. The ground here was overgrown with long grass, brambles and dead nettles, and the wasps were revelling in it all. The oak trees cast a comfortable shade on the avenue, which ended at an old, beautifully worked gate.
Maigret felt curious enough to go up to this gate, which, according to the owner of the property, had not been opened for years and had lost its key. As soon as he looked at the lock, covered with a thick layer of rust, he noticed that in some
places that rust had recently been chipped away. This was better! He took out a magnifying glass and saw, without a shadow of doubt, that a key had left scratch marks as it went into the complicated wards of the lock.
Iâll get that photographed tomorrow, he thought, making a mental note.
He retraced his steps, head bent, rearranging the picture he had of Monsieur Gallet in his mindâs eye, bringing it to light, so to speak. But instead of filling out and becoming more comprehensible, was it not more evasive than ever? The
face of the man in the tight-fitting jacket was blurred to the point of having nothing human about it.
Instead of the portrait photo, the only tangible and theoretically complete picture of the murder victim that Maigret had, he saw fleeting images which ought to have made up nothing but one and the same man, but refused to be superimposed into a
single whole.
Once again the inspector saw the half of his face, the thin and hairy chest, as he had seen it in the school playground while the doctor danced up and down with impatience behind his back. He also called up images of
the blue skiff that Ãmile Gallet had made in Saint-Fargeau, and the perfectly fashioned fishing tackle, Madame Gallet in mauve silk and then in full mourning, the quintessence of the discreet and formal middle class.
He thought of the wardrobe with the full-length mirror. Gallet must have stood in front of it as he put on his jacket â¦Â And all that correspondence on the letterheads of the firm that he didnât work for any longer. The monthly
statements that he drew up carefully, eighteen years after giving up his job as a commercial traveller!
Those goblets and cake slices
that he had to buy himself
!
Wait a minute, his case of samples hasnât been found yet, thought Maigret in passing. He must have left it somewhere â¦
He had automatically stopped a few metres from the window through which the murderer had aimed at his victim. However, he was not even looking at the window. He was feeling slightly feverish because, at certain moments, he had the impression that
with a bit of effort he would be able to reunite all the aspects of Ãmile Gallet into a single image.
But then he thought of Henry again, both as he knew him, stiffly upright and disdainful, and as a boy with an asymmetrical face ready for his First Communion.
This case, described by Inspector Grenier of Nevers as âan annoying little caseâ, and one that Maigret had tackled reluctantly, was visibly growing larger as the dead man was transformed to the point of becoming a truly outlandish
figure.
Ten times, Maigret brushed aside a wasp hovering close to his head with a noise like a miniature aeroplane.
âEighteen years!â he said under his breath.
Eighteen years of forged letters signed Niel, of postcards sent on from Rouen, and all the time he was living his ordinary little life at Saint-Fargeau, without luxuries, without any emotional
complications!
The inspector knew the mentality of malefactors, criminals and crooks. He knew that you always find some kind of passion at the root of it.
And that was exactly what he was looking for in the bearded face, the leaden eyelids, the excessively wide mouth.
He made perfectly constructed fishing
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