A Man's Head Read Free Page A

actions.
    The third, quoted by the defence, had coyly ventured:
Troubled atavism. Diminished responsibility.
    And Maigret, who had arrested Joseph Heurtin, had told the chief of police, the public prosecutor and the examining magistrate:
‘He’s either insane or innocent!’
    And he had undertaken to prove it.
    From the corridor came the receding sound of Inspector Dufour’s footsteps as he went trippingly on his way.

2. The Sleeping Man
    It was eleven o’clock when Maigret, after a brief meeting with Coméliau, the examining magistrate, who still did not feel fully reassured, arrived at Auteuil.
    The weather was dull, the streets dirty and the sky sat low over the rooftops. On Maigret’s side of the river was a line of affluent blocks of flats, while the bank opposite already had an industrial zone look to it: factories, patches of
waste ground, unloading wharves littered with heaps of rubble.
    Between these two townscapes flowed the Seine, grey, leaden and ruffled by the comings-and-goings of tug-boats.
    The Citanguette was not hard to spot, even from a distance, an isolated structure in the middle of a piece of ground cluttered with all sorts of debris: piles of bricks, old rusting car chassis, scraps of roofing felt and even lengths of railway
track.
    A two-storey building, painted an ugly red, with an outside terrace with three tables and the traditional awning bearing the words:
Wines – Snacks
. Dockers emerged. They were clearly unloading cement because they were white from head to
foot. At the door, as they left, they each shook hands with a man in a blue apron, the proprietor of the establishment, then headed off unhurriedly towards a barge moored at the quayside.
    Maigret looked weary and dull-eyed, but the fact that he had just spent a sleepless night was not the problem.
    It was his habit to let himself droop like this, to wilt, every time he’d pursued a quarry relentlessly and finally had him within reach.
    A reaction. He would feel sickened and did not try to fight it.
    He noticed a hotel just opposite the Citanguette and walked up to reception.
    â€˜I’d like a room overlooking the river.’
    â€˜Monthly rate?’
    He gave a shrug. He was not in the mood to be crossed.
    â€˜For as long as I want it! Police Judiciaire.’
    â€˜We don’t have anything available.’
    â€˜Fine. Give me the register.’
    â€˜One moment … Wait! … I’ll just phone the porter upstairs to make sure number 18 …’
    â€˜Cretin!’ muttered Maigret between his teeth.
    He was, of course, given the room. The hotel was luxurious. The porter asked:
    â€˜Any bags needing to be brought up?’
    â€˜No. Just bring me a pair of binoculars.’
    â€˜But … I don’t know if …’
    â€˜Look, just go and get the binoculars from wherever you have to!’
    He removed his overcoat with a sigh, opened the window and filled a pipe. Less than five minutes later, he was brought a pair of mother-of-pearl binoculars.
    â€˜These belong to the manager’s wife. She says to be …’
    â€˜That’s all! Now clear off! …’
    By now he knew every last detail of the façade of the Citanguette
.
One upstairs window was open. Through it he could see an unmade bed with a vast red eiderdown lying sideways on it and a pair of carpet slippers on a sheepskin rug.
    â€˜The landlord’s room!’
    Next to it was another window, but this one was shut. Then a third which was open and framed a fat woman in a dressing gown who was doing her hair.
    â€˜The landlord’s wife … Or maybe the maid.’
    Downstairs, the landlord was wiping his tables with a cloth. At one of them, Inspector Dufour was sitting nursing a large glass of red wine.
    The two men were talking, that much was obvious.
    Further along, on the edge of the stone quayside, a young man with fair hair, wearing a