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crashing to the ground, where she lay curled up in a ball while one of her legs kicked out spasmodically.
    Maigret and Lucas looked at each other.
    â€˜Take care of her, Lucas!’ shouted the inspector.
    But already a few seconds had been lost. The chauffeur stood stunned, rooted to the spot. A window opened on the second floor of the inn.
    The shot had come from the field to the right of the road. As he ran, the inspector drew his revolver from his pocket. He could hear something, footsteps thudding softly on clayey soil … But he couldn’t see a thing: the
car’s headlamps were shining so brightly straight ahead that they flooded everywhere else with darkness.
    Turning around he yelled, ‘The headlamps!’
    When nothing happened, he yelled it again. And then there was a disastrous misunderstanding: the driver, or Lucas, turned one of the headlamps towards the inspector.
    Now he was spotlit, a huge figure in black against the bare ground of the field.
    The murderer had to be farther on, or more to the left – or the right – but in any case, outside that circle of light.
    â€˜God almighty, the headlamps!’ yelled Maigret one last time.
    He was clenching his fists in rage, running in zigzags like a hunted rabbit. That glare was disrupting even all perception of distance, which is why he suddenly saw the garage’s pumps less than a hundred metres away.
    Then there was a human figure, quite close, and a voice saying hoarsely, ‘What’s going on?’
    Furious and humiliated, Maigret stopped short, looked Monsieur Oscar up and down and saw there was no mud on his slippers.
    â€˜Did you see anyone?’
    â€˜Just a car asking the way to Avrainville.’
    The inspector noticed a red light on the main road heading towards Arpajon.
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜A lorry for Les Halles.’
    â€˜He stopped?’
    â€˜Long enough to take twenty litres …’
    They could hear the commotion going on over by the inn and the headlamp was still sweeping the deserted field. Maigret suddenly noticed the Michonnet villa, crossed the road and rang the bell.
    A small spy hole opened.
    â€˜Who’s there?’
    â€˜Detective Chief Inspector Maigret. I would like to speak with Monsieur Michonnet.’
    A chain and two bolts were undone. A key turned in the lock. Madame Michonnet appeared, anxious, even upset, impulsively darting furtive glances up and down the main road.
    â€˜You haven’t seen him?’ she asked.
    â€˜He’s not here?’ replied Maigret gruffly, with a glimmer of hope.
    â€˜I mean … I don’t know … I … I just heard a shot, didn’t I? … But do come in!’
    She was about forty, plain, with prominent features.
    â€˜Monsieur Michonnet stepped out for a moment to …’
    On the left, the door to the dining room was open. The table had not been cleared.
    â€˜How long has he been gone?’
    â€˜I don’t know … Perhaps half an hour …’
    Something moved in the kitchen.
    â€˜Do you have a servant?’
    â€˜No. It might be the cat …’
    The inspector opened the kitchen door and saw Monsieur Michonnet himself, coming in through the garden door, mopping his face. His shoes were caked with mud.
    There was a moment of surprised silence as the two men looked at each other.
    â€˜Your weapon!’ said the inspector.
    â€˜My …?’
    â€˜Your weapon, quickly!’
    The insurance agent handed him a small revolver he’d pulled from a trouser pocket. All six of its bullets were still there, however, and the barrel was cold.
    â€˜Where have you been?’
    â€˜Over there …’
    â€˜What do you mean by “over there”?’
    â€˜Don’t be afraid, Émile! They wouldn’t dare touch you!’ exclaimed Madame Michonnet. ‘This is too much, really! And when I think that