Maigret's Dead Man by Georges Simenon

brought a white apron with her. She was
very cheerful, very vivacious. It was as if they were preparing for a day trip, or playing a
game.
    â€˜We can take the shutters down now,’
said Maigret. ‘If customers ask questions, say you are just standing in.’
    He went back upstairs, found a razor, shaving
soap and a brush. After all, why not? Albert appeared to have been a man of clean habits and
fit. So, taking his time, he washed and shaved. When he came downstairs, Chevrier’s wife
had already gone shopping. Two men were leaning on the counter, two barge men, drinking coffee
with calvados. They didn’t care who owned the bar. They were probably just passing
through. They were talking about a lock which had almost had one sluice stove in by a tug the
night before.
    â€˜What can I get you, sir?’
    Maigret preferred to help himself. It was
actually the first time in his life that he had poured himself a glass of rum from the bottle
behind the counter of a bar. Suddenly, he laughed.
    â€˜Just thinking about Monsieur
Coméliau,’ he explained.
    He tried to imagine the examining magistrate
walking into the Petit Albert and finding the detective chief inspector standing behind the
counter, with one of his officers.
    But if anything was to be learned, there was no
other way. Wouldn’t the men who had murdered the bar’s owner be surprised to find
the place open as usual?
    And what about Nine, if she
were still alive?
    At about nine o’clock, the ancient
clairvoyant walked past then walked back again, even pressing her nose to the window before
moving off, muttering to herself, carrying a net bag full of shopping in one hand.
    Madame Maigret had just phoned to find out how
her husband was.
    â€˜Can I bring you anything? Your toothbrush,
for example?’
    â€˜No thanks. I’ve asked someone to buy
me one.’
    â€˜Monsieur Coméliau phoned.’
    â€˜I hope you didn’t give him this
number.’
    â€˜No. I just told him you went out yesterday
evening and hadn’t come back yet.’
    Chevrier’s wife got out of a taxi, from
which she took wooden boxes full of vegetables and provisions wrapped in paper. When Maigret
called her ‘madame’, she said:
    â€˜Oh, just call me Irma. You’ll see,
it’s what the customers will all call me from the word go. That’s fine with you,
Émile, that he can …?’
    But hardly any customers came. Three bricklayers
who were working on scaffolding in a street nearby came in for their break. They brought bread
and sausage with them and ordered two litres of red wine.
    â€˜It’s a good job this place has
reopened! Before, it was a ten-minute walk from here before we found somewhere to get a
drink!’
    They weren’t puzzled to see new faces.
    â€˜The previous owner has retired,
then?’
    One of them commented:
    â€˜He was a decent sort.’
    â€˜Had you known him long?’
    â€˜Just for the couple of weeks we’ve
been working on a site round the corner. We move around a lot, you see.’
    But Maigret, whom they saw prowling in the
background, made them curious.
    â€˜Who’s that, then? He looks like he
lives here.’
    Without missing a breath, Chevrier replied:
    â€˜Sh! That’s my
father-in-law.’
    Various pans were simmering on the kitchen stove.
The whole place was coming to life. A vinegary sun flooded in through the front windows of the
bar. Chevrier, with his sleeves rolled up and held by elastic, had swept up the sawdust.
    The telephone rang.
    â€˜It’s for you, sir. Moers.’
    Poor Moers had not slept all night. He
hadn’t had much success with the fingerprints. Prints there were, of all kinds, on the
bottles and furniture. For the most part they were already old and overlapped each other. The
clearest, which he had forwarded to the anthropometrics lab, could not be matched with any set
on file.
    â€˜They searched the whole