“Good night, Inspector.”
He knocked the ash from his pipe into the tray, reached for his hat, and turned off the lamp. The stairs groaned under his weight. At the door, the night watchman nodded to him. Maigret
But something nagged at Maigret. Not a clue. Not evidence. A feeling. The same feeling he got when a pipe refused to draw—a blockage somewhere, invisible but absolute. “Good night, Inspector
A long pause. Then she had said, “I don’t remember.” But something nagged at Maigret
Inspector Maigret stood by the window of his office, the rain-slicked Paris street throwing back the glow of a solitary lamppost. It was past ten. The building was nearly empty. He had sent Lapointe home an hour ago. The case was closed—a foolish crime of passion, a jealous husband with a carving knife, a confession wrung out like a damp rag before dinner. Open and shut.