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silence.
    â€˜Nothing … Organize a search party, on the off-chance … I’m on my way.’
    â€˜Has a doctor been sent for?’
    â€˜Done.’
    The girl who operated the switchboard also manned the hotel’s reception desk. She gave a start when she saw a large shadow loom up before her.
    Maigret was so calm, so cool, and his face was so hermetically closed, that he did not seem to be made of flesh and blood.
    â€˜How much?’
    â€˜Are you leaving?’
    â€˜How much?’
    â€˜I’ll have to ask the manager … How many phone calls have you had? … Just a moment.’
    But as she got to her feet, the inspector grabbed her by the arm, forced her to sit down again and placed a 100-franc note on the desk.
    â€˜That cover it?’
    â€˜I think so … Yes … But …’
    He left with a sigh, walked slowly along the pavement and crossed the bridge without ever quickening his step.
    At one point, he felt his pocket for his pipe, failed to locate it and probably took it as a sign that boded no good, for his lips curved into a bitter smile.
    A handful of men from the barges had gathered outside the Citanguette but showed only a mild interest. The week before, two Arabs had killed each other on the same spot. The previous month, a sack containing the legs and torso of a woman had been
fished out of the water with a boat-hook.
    The rich apartment blocks of Auteuil were visible, obscuring the horizon on the other side of the Seine. The carriages of a Métro train rattled over a bridge nearby.
    It was drizzling. Uniformed officers were tramping up and down, shining the pale discs of their electric torches all around them.
    In the bar, Lucas was the only man standing. Customers who had seen or taken part in the scuffle were sitting in a line along the wall.
    The sergeant moved from one to the other, checking their papers, while they eyed him resentfully.
    Dufour had already been carried out to a police car, which drove off as smoothly as it could.
    Maigret said nothing. With his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, he peered around him, slowly, and the look in his eyes was one of infinite gloom.
    The landlord started to tell him something.
    â€˜Inspector, I swear that when …’
    Maigret shut him up with a gesture then went up to an Arab, whom he examined from head to foot. The man’s face turned grey.
    â€˜Are you working these days?’
    â€˜Yes. For Citroën … I …’
    â€˜How much longer before the court order banning you from showing your face around here is lifted?’
    And Maigret nodded to a uniformed officer. It meant: ‘Take him away!’
    â€˜Inspector!’ cried the North African as he was being propelled towards the door. ‘I can explain … I haven’t done nothing!’
    Maigret wasn’t listening. The papers of a Pole were not quite in order.
    â€˜Take him away!’
    And that was it! Dufour’s revolver was found on the floor with one empty shell beside it. There were also the shattered remains of the siphon and the lightbulb. The newspaper had been torn, and there were two splashes of blood on it.
    â€˜What do you want to do with them?’ asked Lucas, who had finished examining the men’s papers.
    â€˜Let them go.’
    Janvier did not reappear for another quarter of an hour. He found Maigret slumped in one corner of the bar with Sergeant Lucas. His shoes were spattered with mud, and there were dark stains on his raincoat.
    He did not need to say anything. He sat down beside them.
    Maigret, who looked as though he was thinking about something quite different, stared vaguely up at the counter, behind which the landlord stood, looking meek and contrite, and called:
    â€˜Rum!’
    Again, his hand felt in his pockets for his pipe.
    â€˜Give me a cigarette,’ he breathed to Janvier.
    Janvier wished he could have