The Yellow Dog Read Online Free PDF Page A

want—’
    Without turning a hair, Maigret hung up and returned to the café, where he sat and began to read. Michoux and Le Pommeret scanned a copy of the paper on the marble table.
Our esteemed colleague Jean Servières reported in these very pages the recent dramatic events in Concarneau. That was Friday. A respected businessman of that town, Monsieur Mostaguen, left the Admiral Hotel, stopped in the doorway of a vacant
house to light a cigar and was shot in the stomach by a bullet fired through the letterbox in the door.
    On Saturday, Chief Inspector Maigret, recently seconded from Paris to head the Rennes Flying Squad, arrived on the scene. This did not prevent a new drama from occurring.
    Indeed, that very evening, a telephone call informed us that, as they were about to drink an aperitif, three prominent local figures – Messieurs Le Pommeret, Jean Servières and Dr Michoux – noticed that the Pernod served them contained a
strong dose of strychnine.
    Then this morning, Sunday, Jean Servières’ empty car was found near the Saint-Jacques River. Its owner has not been seen since Saturday evening.
    The front seat is stained with blood. One window is shattered, and all the evidence suggests that a struggle took place.
    Three days: three incidents! Little wonder that Concarneau is in the grip of terror, as anxious citizens wonder who the next victim will be.
    The public is particularly disturbed by the mysterious presence of a yellow dog, which no one knows, which seems to have no master and which reappears with each new misfortune.
    This dog appears to have given the police a significant lead. They are looking for a person, still unidentified, who has left curious footprints – larger-than-average footprints – in several places
    A madman? A drifter? Is he the perpetrator of all these crimes? Whom will he attack tonight?
    He will certainly meet opposition from now on, because the frightened citizenry will be armed and ready to shoot at the slightest alarm.
    Meanwhile, today, Sunday, the town is deathly still, an atmosphere reminiscent of towns in northern France during the War when the air-raid sirens sounded.
    Maigret stared out through the windowpanes. The rain had let up, but the streets were still thick with black mud, and the wind still blew violently. The sky was a livid grey.
    People were coming out of Mass. Almost all of them carried a copy of the
Brest Beacon
. Faces were turned towards the Admiral Hotel, and several people quickened their step as they passed.
    There was indeed a dead feeling about the town. But wasn’t that how it was on any Sunday morning? The telephone rang again. Emma could be heard answering. ‘I
don’t know, monsieur. I
haven’t heard. Do you want me to get the inspector? … Hello! Hello! … They hung up!’
    â€˜Who was that?’ growled Maigret.
    â€˜A Paris newspaper, I think. They asked if there were any new victims … They reserved a room.’
    â€˜Call the
Brest Beacon
for me.’
    While he waited, he paced up and down, without a glance at the doctor, who was huddling in his chair, or at Le Pommeret, who was contemplating the many rings on his fingers.
    â€˜Hello! The
Brest Beacon
? Inspector Maigret here. The editor, please … Hello – is that the editor? Good! Would you tell me what time your paper was printed this morning? … Nine thirty, eh? Who did the piece on the
business at Concarneau? … Ah, no, seriously! … Really? The article just turned up in a sealed envelope? … Unsigned? … So, then, you publish whatever material you get, name or no name, just like that? … Well, I take my hat off to you!’
    He tried to go out to the quay but found the door locked. ‘What does this mean?’ he asked Emma, looking straight into her eyes.
    â€˜The doctor insisted …’
    Maigret stared at Michoux,