Read The Yellow Dog for Free Online Page B

were pelting the dog with stones. Their companions tried to stop them. They heard – or rather, sensed – the warning.
    One of the boys flushed to the ears when Maigret shoved him to the left and strode towards the wounded animal. The silence then took on a different character. It was clear that a few moments earlier an unwholesome frenzy had been driving the crowd,
except for one old woman, who cried from her window:
    â€˜It’s shameful! You should haul them all in, inspector. The whole bunch of them were torturing that poor creature … And I know perfectly well why. They’re afraid of
him!’
    The shoemaker-gunman withdrew sheepishly into his shop. Maigret leaned down to stroke the dog’s head; the animal gave him a look that was more puzzled than grateful. Leroy came out of the café from which he had telephoned. The crowd began
reluctantly to move away.
    â€˜Someone get a wheelbarrow.’
    Windows were closing one after another, but inquisitive shadows hovered behind the curtains. The dog was filthy, his dense coat matted with blood. His belly was muddy, his nose dry and burning. Now that someone was showing kindness, he took heart
and stopped trying to creep along the ground through the dozens of large stones that lay around him.
    â€˜Where should we take him, inspector?’
    â€˜To the hotel … Easy there … Put some straw under him.’
    The procession could have looked ridiculous. Instead, by some eerie effect of the anguish that had grown steadily stronger since morning, it was stirring. With an old man pushing it, the wheelbarrow bounced over the cobblestones of the twisting
street and on to the drawbridge. No one dared follow it. The yellow dog panted hard, an occasional spasm stiffening his four legs.
    Maigret noticed an unfamiliar car parked opposite the Admiral Hotel. He pushed open the café door and found the atmosphere transformed.
    A man squeezed past him, saw the dog being lifted out of the wheelbarrow, aimed a camera at the animal and set
off a magnesium flash. Another, dressed in plus fours and a red sweater, with notebook in hand,
touched the visor of his cap.
    â€˜Inspector Maigret? Vasco, from the
Journal
. I’ve just got here and already I’ve been lucky enough to meet Monsieur …’ He indicated Michoux, who was in his corner, slouching against the moleskin banquette.
‘The
Petit Parisien
is right behind. They broke down about ten kilometres back.’
    â€˜Where do you want the dog?’ Emma asked the inspector.
    â€˜Isn’t there a spot for him in the hotel?’
    â€˜Yes, near the courtyard … a porch where we store empty bottles.’
    â€˜Leroy! Phone a vet.’
    An hour earlier, the place had been deserted, seething with silence. Now, the photographer,
in an off-white trenchcoat, was shoving tables and chairs around and yelling, ‘Wait a minute! Hold it,
please! Turn the dog’s head this way …’ And the magnesium flared.
    â€˜Le Pommeret?’ Maigret asked Dr Michoux.
    â€˜He left not long after you did … The mayor phoned again. I think he may be on his way over …’
    By nine that evening, the place had become a sort of military headquarters. Two more reporters had arrived. One was working on his story at a table towards the back. From time to time the photographer came down from his room. ‘You
wouldn’t have any rubbing alcohol? I’ve absolutely got to have it to dry my film … The dog looks terrific! … Did you say there’s a pharmacy nearby? … Closed? Doesn’t matter.’
    At the hall phone, a reporter was dictating his story, in an offhand voice: ‘Maigret, yes –
M
as in Maurice,
A
as in Arthur … Yes.
I
as in Isidore … Take down all the names
first … Michoux –
M, I, choux
, that’s
chou
as in
choucroute
 … No,