The Hanged Man of Saint-Pholien (6 page)

‘Was anyone still playing
billiards?'

‘The fellows you see over at that
third table. Regulars, here every evening: they have a club, organize competitions.
Well, the man left – and that's when there was that
business with the suitcase falling open. The state he was
in, I don't know how he managed to tie the string. I closed up a half-hour
later. These gentlemen here shook my hand leaving, and I remember one of them said,
‘We'll find him off somewhere in the gutter!'

The proprietor glanced again at the
smartly dressed player with the white, well-manicured hands, the impeccable tie, the
polished shoes that creaked each time he moved around the billiard table.

‘I might as well tell you
everything, especially since it's probably some fluke or a
misunderstanding … The next day, a travelling salesman who drops by every
month and who was here that night, well, he told me that at about one in the morning
he'd seen the drunk and Monsieur Belloir walking along together. He even saw
them both go into Monsieur Belloir's house!'

‘That's the tall blond
fellow?'

‘Yes. He lives five minutes from
here, in a handsome house in Rue de Vesle. He's the deputy director of the
Banque de Crédit.'

‘Is the salesman here
tonight?'

‘No, he's off on his regular
tour through his eastern territories, won't be back until mid-November or so.
I told him he must have been mistaken, but he stuck to his story. I almost mentioned
it to Monsieur Belloir, as a little joke, but thought, better not. He might have
been offended, right? In fact, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't make a
big deal out of what I just told you – or at least don't make it look as if it
came from me. In my profession …'

Having just scored a break of
forty-eight points, the player in question was looking around to gauge
everyone's
reaction while he rubbed
the tip of his cue with green chalk. He frowned almost imperceptibly when he noticed
Maigret sitting with the proprietor.

For, like most people trying to appear
relaxed, the café owner looked worried, as if he were up to something.

Belloir called out to him from across
the room.

‘It's your turn, Monsieur
Émile!'

The house was new, and there was
something in the studied refinement of its design and building materials that
created a feeling of comfort, of crisp, confident modernism and a well-established
fortune.

Red bricks, freshly repointed; natural
stone; a front door of varnished oak, with brass fittings.

It was only 8.30 in the morning when
Maigret turned up at that door, half hoping to catch a candid glimpse of the Belloir
family's private life.

The façade, in any case, seemed suitable
for a bank deputy director, an impression increased by the immaculately turned-out
maid who opened the door. The entrance hall was quite large, with a door of bevelled
glass panes at the end. The walls were of faux marble, and geometric patterns in two
colours embellished the granite floor.

To the left, two sets of double doors of
pale oak, leading to the drawing room and dining room.

Among the clothes hanging from a
portmanteau was a coat for a child of four or five. A big-bellied umbrella stand
held a Malacca cane with a gold pommel.

Maigret had only a moment to absorb this
atmosphere of flawless domesticity, for he had barely mentioned Monsieur Belloir
when the maid replied, ‘If you'd be so good as to follow me,
the
gentlemen
are expecting you.'

She walked towards the glass-paned door.
Passing
another, half-open door, the
inspector caught a glimpse of the dining room, cosy and neat, where a young woman in
a peignoir and a little boy of four were having their breakfast at a nicely laid
table.

Beyond the last door was a staircase of
pale wooden panelling with a red floral carpet runner fixed to each step by a brass
rod.

A large green plant sat on the landing.
The maid was already turning the knob of another door, to a study, where three men
turned as one towards their visitor.

There was a reaction of shock, deep
unease, even real distress that froze the looks in their eyes, which only the maid
never noticed as she asked in a perfectly natural voice, ‘Would you like me to
take your coat?'

One of the three gentlemen was Belloir,
perfectly dressed, with not a blond hair out of place. The man next to him was a
little more casually attired, and a stranger to Maigret. The third man, however, was
none other than Joseph Van Damme, the businessman from Bremen.

Two of the men spoke simultaneously.

With a dry hauteur in keeping with the
décor and frowning as he stepped forwards, Belloir inquired, ‘Monsieur?'
– while at the same time Van Damme, in an effort to summon up his usual bonhomie,
held out his hand to Maigret and exclaimed, ‘What a surprise! Imagine seeing
you here!'

The third man silently took in the scene
in what looked like complete bafflement.

‘Please excuse me for disturbing
you,' began the inspector. ‘I did not expect to be interrupting a
meeting this early in the morning …'

‘Not at
all! Not at all!' replied Van Damme. ‘Do sit down! Cigar?'

There was a box on the mahogany desk. He
hurried to open it and select a Havana, talking all the while.

‘Hold on, I'm looking for my
lighter … You're not going to write me a ticket because these are
missing their tobacco tax stamp, are you? But why didn't you tell me in Bremen
that you knew Belloir! When I think that we might have made the trip together! I
left a few hours after you did: a telegram, some business requiring my presence in
Paris. And I've taken advantage of it to come and say hello to
Belloir …'

The latter, having lost none of his
starchy manner, kept looking from one to the other of the two men as if waiting for
an explanation, and it was towards him that Maigret turned and spoke.

‘I'll make my visit as short
as possible, given that you're expecting someone …'

‘I am? How do you know?'

‘Simple! Your maid told me that I
was expected. And as I cannot be the person in question, then
clearly …'

His eyes were laughing in spite of
himself, but his face stayed perfectly blank.

‘Inspector Maigret, of the Police
Judiciaire. Perhaps you noticed me yesterday evening at the Café de Paris, where I
was seeking information relevant to an ongoing investigation.'

‘It can't be that incident
in Bremen, surely?' remarked Van Damme, with feigned indifference.

‘The very one! Would you be so
kind, Monsieur Belloir, as to look at this photograph and tell me if this is indeed
the man you invited into your home one night last week?'

He held out a
picture of the dead man. The deputy bank director looked at it, but vacantly,
without seeing it.

‘I don't know this
person!' he stated, returning the photo to Maigret.

‘You're certain this
isn't the man who spoke to you when you were returning home from the Café de
Paris?'

‘What are you talking
about?'

‘Forgive me if I seem to labour
the point, but I need some information that is, after all, of only minor importance,
and I took the liberty of disturbing you at home because I assumed you would not
mind helping us in our inquiries. On that evening, a drunk was sitting near the
third billiard table, where you were playing. All the customers noticed him. He left
shortly before you did, and later on, after you'd left your friends, he
approached you.'

‘I have a vague
recollection … He asked me for a light.'

‘And you came back here with him,
isn't that right?'

Belloir smiled rather nastily.

‘I've no idea who told you
such nonsense. I'm hardly the sort of person to bring home tramps.'

‘You might have recognized him –
as an old friend, or …'

‘I have better taste in
friends!'

‘You're saying that you went
home alone?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘Was that man the same one in the
photo I just showed you?'

‘I have no idea. I never even
looked at him.'

Listening with obvious impatience, Van
Damme had been on the verge of interrupting several times. As for the third man, who
had a short brown beard and was dressed all in black in a bygone but
‘artistic' fashion, he was
looking out of the window, occasionally wiping away the
fog his breath left on the pane.

‘In which case, I must now simply
thank you and apologize once again, Monsieur Belloir.'

‘Just a minute, inspector!'
exclaimed Joseph Van Damme. ‘You're not going to leave just like that?
Please, do stay here with us for a moment, and Belloir will offer us some of that
fine brandy he always keeps on hand … Do you realize that I'm rather
put out with you for not coming to dinner with me, in Bremen? I waited for you all
evening!'

‘Did you travel here by
train?'

‘By plane! I almost always fly,
like most businessmen, in fact! Then, in Paris, I felt like dropping in on my old
friend Belloir. We were at university together.'

‘In Liège?'

‘Yes. And it's almost ten
years now since we last saw each other. I didn't even know that he'd got
married! It's odd to find him again – with a fine young son!
But … are you really still working on that suicide of yours?'

Belloir had rung for the maid, whom he
told to bring brandy and some glasses. His every move was made slowly and carefully,
but with each move he betrayed the gnawing uncertainty he felt.

‘The investigation has only just
begun,' said Maigret quietly. ‘It's impossible to tell if it will
be a long one or if the case will be all wrapped up in a day or two.'

When the front doorbell rang, the other
three men exchanged furtive glances. Voices were heard; then someone with a strong
Belgian accent asked, ‘Are they all upstairs? Don't bother, I know the
way.'

From the doorway he called out,
‘Hello, fellows!'

And met with dead
silence. When he saw Maigret, he looked questioningly at the others.

‘Weren't
you … expecting me?'

Belloir's expression tightened.
Walking over to the inspector, he said, as if through clenched teeth, ‘Jef
Lombard, a friend.'

Then, pronouncing every syllable
distinctly: ‘Inspector Maigret, of the Police Judiciaire.'

The new arrival gave a little start, and
stammered in a flat voice that squeaked in the most peculiar way,
‘Aha! … I see … Well, fine …'

After which, in his bewilderment, he
gave his overcoat to the maid, only to chase after her to retrieve the cigarettes he
had left in a pocket.

‘Another Belgian,
inspector,' observed Van Damme. ‘Yes, you're witnessing a real
Belgian reunion! You must think this all looks like a conspiracy … What
about that brandy, Belloir? Inspector, a cigar? Jef Lombard is the only one who
still lives in Liège. It just so happens that business affairs have brought us all
to the same place at the same moment, so we've decided to celebrate, and have
a grand old time! And I wonder if …'

He hesitated for a moment, looking
around at the others.

‘You skipped that dinner I wanted
to treat you to in Bremen. Why not have lunch with us later today?'

‘Unfortunately, I have other
engagements,' replied Maigret. ‘Besides, I've already taken enough
of your time.'

Jef Lombard had gone over to a table. He
was pale, with irregular features, so tall and thin that his limbs seemed too long
for his body.

‘Ah!
Here's the picture I was looking for,' muttered Maigret, as if to
himself. ‘I won't ask you, Monsieur Lombard, if you know this man,
because that would be one chance in a million …'

But he contrived to show him the photo
anyway – and saw the man's Adam's apple seem to swell, bobbing weirdly
up and down.

‘Don't know him,'
Lombard managed to croak.

Belloir's manicured fingers were
drumming on his desk, while Van Damme cast about for something to say.

‘So, inspector, I won't have
the pleasure of seeing you again? You're going straight back to
Paris?'

‘I'm not sure yet. My
apologies, gentlemen.'

Van Damme shook hands with him, so the
others had to as well. Belloir's hand was hard and dry. The bearded
man's handshake was more hesitant, and Jef Lombard was off in a corner of the
study lighting a cigarette, so he simply nodded towards Maigret and grunted.

Maigret brushed past the green plant in
its enormous porcelain pot and went back down the stairs with their brass carpet
rods. In the front hall, over the shrill scraping of a violin lesson, he heard a
woman's voice saying, ‘Slow down … Keep your elbow level with
your chin … Gently!'