The Night at the Crossroads by Georges Simenon Page B

I’m a stand-up guy and innocent as a baby.” What really interests me about this
whole thing is the cars – because when you get right down to it, the case revolves around cars …’
    Half past eleven! Maigret stood up.
    â€˜Another phone call to make.’
    With a worried frown, he asked for police headquarters and told an inspector to send the description of Andersen’s little car out to all police stations as well as the border posts.
    The four aperitifs Monsieur Oscar had put away had brought a gleam to his eyes and roses to his cheeks.
    â€˜Oh, I know you’ll refuse to join us for some veal ragout.
Especially seeing as we eat in the kitchen here … Ah! Here’s Groslumeau’s lorry back from Les Halles: you must
excuse me, chief inspector …’
    He went outside. Maigret was left alone with the young woman, who was tending to her ragout with a wooden spoon.
    â€˜Quite a card, your husband!’
    â€˜Yes … He’s a cheerful sort.’
    â€˜And gets tough at times, right?’
    â€˜He doesn’t like being contradicted. But he’s a good fellow.’
    â€˜Chases a few skirts?’
    No reply.
    â€˜I bet he goes out on the town now and again.’
    â€˜Like all men …’
    Her voice had turned bitter. They could hear snatches of conversation over by the garage.
    â€˜Put that over there! … Good! … Yes … We’ll change your back tyres tomorrow morning.’
    Monsieur Oscar returned in a fine humour, as if he felt like singing and playing the fool.
    â€˜Come on! Sure you won’t tuck into some lunch with us, chief inspector? We could bring up a bottle from the cellar! … Why are you making that face, Germaine? … Women! Moody things, always changing on
you.’
    â€˜I’ve got to get back to Avrainville,’ announced Maigret.
    â€˜Should I drive you back? Wouldn’t take a minute …’
    â€˜No, thank you. I’d rather walk.’
    Maigret stepped outside into a bath of warm sunshine, and on the road to Avrainville a yellow butterfly led the way.
    A hundred metres from the inn he encountered Sergeant Lucas, who had come out to meet him.
    â€˜Well?’
    â€˜You called it! The doctor extracted the bullet, which did come from a rifle.’
    â€˜Nothing else?’
    â€˜Yes, there’s information from Paris. Isaac Goldberg arrived there in a Minerva sports car he used for travelling and which he drove himself. That’s the car he must have driven here from Paris.’
    â€˜And that’s all?’
    â€˜We’re still waiting for replies from the Belgian police.’
    The driver of the hired car that had delivered Madame Goldberg to her own death had left in his vehicle.
    â€˜The body?’
    â€˜They took it to Arpajon. The examining magistrate is worried and asked me to tell you to work quickly. His main concern is that the papers in Brussels and Antwerp might splash this affair all over their front pages.’
    Humming to himself, the inspector went inside the inn and sat down at his assigned table.
    â€˜Do you have a telephone here?’
    â€˜Yes! But there is no service between noon and two o’clock, and it’s now half past twelve.’
    The inspector ate in silence. Seeing that he was preoccupied, Lucas tried a few times to strike up a conversation, but in vain.
    It was one of the first lovely days of spring. After lunch Maigret dragged his chair into the inn courtyard and sat
down by a wall, in the company of the ducks and chickens, where he dozed in the sun for
half an hour.
    At two on the dot, however, he was standing at the telephone, clinging to the receiver.
    â€˜Hello! Police Judiciaire? … You haven’t located that car we’re looking for yet? …’
    The inspector began walking around and around the courtyard. Ten minutes later he was called back