The Hanged Man of Saint-Pholien Read Free Page B

such moments, when his face would settle into an expression of such
     stubborn density that he seemed even a touch bovine.
    â€˜Are you with the
     police?’
    â€˜Yes! The Police
     Judiciaire.’
    â€˜So you’ve come up here
     because of this case? Oh, wait: that’s impossible, the suicide only happened
     last night … Tell me, do you have any French acquaintances in Bremen? No?
     In that case, if I can assist you in any way … May I offer you an
     aperitif?’
    Shortly
     afterwards, Maigret followed the other man outside and joined him in his car, which
     the Belgian drove himself.
    And as he drove he chattered away, a
     perfect example of the enthusiastic, energetic businessman. He seemed to know
     everyone, greeted passers-by, pointed out buildings, provided a running
     commentary.
    â€˜Here you have Norddeutscher
     Lloyd … Have you heard about the new liner they’ve launched?
     They’re clients of mine …’
    He waved towards a building in which
     almost every window displayed the name of a different firm.
    â€˜On the fifth floor, to the left,
     you can see my office.’
    Porcelain sign letters on the window
     spelled out:
Joseph Van Damme, Import-Export Commission Agent
.
    â€˜Would you believe that sometimes
     I go a month without having a chance to speak French? My employees and even my
     secretary are German. That’s business for you!’
    It would have been hard to divine a
     single one of Maigret’s thoughts from his expression; he seemed a man devoid
     of subtlety. He agreed; he approved. He admired what he was asked to admire,
     including the car and its patented suspension system, proudly praised by Van
     Damme.
    The inspector followed his host into a
     large brasserie teeming with businessmen talking loudly over the tireless efforts of
     a Viennese orchestra and the clinking of beer mugs.
    â€˜You’d never guess how much
     this clientele is worth in millions!’ crowed the Belgian. ‘Listen! You
     don’t understand German? Well, our neighbour here is busy selling a cargo of
     wool currently on its way to Europe from
Australia; he has thirty or forty ships in his fleet, and
     I could show you others like him. So, what’ll you have? Personally, I
     recommend the Pilsner. By the way …’
    Maigret’s face showed no trace of
     a smile at the transition.
    â€˜By the way, what do you think
     about this suicide? A poor man down on his luck, as the papers here are
     saying?’
    â€˜It’s possible.’
    â€˜Are you looking into
     it?’
    â€˜No: that’s a matter for the
     German police. And as it’s a clear case of suicide …’
    â€˜Oh, obviously! Of course, the
     thing that struck me was only that he was French, because we get so few of them up
     in the North!’
    He rose to go and shake the hand of a
     man who was on his way out, then hurried back.
    â€˜Please excuse me – he runs a big
     insurance company, he’s worth a hundred million … But listen,
     inspector: it’s almost noon, you must come and have lunch with me! I’m
     not married, so I can only invite you to a restaurant, and you won’t eat as
     you would in Paris, but I’ll do my best to see that you don’t do too
     badly. So, that’s settled, right?’
    He summoned the waiter, paid the bill.
     And when he pulled his wallet from his pocket, he did something that Maigret had
     often seen when businessmen like him had their aperitifs in bars around the Paris
     stock exchange, for they had that inimitable way of leaning backwards, throwing out
     their chests while tucking in their chins and opening with careless satisfaction
     that sacred object: the leather
portefeuille
plump with money.
    â€˜Let’s go!’
    Van Damme hung on
     to the inspector until almost five o’clock, after sweeping him along to his
     office – three clerks and a