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wound in the side, then looked round for his own wife, who was dressed in only a swimming-costume.
    â€˜Do you have a telephone?’ Maigret asked the landlord.
    â€˜No. You have to go to the station … or up to the lock.’
    Marcel Basso was wearing white flannel trousers, and his shirt was partly unbuttoned, showing off the broadness of his chest.
    He rocked slightly on his feet, reached out a hand as if looking for some support, then suddenly slumped down in the grass less than three metres from the corpse and laid his head in his hands.
    The comic note returned. A thin female voice piped up:
    â€˜He’s crying! …’
    She thought she was whispering, but everyone heard.
    â€˜Do you have a bicycle?’ Maigret asked the landlord.
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜Then cycle up to the lock and alert the police.’
    â€˜At Corbeil or at Cesson?’
    â€˜It doesn’t matter!’
    Maigret observed Basso, feeling a little troubled. He took the revolver: only one bullet had been fired.
    It was a woman’s revolver, pretty, like a piece of jewellery. The bullets were tiny, nickel-plated. Yet it had only taken one to end the life of the haberdasher.
    There was hardly any blood. A reddish stain on his summer jacket. Otherwise, he was as neat and tidy as usual.
    â€˜Mado has taken a turn, back in the house!’ a young man cried out.
    Mado was Madame Feinstein, whom they had laid on the innkeeper’s tall bed. Everyone was watching Maigret. He felt a chill when a voice called out from the riverbank:
    â€˜Cooeey! … Where are you?’
    It was Pierrot, Basso’s son, who was getting out of a canoe and was looking for the group.
    â€˜Quickly! Don’t let him come round!’
    Marcel Basso was gathering himself together. He uncovered his face and stood up, confused by his recent show of weakness, and once again seemed to look for the person to whom he should be speaking.
    â€˜I’m a policeman,’ Maigret told him.
    â€˜You know … It wasn’t me …’
    â€˜Would you care to follow me?’
    The inspector spoke to the doctor:
    â€˜I’m relying on you to make sure no one touches the body. And I would like to ask the rest of you to leave me and Monsieur Basso alone.’
    The whole scene had been dragged out like a slow, badly directed play in the bright glare and oppressive atmosphere of the afternoon.
    Some anglers passed by on the towpath, their catchesin baskets slung over their shoulders. Basso walked by Maigret’s side.
    â€˜I just can’t believe it …’
    There was no spring in his step. When they turned the corner of the lean-to they saw the river, the villa on the opposite bank and Madame Basso rearranging the wicker chairs that had been left out in the garden.
    â€˜Mummy wants the key to the cellar,’ the little boy shouted from his canoe.
    But the man didn’t reply. His expression changed to that of a hunted animal.
    â€˜Tell him where the key is.’
    He summoned up his strength and called out:
    â€˜Hanging on a hook in the garage!’
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜On a hook in the garage!’
    And his words echoed faintly:
    â€˜â€¦ rage!’
    â€˜What happened between you?’ asked Maigret as they went inside the lean-to with the mechanical piano, empty but for the glasses left on the tables.
    â€˜I don’t know …’
    â€˜Whose revolver is it?’
    â€˜It’s not mine! … Mine is still in my car.’
    â€˜Did Feinstein attack you?’
    A long silence. Then he sighed.
    â€˜I don’t know! I didn’t do anything! … I … I swear I didn’t kill him.’
    â€˜You were holding the gun when …’
    â€˜I know … I don’t know how that happened …’
    â€˜Are you saying someone else pulled the trigger?’
    â€˜No … I … You don’t know how awful this is for me