Friend of Madame Maigret by Georges Simenon

going. He was particularly resentful of Philippe Liotard, who had forced him to abandon his usual methods and mobilize all the departments right at the start.
    Now too many people whom he couldn’t control personally were mixed up in the case, which seemed to be getting more and more complicated all by itself; new characters were appearing whom he knew almost nothing about and whose roles he couldn’t even guess at.
    On two occasions he had been tempted to go back to the very beginning of the inquiry, all on his own, slowly, deliberately, following his favorite method, but this was no longer possible, the machine was in motion, and there was no longer any way to stop it.
    He would have liked, for instance, to question the concierge again, the cobbler across the street, the old maid on the fourth floor. But what was the use? Everybody had questioned them by now, inspectors, journalists, amateur detectives, people in the street. Their statements had been published in the papers, and they couldn’t go back on them now. It was like a trail that has been heedlessly trampled on by fifty people.
    â€œDo you think the bookbinder’s a murderer, Monsieur Maigret?”
    It was the driver, who had recognized him and was questioning him as if they were on familiar terms.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œIf I were you I’d pay particular attention to the little boy. That seems to me the best lead, and I’m not saying that just because I have a kid his age.”
    Even the taxi drivers were taking part in it! He got out at the corner of the rue Lepic and went into the bar on the corner for a drink. The rain was streaming in big drops from the awning around the terrace, where a few women were sitting as rigid as waxworks. He knew most of them. Some of them probably took their clients to the Hotel Beauséjour.
    There was even one, a very fat woman, blocking the doorway of the hotel, and she smiled, thinking he wanted her, then recognized him and apologized.
    He went up the badly lighted stairs, found the manageress in the office, dressed this time in black silk with gold-rimmed spectacles, her hair a flaming red.
    â€œPlease sit down. Will you excuse me a moment?
    â€œA towel for Number 17, Emma!”
    She came back.
    â€œHave you found anything new?”
    â€œI’d like you to examine these photos carefully.”
    First he handed her the pictures of the handful of women Moers had picked out. She looked at them one by one, shaking her head every time, and passed the batch back to him.
    â€œNo. That’s not the type at all. She’s more refined than these women anyway. Perhaps not exactly refined. What I mean is ’respectable.’ You know what I’m getting at? She looks like a decent little woman, whereas the ones you’ve shown me might be women who come to this hotel.”
    â€œWhat about these?”
    These were the dark-haired men. She still shook her head.
    â€œNo. That’s not it at all. I don’t know how to explain to you. These look too much like dagoes. Monsieur Levine, you know, could have stayed at a big hotel in the Champs-Élysées without being conspicuous.”
    â€œAnd these?”
    He handed her the last batch, sighing, and the moment she came to the third photograph she stiffened, cast a furtive little glance at the chief inspector. Was she reluctant to speak out?
    â€œIs that him?”
    â€œIt may be. Wait till I take it to the light.”
    A girl was coming upstairs, with a client who kept to the darkest part of the staircase.
    â€œTake Number 17, Clémence. The room’s just been done.”
    She shifted her spectacles on her nose.
    â€œI’d swear it’s him, yes. It’s a pity he can’t move. If I saw him walk, even from behind, I’d know him at once. But it’s very unlikely that I’m mistaken.”
    On the back of the photograph Moers had written a résumé of the man’s career.