004 Maigret and the Hundred Gibbets by Simenon Georges

Author:Simenon Georges
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

It was eight in the morning when he left the Hôtel du Chemin de Fer, facing the Guillemins station, in Liège. He had bathed and shaved; under his arm he was carrying a parcel containing not the whole of Clothing B, but only the coat. He found the rue Haute-Sauvenière, a steep, very busy street, and asked for Morcel’s, the tailor. It was a poorly lit house, and a man in shirt-sleeves took the coat and turned it over and over in his hands, asking questions:

“It’s a very old thing,” he declared, after considering it. “It’s torn. There’s nothing to be done with it…”

“It doesn’t convey anything to you?”

“Nothing at all. The collar’s badly cut. It’s imitation English cloth, made in Verviers.”

The man began to chatter.

“Are you French? Does this coat belong to someone you know?”

Maigret sighed and took back the coat, while the other man kept talking, ending up where he should have started:

“You understand, I’ve only been here six months. If I’d made that suit, it wouldn’t have had time to wear out…”

“What about Monsieur Morcel?”

“He’s at Robermont!”

“Is it far from here?”

The tailor laughed, delighted at his mistake, and explained:

“Robermont’s the cemetery. Monsieur Morcel died at the beginning of the year and I took over the business…”

Maigret found himself out in the street, with his parcel under his arm. He reached the rue Hors-Château, one of the oldest in the town where, at the far side of a courtyard, a zinc plaque bore the inscription: Central Photo-engraving — Jef Lombard — Rapid work of all kinds.

The Old Liège-style windows had small panes. In the middle of the small unevenly paved courtyard was a fountain carved with some former nobleman’s arms.

The Inspector rang. He heard footsteps coming down from the first floor, and an old woman half-opened up and pointed to a glass door.

“All you have to do is push it. The workshop’s at the end of the passage.”

It was a long room, lit by a glass roof. Two men in blue overalls were moving about among the zinc plates and trayfuls of acid. The floor was strewn with photographic proofs, and paper blotched with printer’s ink.

The walls were covered with advertisements. Covers of magazines had been stuck on them, too.

“Monsieur Lombard?”

“He’s in the office, with a gentleman. This way. Mind you don’t get dirty. Turn to the left. It’s the first door.”

The place must have been built bit by bit. You went up and down steps. Doors led into unused rooms.

It was both old-fashioned and oddly cheerful, like the old woman who’d been the first to see Maigret, and the workmen.

Arriving in an ill-lit passage, the Inspector heard voices, thought he recognized Joseph Van Damme’s, and tried to listen. But they were too indistinct. He took a few more steps and the voices stopped. A head was poked through the half-open door. It was Jef Lombard’s.

“Is it for me?” he called, not recognizing his visitor in the semi-darkness.

The office was a smaller room than the others, furnished with a table, two chairs, and shelves full of photographic plates.

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