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went over to tell him that I
     couldn’t serve him any more, and he didn’t protest in any
     way.’
    â€˜Was anyone still playing
     billiards?’
    â€˜The fellows you see over at that
     third table. Regulars, here every evening: they have a club, organize competitions.
     Well, the man left – and that’s when there was that
business with the suitcase falling open. The state he was
     in, I don’t know how he managed to tie the string. I closed up a half-hour
     later. These gentlemen here shook my hand leaving, and I remember one of them said,
     ‘We’ll find him off somewhere in the gutter!’
    The proprietor glanced again at the
     smartly dressed player with the white, well-manicured hands, the impeccable tie, the
     polished shoes that creaked each time he moved around the billiard table.
    â€˜I might as well tell you
     everything, especially since it’s probably some fluke or a
     misunderstanding … The next day, a travelling salesman who drops by every
     month and who was here that night, well, he told me that at about one in the morning
     he’d seen the drunk and Monsieur Belloir walking along together. He even saw
     them both go into Monsieur Belloir’s house!’
    â€˜That’s the tall blond
     fellow?’
    â€˜Yes. He lives five minutes from
     here, in a handsome house in Rue de Vesle. He’s the deputy director of the
     Banque de Crédit.’
    â€˜Is the salesman here
     tonight?’
    â€˜No, he’s off on his regular
     tour through his eastern territories, won’t be back until mid-November or so.
     I told him he must have been mistaken, but he stuck to his story. I almost mentioned
     it to Monsieur Belloir, as a little joke, but thought, better not. He might have
     been offended, right? In fact, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t make a
     big deal out of what I just told you – or at least don’t make it look as if it
     came from me. In my profession …’
    Having just scored a break of
     forty-eight points, the player in question was looking around to gauge
     everyone’s
reaction while he rubbed
     the tip of his cue with green chalk. He frowned almost imperceptibly when he noticed
     Maigret sitting with the proprietor.
    For, like most people trying to appear
     relaxed, the café owner looked worried, as if he were up to something.
    Belloir called out to him from across
     the room.
    â€˜It’s your turn, Monsieur
     Émile!’

4. The Unexpected
     Visitor
    The house was new, and there was
     something in the studied refinement of its design and building materials that
     created a feeling of comfort, of crisp, confident modernism and a well-established
     fortune.
    Red bricks, freshly repointed; natural
     stone; a front door of varnished oak, with brass fittings.
    It was only 8.30 in the morning when
     Maigret turned up at that door, half hoping to catch a candid glimpse of the Belloir
     family’s private life.
    The façade, in any case, seemed suitable
     for a bank deputy director, an impression increased by the immaculately turned-out
     maid who opened the door. The entrance hall was quite large, with a door of bevelled
     glass panes at the end. The walls were of faux marble, and geometric patterns in two
     colours embellished the granite floor.
    To the left, two sets of double doors of
     pale oak, leading to the drawing room and dining room.
    Among the clothes hanging from a
     portmanteau was a coat for a child of four or five. A big-bellied umbrella stand
     held a Malacca cane with a gold pommel.
    Maigret had only a moment to absorb this
     atmosphere of flawless domesticity, for he had barely mentioned Monsieur Belloir
     when the maid replied, ‘If you’d be so good as to follow me,
the
     gentlemen
are expecting you.’
    She walked towards the glass-paned door.
     Passing
another, half-open door, the
     inspector caught a glimpse of the dining room, cosy and neat,