The Hanged Man of Saint-Pholien Read Online Free PDF Page A

Maigret
     through the glass with no hope that he might at last be the person she needed to
     see.
    He opened the door.
    â€˜If you would care to follow me to
     my office, madame.’
    When he ushered her in ahead of him she
     appeared astonished at his courtesy and hesitated, as if confused, in the middle of
     the room. Along with her handbag she carried a rumpled newspaper showing part of
     Jeunet’s photograph.
    â€˜I’m told you know the man
     who—’
    But before he could finish she bit her
     lips and buried her face in her hands. Almost overcome by a sob she could not
     control, she moaned, ‘He’s my husband, monsieur.’
    Hiding his feeling, Maigret turned away,
     then rolled a heavy armchair over for her.

3. The Herbalist’s
     Shop in Rue Picpus
    â€˜
Did he suffer
     much?’ she asked, as soon as she could speak again.
    â€˜No, madame. I can assure you that
     death was instantaneous.’
    She looked at the newspaper in her hand.
     The words were hard to say.
    â€˜In the mouth?’
    When the inspector simply nodded, she
     stared down at the floor, suddenly calm, and as if speaking about a mischievous
     child she said solemnly, ‘He always had to be different from everyone
     else …’
    She spoke not as a lover, or even a
     wife. Although she was not yet thirty, she had a maternal tenderness about her, and
     the gentle resignation of a nun.
    The poor are used to stifling any
     expression of their despair, because they must get on with life, with work, with the
     demands made of them day after day, hour after hour. She wiped her eyes with her
     handkerchief, and her slightly reddened nose erased any prettiness she
     possessed.
    The corners of her mouth kept drooping
     sadly though she tried to smile as she looked at Maigret.
    â€˜Would you mind if I asked you a
     few questions?’ he said, sitting down at his desk. ‘Was your
     husband’s name indeed Louis Jeunet? And … when did he leave you for
     the last time?’
    Tears sprang to
     her eyes; she almost began weeping again. Her fingers had balled the handkerchief
     into a hard little wad.
    â€˜Two years ago … But I
     saw him again, once, peering in at the shop window. If my mother hadn’t been
     there …’
    Maigret realized that he need simply let
     her talk. Because she would, as much for herself as for him.
    â€˜You want to know all about our
     life, isn’t that right? It’s the only way to understand why Louis did
     that … My father was a male nurse in Beaujon. He had set up a small
     herbalist’s shop in Rue Picpus, which my mother managed.
    â€˜My father died six years ago, and
     Mama and I have kept up the business.
    â€˜I met Louis …’
    â€˜That was six years ago, did you
     say?’ Maigret asked her. ‘Was he already calling himself
     Jeunet?’
    â€˜Yes!’ she replied, in some
     astonishment. ‘He was a milling machine operator in a workshop in
     Belleville … He earned a good living … I don’t know why
     things happened so quickly, you can’t imagine – he was in a hurry about
     everything, as if some fever were eating at him.
    â€˜I’d been seeing him for
     barely a month when we got married, and he came to live with us. The living quarters
     behind the shop are too small for three people; we rented a room for Mama over in
     Rue du Chemin-Vert. She let me have the shop, but as she hadn’t saved enough
     to live on, we gave her 200 francs every month.
    â€˜We were happy, I swear to you!
     Louis would go off to work in the morning; my mother would come to keep me company.
     He stayed home in the evenings.
    â€˜I
     don’t know how to explain this to you, but – I always felt that something was
     wrong!
    â€˜I mean, for
     example … it was as if Louis didn’t belong to our world, as if the
     way we lived was