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which looked back at him from the mirror.
    He knew that when he left he would not be able to
resist the temptation of going for a drink in the Caves du Beaujolais. First, because he was
genuinely fond of the atmosphere in that type of small bar which is generally very quiet and the
landlord will pass the time of day with you. He also liked Beaujolais, especially when it is
served, as it was there, in those small stoneware mugs. But there was another reason: he was
following in the steps of his dead man.
    â€˜Reading the paper this morning, inspector,
it gave me quite a shock. I didn’t see much of him, you know. But when I think about it,
he seemed decent enough. I can seehim now, waving his arms about as he came
in. He was on edge, that’s for sure, but he looked a straightforward sort. Know what? I
bet he’d have been good fun in other circumstances. You’ll laugh, but the more I
think about it, the more I think he was a joker. He reminded me of somebody. I been trying to
remember who for hours.’
    â€˜Somebody that looked like him?’
    â€˜Yes … No … It’s more
complicated … He reminds me of something, and I can’t for the life of me remember
what … Has he been identified yet?’
    That too was strange, though not altogether
unusual at this stage. The morning editions had been out for some time. Of course, the face was
disfigured but not to the point of being unrecognizable to anyone who was close to him, a wife
or mother, for example.
    The man had lived somewhere, even if it was only
a hotel. He hadn’t been home all night.
    Logically, in the last few hours, someone must
have either recognized his photo or reported his disappearance.
    But Maigret was not counting on anything. He
recrossed the bridge with a pleasant, slightly harsh aftertaste of Beaujolais in his mouth. He
climbed the shabby staircase, where eyes watched him with apprehensive respect.
    He glanced through the windows of the waiting
room. His man was there, on his feet, perfectly at home, smoking a cigarette.
    â€˜This way …’
    He showed him into his office, motioned him to a
chair and took off his hat and coat without ceasing to observe his visitor out of the corner of
his eye. From wherehe was, his visitor had a clear view of the photos of
the dead man.
    â€˜Well, Fred?’
    â€˜I’m all yours, inspector. I
wasn’t expecting you to phone. I don’t see how …’
    He was thin, very pale, and smartly dressed in a
vaguely effeminate way. From time to time, a tautening of the nostrils identified a drug
addict.
    â€˜You don’t know him?’
    â€˜I knew what this is about when I got here,
the minute I saw the photos … Looks like someone’s beat him up!’
    â€˜You never saw him before?’
    It was clear that Fred was trying his level best
to do what was expected of him as a police informer. He looked closely at the photos and even
took them to the window so that he could see them in full light.
    â€˜No … And yet …’
    While Maigret waited, he refilled the stove.
    â€˜It’s no go! I’d swear I never
saw him before. But he puts me in mind of something. I can’t put my finger on it …
But at any rate he’s not part of any mob. Even if he was a new recruit I’d have come
across him already.’
    â€˜What does he remind you of?’
    â€˜That’s exactly what I’m trying
to remember … Do you know what line of work he was in?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Nor what part of Paris he lived
in?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜He’s not from out of town either,
you can tell straight off.’
    â€˜I agree.’
    Maigret had had ample opportunity to hear for
himself that the man had a marked Parisian accent, the lower-class accent heard everywhere, on
the Métro, in the bars on the outskirts and also in the stands of the Vélodrome
d’Hiver.
    Actually … He had the beginnings