'What qualifications do you have?’
‘I began by doing painting, fine art.’
‘When was that?’
‘When I was seventeen.’
‘You have your baccalaureate, do you?’
‘No, when I was young I wanted to be an artist. The paintings you saw in our drawing room, they’re by me.’
Maigret had not been able to work out what they represented, but they had disturbed him by their sad and morbid character. Neither the lines nor the colours were clear. The dominant shade had been a purplish-red, combined with curious shades of green that made him think of light under water, and it was as if the oil paint had spread by itself, like an ink-stain on a blotter.
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