He had guessed right, for when he got to the corner of the alley, he saw the woman go up three steps to the door of a small house and take a key out of her bag. A few minutes later, he knocked at the glass door behind which hung a lace curtain.
“Come in.”
She had just had time to take off her coat and her black crepe veil. The prayerbook was still on the oilcloth which covered the table. The white enamel kitchen stove was already lit. The top was so clean that it must have been painstakingly rubbed with sandpaper.
“Please forgive me for disturbing you, madame. It is Madame Retailleau, isn’t it?”
He did not assert himself very forcefully, for neither her voice nor her movements gave him much encouragement. She stood quite still with her hands over her stomach, her face almost the color of wax, and waited for Maigret to speak.
“I have been asked to investigate the rumors that are circulating with regard to the death of your son…”
“Who are you?”
“Superintendent Maigret of the Police Judiciaire. Let me hasten to add that these inquiries are for the moment unofficial.”
“What does that mean?”
“That the case has not yet been laid before the court.”
“What case?”
“I am sorry to have to talk about such unpleasant matters, madame, but you are no doubt aware of the various rumors connected with your son’s death…”
“You cannot stop people from talking…”
In order to gain time, Maigret had turned towards a photograph in an oval giltwood frame which was hanging on the wall to the left of the walnut kitchen dresser. It was an enlarged photograph of a man of about thirty with a crew cut and a large mustache drooping over his lips.
“Is that your husband?”
“Yes.”
“Unless I’m mistaken, you had the misfortune to lose him unexpectedly when your son was still a small boy. From what I have been told, you were forced to bring an action against the dairy that employed him in order to receive a pension.”
“You have not been told the truth. There was never any court case. Monsieur Oscar Drouhet, the manager of the dairy, did what was necessary.”
“And later, when your son was old enough to work, he took him into the business. Your son was his bookkeeper, I believe.”
“He did the work of the assistant manager. He would have been made assistant manager if he hadn’t been so young.”
“You haven’t got a photograph of him, have you?”
Maigret could have kicked himself, for as he spoke he saw a tiny photograph on a small round table covered with red plush. He picked it up quickly in case Madame Retailleau objected.
“How old was Albert when this photograph was taken?”
“Nineteen. It was taken last year.”
He was a handsome boy with rather a wide face, greedy lips and merry, sparkling eyes. He looked healthy and strong.
Madame Retailleau stood waiting, as before, and let out an occasional sigh.
“He wasn’t engaged?”
“No.”
“As far as you know, he had no relationships with women?”
“My son was too young to be chasing women. He was a serious boy and only thought about his career.”
This was not the impression the photograph gave. Young Albert Retailleau had the impassioned look of youth, thick glossy hair and a well-developed physique.
“What was your reaction when…I do apologize…You must see what I am getting at…Do you believe it was an accident?”
“One has to believe it was…”
“You had no suspicions whatsoever, then?”
“What sort of suspicions?”
“He never mentioned Mademoiselle Naud?…He never used to come home late at night?”
“No.”
“And Monsieur Naud hasn’t been to see you since your son died?”
“We have nothing to say to each other.”
“I see…But he could have…Monsieur Groult-Cotelle hasn’t called on you either, I take it?”
Was it Maigret’s imagination, or had her eyes hardened momentarily? Maigret was sure they had.
“No,” she murmured.
“So that you consider the rumors concerning the circumstances of your son’s death to be quite untrue…”
“Yes, I do. I pay no attention to them. I don’t want to know what people are saying. And if it’s Monsieur Naud who sent you, you can go back and tell him what I’ve said.”
For a few seconds, Maigret stood perfectly still, with his eyes half-shut and repeated to himself what she had said, as if to lodge it in his mind:
And if it’s Monsieur Naud who sent you, you can go back and tell him what I’ve said.
Did she know that it was Etienne Naud who had greeted Maigret at the station the day before? Did she know that it was he, indirectly, who had caused him to make the journey from Paris? Or did she merely suspect this to be the case?
“Forgive me for having taken the liberty of calling on you, madame, especially at such an early hour.”
“Time is of no importance to me.”
“Goodbye, madame…”
She remained where she was and said not a word as Maigret walked toward the door and closed it behind him. The superintendent had not gone ten paces when he saw Inspector Cavre standing on the pavement as if he were on sentry duty.
Was Cavre waiting for Maigret to leave so that he, in turn, could talk to Albert’s mother? Maigret wanted to find out once and for all. The conversation he had just had with Madame Retailleau had put him in a bad temper and he was in the mood to play a trick on his former colleague.
He relit his pipe, which he had put out with his thumb before entering Madame Retailleau’s house, crossed the street and took up his position on the other side of the road, immediately opposite Cavre, standing resolutely on the pavement as if he meant to stay.
The town was awakening. Children were walking up to the school gate on one side of the little square in front of the church. Most of them had come from far afield and were muffled up in scarves and thick blue or red woolen socks. Many were wearing clogs.
“Well, old chap, it’s your turn now! Off you go!” Maigret seemed to be saying, with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Cavre did not move, but looked haughtily in the other direction as if he were above any such frivolities.
Had Madame Retailleau summoned him to Saint-Aubin? It was quite possible. She was a strange woman and it was very difficult to size her up. She had the characteristic, almost inborn mistrust of the peasant, while a certain disdain made her more like a well-to-do lady from the provinces. Beneath the cold exterior, one sensed an arrogance which nothing could undermine. The way she had stood motionless in front of Maigret was impressive in itself. She had not moved a step or made any kind of gesture while he had been in her house, but had stiffened as some animals are supposed to do when, confronted with danger, they feign death. She had only said a few words and her lips barely moved as she spoke.
“Well, Cavre, you old misery! Make up your mind…Do something…”
Old Cadaver was stamping his feet to keep warm but seemed in no hurry to make any sort of move as long as Maigret was watching him.
It was a ridiculous situation. It was childish stubbornly to remain where he was, but Maigret did just that. Unfortunately, however, this tactic turned out to be a waste of time. At half past eight, a small, red-faced man came out of his house and made his way to the mairie. He opened the door with a key and a moment afterwards Cavre followed him inside.
This was the very move that Maigret had intended to make himself that morning, for he had determined to find out what the local authorities had to say. His former colleague had beaten him to it and there was nothing for it but to wait his turn.
3
AN UNDESIRABLE PERSON
Henceforth, Maigret refused to discuss this undignified episode. He never spoke of what happened that day, and particularly that mor
ning, and no doubt he would have preferred to forget the occasion.
The most disconcerting thing of all was losing the feeling that he was Maigret. For what, in fact, did he represent in Saint-Aubin? The short answer was nothing. Justin Cavre had gone into the mairie to talk to the local authorities while he, Maigret, had stood awkwardly outside in the street. The row of houses looked like a line of large, poisonous mushrooms clustered as they were beneath a sky that reminded one of a blister ready to burst. Maigret knew he was being watched for faces were peering at him from behind every curtain.
Admittedly, he did not really mind what a few old ladies or the butcher’s wife thought. People could take him for what they liked and laugh at him as he went by, as some children had done as they went through the school gate, for all he cared.
It was just that he felt he was not the Maigret he was accustomed to be. Although perhaps it was an exaggeration to say he was thoroughly out of sorts, the simple fact of the matter was that he just did not feel himself.
What would happen, for example, if he were to go into the white-washed mairie and knock at the gray door on which “Secretary’s Office” was written in black letters? He would be asked to wait his turn, just as if he had come in to see about a birth certificate or a claim of some sort. And meanwhile, old Cadaver would continue questioning the secretary in his tiny overheated office for as long as he liked.
Maigret was not here in an official capacity. He could not say he was acting on behalf of the Police Judiciaire, and in any case, who was to know whether anyone in this village surrounded by slimy marshland and stagnant water had even heard the name Maigret?
He was to find out soon enough. As he was waiting impatiently for Cavre to come out, he had one of the most extraordinary ideas in his entire career. He was all set to pursue relentlessly his former colleague, even to follow him step by step and say point-blank:
“Look here, Cavre, there’s no point in trying to outwit each other. It is quite obvious you’re not here for the fun of it. Someone asked you to come. Just tell me who it is and what you’ve been asked to do…”
How comparatively simple a proper, official investigation seemed at this moment! If he had been on a case somewhere within his own jurisdiction he would only have had to go into the local post office and say:
“Superintendent Maigret. Get me the Police Judiciaire as quickly as you can…Hello! Is that you, Janvier?…Jump in your car and come down here…When you see old Cadaver come out…Yes, Justin Cavre…Right…Follow him and don’t let him out of your sight…”
Who knows? Maybe he would have had Etienne Naud tailed too, for he had just seen him drive past on the road to Fontenay.
Playing the role of Maigret was easy! An organization which ran like clockwork was at his disposal, besides which, he had only to say his name and people were so bowled over with admiration that they would do anything to please him.
But here, he was so little known that despite numerous articles and photographs which were always appearing in the newspapers, someone like Etienne Naud had walked straight up to Justin Cavre at the station.
Naud had looked after him well because his brother-in-law, the examining magistrate, had sent him all the way from Paris, but on the other hand, had they not all looked as if they were wondering what in fact he had come for? The gist of what their welcome meant was this:
“My brother-in-law Bréjon is a charming fellow who wants to help, but he has been away from Saint-Aubin far too long and has got quite the wrong idea of the situation. It was kind of him to have thought of sending you here. It is kind of you to have come. We will look after you as best we can. Eat and drink your fill. Let me show you around the estate. Don’t, on any account, feel you have to stay in this damp, unattractive part of the world. And don’t feel you have to look into this trivial matter which concerns no one but ourselves.”
On whose behalf was he working, in fact? For Etienne Naud. But it was palpably obvious that Etienne Naud did not want him to carry out a proper investigation.
And to cap it all, Geneviève had come into his room in the middle of the night and had admitted:
“I was Albert Retailleau’s mistress and I am pregnant by him. But I’ll kill myself if you breathe a word to my parents.”
Now, if she really was Albert’s mistress, the accusations against Naud suddenly took on a terrible meaning. Had she thought of that? Had she consciously charged her father with murder?
And even the victim’s mother, who had said nothing, admitted nothing, denied nothing, had made it perfectly clear by her attitude that she did not want Maigret interfering. It was none of his business was what she implied.
Everyone, even the old ladies lying in wait behind their fluttering curtains, even the schoolchildren who had turned around to stare as they went by, considered him an intruder, an undesirable person. Worse still, no one knew where this steady plodder had come from or why he was in this village.
And so, in a setting which was exactly right for the part, with hands sunk into the pockets of his heavy overcoat, Maigret looked just like one of those nasty characters tormented by some secret vice who prowl round the Porte Saint-Martin or somewhere similar with hunched shoulders and sidelong glances and cautiously edge their way past the houses well out of sight of the police.
Was he turning into another Cavre? He felt like sending someone to Naud’s house to fetch his suitcase and taking the first train back to Paris. He would tell Bréjon:
“They won’t have anything to do with me…Leave your brother-in-law to his own devices…”
All the same, he had gone into the mairie as soon as the ex-inspector emerged with a leather briefcase tucked under his arm. No doubt this would increase his standing in the village, for now he would pass for a lawyer.
The secretary was a little man who smelt rather unpleasant. He did not get up as Maigret entered his office.
“Can I help you?”
“Superintendent Maigret of the Police Judiciaire. I am in Saint-Aubin on unofficial business and I would like to ask you one or two questions.”
The little man hesitated and looked annoyed, but nonetheless invited Maigret to sit down on a wicker-seated chair.
“Did the private detective who has just left your office tell you whom he was working for?”
The secretary either did not understand or pretended he did not understand the question. And he reacted in similar fashion to all the other questions the superintendent put to him.
“You knew Albert Retailleau. Tell me what you thought of him.”
“He was a good sort…Yes, that’s how I’d describe him, a good sort…You couldn’t fault him…”
“Did he like to chase women?”
“He was only a lad, you know, and we don’t always know what the young are up to, these days, but you couldn’t say he ran after women…”
“Was he Mademoiselle Naud’s lover?”
“People said he was…Rumors were going around…But it’s all pure hearsay…”
“Who discovered the body?”
“Ferchaud, the station master. He telephoned the mairie and the deputy mayor immediately contacted the Benet gendarmerie as there isn’t a constabulary in Saint-Aubin.”
“What did the doctor who examined the body say?”
“What did he say? Just that he was dead…There wasn’t much of him left…The train went right over him…”
“But he was identified as Albert Retailleau?”
“What?…Of course…It was Retailleau all right, there was no doubt about that…”
“When did the last train pass through?”
“At 5:07 in the morning.”
“Didn’t people think it odd that Retailleau should have been on the railway line at five in the morning in the middle of winter?”
The secretary’s reply was quite something:
“It was dry at the time. There was hoar frost on the ground.”
“But people talked all the same…”
&nb
sp; “Rumors circulated, yes…But you can never stop people from talking…”
“Your opinion then, is that Retailleau died a natural death?”
“It is very hard to say what happened.”
And did Maigret bring up the subject of Madame Retailleau? He did, and the reply was as follows:
“She’s a truly good woman. I can’t say more.”
And Naud, too, was described in similar terms:
“Such a likeable fellow. His father was a splendid person as well, a county councillor…”
And lastly, what did the secretary have to say about Geneviève?
“An attractive girl…”
“Well-behaved?”
“Of course she is well-behaved…And her mother is one of the most respected members of the community…”
The little man spoke politely enough, but his replies simply did not sound convincing. To make matters worse, he kept poking his finger up his nose as he spoke and would then carefully examine what he had picked out.
“And what is your opinion of Monsieur Groult-Cotelle?”
“He’s a decent sort, too. A modest man…”
“Is he a close friend of the Nauds?”
“They see a good deal of one another, certainly. But that’s only natural since they move in the same circles.”
“When exactly was Retailleau’s cap discovered not far from the Nauds’ house?”
“When?…Well…But was it just the cap that was found?”
“I was told that someone called Désiré who collects the milk for the dairy found the cap in the reeds along the bank of the canal.”
“So people said…”
“It’s not true, then?”
“It’s difficult to say. Désiré is drunk half the time.”
“And when he is drunk…”
“Sometimes he tells the truth and sometimes he doesn’t…”
“But a cap is something you can see and touch! Some people have seen it…”
Inspector Cadaver Page 4
