Inspector Cadaver

by Georges Simenon

There was no tablecloth. The table was set with metal knives and forks. All that was offered at midday was a beetroot salad, rabbit and a piece of cheese with some bad white wine. When Louis returned, however, he felt very uncomfortable sitting at the superintendent’s table.

  “Well?”

  “Désiré went to the Lion d’Or.”

  “Did he talk to old Cadaver?”

  “To who?”

  “Never mind. It’s a nickname we gave him. Did Désiré talk to him?”

  “It didn’t happen like that. The man you call Cadav…It sounds really odd to me…”

  “His name is Justin Cavre…”

  “Monsieur Cavre, according to Liboureau, spent a good part of the evening watching the card players and saying nothing. Désiré was drinking in his usual corner. He left at about ten o’clock and a few minutes later Liboureau noticed that the Parisian had disappeared too. But he doesn’t know if he left the inn or just went upstairs…”

  “He left.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  He was so proud to be working with the superintendent that he could not wait to get started.

  “Who was it that reported seeing a considerable sum of money in Madame Retailleau’s house?”

  “The postman…Josaphat…Another drunkard…He’s called Josaphat because when his wife died he had more to drink than usual and kept on saying through his tears: ‘Goodbye, Céline…We’ll meet again in the valley of Josaphat…Count on me…’”

  “What would you like for dessert?” asked the patronne, who obviously had one of her children in her arms all day and worked with her one free hand. “I’ve biscuits or apples.”

  “Have which ever you like,” said Maigret.

  And the youngster replied, blushing:

  “I don’t mind…Some biscuits, please…This is what happened…about ten or twelve days after Albert’s funeral, the postman went to collect some money from Madame Retailleau…She was busy doing the housework…She looked in her purse but she needed fifty francs more…So she walked over to the dresser, where the soup tureen is…You must have noticed it…It’s got blue flowers on it…She stood in front of it so that Josaphat couldn’t see what she was doing, but that evening, he swore he had seen some 1,000-franc notes, at least ten, he said, maybe more…Now, everybody knows that Madame Retailleau has never had as much money as that at one time…Albert spent all he earned…”

  “What on?”

  “He was rather vain…There’s nothing wrong with that…He liked to be well-dressed and he had his suits made in Niort…He would often pay for a round of drinks, too…He would tell his mother that as long as she had her pension…”

  “They quarreled, then?”

  “Sometimes…Albert was an independent chap, you see…His mother would have liked to treat him like a little boy. If he had listened to her he would not have gone out at night and he’d never have set foot in the café…My mother’s just the opposite…She’s only too anxious to get me out of the house…”

  “Where can we find Josaphat?”

  “He’ll probably be at home now, or else about to finish his first round. In half an hour he’ll be at the station to collect the sacks with the second post…”

  “Will you bring us some liqueurs please, madame?”

  Through the curtains, Maigret stared at the windows on the other side of the street, imagined old Cadaver eating his lunch just as he was, and watching him likewise. It was not long before he realized his mistake, for a car ground noisily to a halt opposite the Lion d’Or and Cavre got out, his briefcase under his arm. Maigret watched him lean over toward the driver to find out how much he owed.

  “Whose car is that?”

  “It belongs to the man who owns the garage. We went past it a little while ago. He acts as a taxi driver every now and again, if someone’s ill and needs to be taken to hospital, or if someone wants something urgently…”

  The car made a half turn and judging by the noise did not go far.

  “You see. He’s gone back to his garage.”

  “Do you get on well with him?”

  “He’s a friend of my boss.”

  “Go and ask him where he took his client this morning.”

  Less than five minutes later, Louis came running back.

  “He went to Fontenay-le-Comte. It’s exactly twenty-two kilometers from here…”

  “Didn’t you ask him where they went in Fontenay?”

  “He was told to stop at the Café du Commerce, in the Rue de la République. The Parisian went in, came out with another man and told the driver to wait…”

  “You don’t know who this man was?”

  “The garage man didn’t know him…They were gone about half an hour…Then the man you call Cavre was driven back. He only gave a five franc tip…”

  Had not Etienne Naud also gone to Fontenay-le-Comte?

  “Let’s go and see Josaphat…”

  He had already left his house. They met up with him at the station where he was waiting for the train. When he saw young Louis with Maigret from the other end of the platform, he looked annoyed and went hurriedly into the station master’s office, as if he had some business to attend to.

  But Louis and Maigret waited for him to come out.

  “Josaphat!” called out Louis.

  “What do you want? I’m in a hurry…”

  “There’s a gentleman here who’d like a word with you.”

  “Who? I’m on duty and when I’m on duty…”

  Maigret had the utmost difficulty in steering him toward an empty spot between the lamp room and the urinals.

  “I just want an answer to a simple question…”

  The postman was on his guard, that was obvious. He pretended he heard the train and was ready to rush off to the carriage carrying the mailbags. At the same time, he could not help glowering briefly at Louis for putting him in this position.

  Maigret already knew he would get nothing out of him, that his colleague Cavre had already questioned him.

  “Hurry up, I can hear the train…”

  “About ten days ago, you called at Madame Retailleau’s house to collect some money.”

  “I’m not allowed to discuss my work…”

  “But you discussed it that very evening…”

  “In front of me!” interjected the youngster. “Avrard was there, and so was Lhériteau and little Croman…”

  The postman stood on one leg and then the other, with a stupid, insolent look on his face.

  “What right have you to interrogate me?”

  “We can ask you a question, can’t we? You’re not the Pope, are you?”

  “And what if I asked him to show me his papers? He’s been snooping round the neighborhood all morning!”

  Maigret had already begun to walk away, knowing that it was pointless trying to discuss the matter further. Louis, however, lost his temper in the face of such blatant hostility.

  “Do you mean you’ve the nerve to say you didn’t tell everyone about the thousand franc notes you saw in the soup tureen?”

  “I can say what I like, can’t I? Or are you going to try and stop me?”

  “You told everyone what you saw. I’ll get the others to back me up, I’ll get them to repeat what you said. You even said the notes were held together by a pin…”

  The postman shrugged his shoulders and walked away. This time the train really was coming into the station and he walked down the platform to where the mail coach usually came to a halt.

  “The swine!” growled Louis under his breath. “You heard what he said, didn’t you? But you can take my word for it. Why should I lie? I knew perfectly well this would happen…”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s always the same with them…”

  “With who?”

  “With the lot of them…I can’t really explain…They stick together…They’re rich…They’re either related to or else friends of magistrates, préfets and generals…I don’t know wh
ether you understand what I’m trying to say…So the townspeople are afraid…They often gossip at night when they’ve had a bit too much to drink and then regret it the next day…

  “What are you going to do now? You’re not going back to Paris, are you?”

  “Of course not, son. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. The other man looks…”

  The youngster stopped himself just in time. He was probably about to say something like:

  “The other man looks so much stronger than you!”

  And it was true. Through the mist that was beginning to come down, as if it were dusk, Maigret thought he saw Cavre’s face, his thin lips spreading into a sardonic smile.

  “Isn’t your boss going to be cross if you don’t get back to your work?”

  “Oh! No…He’s not one of them…If he could help us prove poor Albert was murdered, he would, I promise you…”

  Maigret jumped when a voice behind him asked:

  “Could you tell me the way to the Lion d’Or, please?”

  The railwayman on duty near the small gate pointed to the street which opened up about a hundred yards away.

  “Go straight on…It’s on your left, you’ll see…”

  A small, plump little man, faultlessly dressed and carrying a suitcase almost as large as himself, looked around for a non-existent porter. The superintendent examined him from head to foot, but his efforts were in vain. He had absolutely no idea who the stranger was.

  5

  THREE WOMEN IN A DRAWING ROOM

  Louis dived into the fog with his head bowed and before it enveloped him completely, he said to Maigret:

  “If you want to get hold of me, I’ll be at the Trois Mules all evening.”

  It was five o’clock. A thick fog had descended over the town and darkness fell at the same time. Maigret had to walk the length of the main street in Saint-Aubin in order to reach the station, where he would take the road leading to Etienne Naud’s house. Louis had offered to go with him, but there is a limit to everything and Maigret had had enough. He was beginning to get tired of being pulled along by this excited and restless youngster.

  As they parted company, Louis had said with a note of reproach in his voice, almost sentimentally:

  “They’ll butter you up and you’ll start believing everything they tell you.” He was referring to the Nauds, of course.

  With his hands in his pockets and the collar of his overcoat turned up, Maigret walked cautiously toward the light in the distance, for any lamp which shone through the fog was a kind of lighthouse. Because of the intense brightness of this halo which looked as if it was still a long way off, the superintendent felt he was walking towards an important goal. And then, all of a sudden, he almost bumped into the cold window of the Vendée Cooperative which he had walked past twenty times that day. The narrow shop had been painted green fairly recently and there were free offers of glassware and earthenware displayed in the window.

  Further on, in total darkness, he came up against something hard and groped about in confusion for some time before he realized he had landed in the middle of the carts standing outside the wheelwright’s house with their shafts in the air.

  The bells loomed into view immediately above his head. He was walking past the church. The post office was on the right, with its doll-size counter; opposite, on the other side of the road, stood the doctor’s house.

  The Lion d’Or was on one side of the street, the Trois Mules on the other. It was extraordinary to think that inside each lighted house people were living in a tiny circle of warmth, like incrustations in the icy infinity of the universe.

  Saint-Aubin was not a large town. The lights in the dairy made one think of a brightly-lit factory at night. A railway engine in the station was sending out sparks.

  Albert Retailleau had grown up in this microcosm of a world. His mother had spent all her life in Saint-Aubin. Apart from holidays in Sables d’Olonne, someone like Geneviève Naud would to all intents and purposes never leave the town.

  As the train slowed down a little before arriving at Niort station, Maigret had noticed empty streets in the rain, rows of gaslights and shuttered houses. He had thought to himself: “There are people who spend their whole lives in that street.”

  Testing the ground with his feet, he made his way along the canal towards another lighthouse which was in fact the lantern outside Naud’s house. On various train journeys, whether on cold nights or in slashing rain, Maigret had seen many such isolated houses, a rectangle of yellow light being the only sign of their existence. The imagination then sets to work and pictures all manner of things.

  And so it was that Maigret came into the orbit of one of these welcoming lights. He walked up the stone steps, looked for the bell and then saw that the door was ajar. He went into the hall, deliberately shuffling his feet to make his presence known, but this did not deter whoever was in the drawing room from continuing to hold forth in monotonous tones. Maigret took off his wet overcoat, his hat, wiped his feet on the straw mat and knocked on the door.

  “Come in…Geneviève, open the door…”

  He had already opened it; only one of the lamps in the drawing room was lit. Madame Naud was sewing by the hearth and a very old woman was sitting opposite her. A young girl walked over to the door as Maigret came into the room.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you…”

  The girl looked at him anxiously, unable to decide whether or not he would betray her. Maigret merely bowed.

  “This is my daughter Geneviève, superintendent…She so wanted to meet you. She is quite recovered now…Allow me to introduce you to my mother…”

  So this was Clémentine Bréjon, a La Noue before she married and commonly known as Tine. This small, sprightly old lady with a wry expression on her face reminiscent of that on the busts of Voltaire, rose to her feet and asked in a curious falsetto voice:

  “Well, superintendent, do you feel you have caused enough havoc in our poor Saint-Aubin? Upon my word, I’ve seen you go up and down ten times or more this morning, and this afternoon I have it on good authority that you found yourself a young recruit…Do you know, Louise, who acted as elephant driver to the superintendent?”

  Had she deliberately chosen the words “elephant driver” to emphasize the difference in size between the lanky youth and the elephantine Maigret?

  Louise Naud, who was far from having her mother’s vivacity and whose face was much longer and paler, did not look up from her work but just nodded her head and smiled faintly to show she was listening.

  “Fillou’s son…It was bound to happen…The boy must have lain in wait for him…No doubt he has regaled you with some fine stories, superintendent?”

  “He has done nothing of the kind, madame…He merely directed me to the various people I wanted to see. I’d have found it difficult to find their houses on my own as the locals aren’t exactly talkative on the whole…”

  Geneviève had sat down and was staring at Maigret as if she was hypnotized by him. Madame Naud looked up occasionally from her work and glanced furtively at her daughter.

  The drawing room looked exactly as it had done the previous evening for everything was in its usual place. An oppressive stillness hung over the room and it was really only the grandmother who conveyed any sense of normality.

  “I am an old woman, superintendent. Let me tell you that, some time ago, something much more serious happened which nearly destroyed Saint-Aubin. There used to be a clog factory which employed fifty people, men and women. It was at a time when there were endless strikes in France and workers walked out at the slightest provocation.”

  Madame Naud had looked up from her work to listen and Maigret saw that she found it difficult to conceal her anxiety. Her thin face bore a striking resemblance to that of Bréjon the magistrate.

  “One of the workmen in the clog factory was called Fillou. He wasn’t a bad sort, but he was inclined to drink too much and when he was tipsy he thought he was a real
orator. What happened exactly? One day, he went into the manager’s office to lodge a complaint of some sort. Shortly afterwards the door opened. Fillou catapulted out, staggering backwards for several yards, and then fell into the canal.”

  “And he was the father of my young companion with the pock-marked face?” inquired Maigret.

  “His father, yes. He is dead, now. At the time, the town was divided into two factions. One side thought that the drunken Fillou had behaved abominably and that the manager had been forced to take violent action to get rid of him. The other side felt that the manager was completely in the wrong and that he had provoked Fillou, taunting him when referring to the large families of his employees with remarks like:

  “‘I can’t help it if they breed on Saturday nights when they’re pissed…’”

  “Fillou is dead, you said?”

  “He died two years ago of cancer of the stomach.”

  “Did many people support him at the time of the incident?”

  “The majority of people did not support him, but those who did were really committed to their cause. Every morning various people used to find threats written in chalk on their doors.”

  “Are you implying, madame, that the case is similar to the one we are dealing with now?”

  “I am not implying anything, superintendent. Old people love rambling on, you know. There is always some scandal or other to discuss in small towns. Life would be very dull, otherwise. And there will always be a few people willing to fan the flames…”

  “What was the end of the Fillou affair?”

  “Silence, of course…”

  “Yes, silence just about sums it up,” thought Maigret to himself. For despite the efforts of a few fanatics to stir things up, silence is always the most effective form of action. And he had been confronted with silence all day long.

  Moreover, ever since he had come into the drawing room, a strange feeling had taken hold of him, a feeling which made him somewhat uneasy. He had trailed through the streets from morning till night, sullenly and obstinately following Louis, who had passed on to him something of his own eagerness.

  “She’s one of them…” Louis would say.