Maigret saw the look her father gave her as she came into the drawing room. There was a trace of anxiety in his expression. Naud had not seen his daughter since she had retired to her room the day before, saying she did not feel well. It was perfectly natural, too, that Geneviève should reassure him with a smile.
Just at that moment the telephone rang and Naud went into the hall to answer it. He left the drawing room door open.
“What?” he said, in an astonished tone of voice. “Of course he’s here, damn it. What did you say?…Yes, hurry up, we’re expecting you…”
When he came back into the drawing room he shrugged his shoulders once again.
“I wonder what has got into our friend Alban. There’s been a place for him at our table for years. Then he rings up this evening to find out if you’re here and when I say you are he asks if he can come to dinner and says he must talk to you…”
By chance, Maigret happened to be looking, not at Naud but at his daughter, and he was surprised to see such a fierce expression on her face.
“He did more or less the same thing earlier on,” she said crossly. “He came here to lunch and looked very peeved when he realized the superintendent hadn’t come back. I thought he was going to leave. He muttered: ‘What a pity. I had something to show him.’
“He took his leave as soon as he had gulped down his dessert. You must have met him in the town, then, superintendent?”
Whatever it was was so subtle that Maigret could not pinpoint it. A hint of something in the young girl’s voice. And yet it was not really the voice. What is it, for example, that makes an experienced man suddenly realize that a young girl has become a woman?
Maigret noticed something of this sort. It seemed to him that Geneviève’s peevish words displayed something more than plain ill temper, and he decided to watch young Mademoiselle Naud more closely.
Madame Naud came in, apologizing for her absence. Her daughter availed herself of the opportunity to repeat:
“Alban has just rung to say he’s coming to dinner. But first of all he asked whether the superintendent was here. He’s not coming to see us…”
“He’ll be here in a minute,” said her father who had finally sat down, now that his family was round him. “It will take him three minutes by bicycle.”
Maigret dutifully remained seated, looking rather dejected. His large eyes were expressionless as they always were whenever he found himself in an awkward situation. He watched them in turn, smiling slightly when spoken to, and all the while thinking to himself:
“They must be cursing their idiot of a brother-in-law and me, too. They all know what happened, including their friend Alban. That’s why they are jittery the minute they are on their own. They feel reassured when they are together and gang up…”
What had happened, in fact? Had Etienne Naud discovered the young Retailleau in his daughter’s bedroom? Had they quarreled? Had they had a fight? Or had Naud quite simply shot him down like he would a rabbit?
What a night to have lived through! Geneviève’s mother must have been in a terrible state and the servants who probably heard the noise must have been petrified.
Someone was scraping his feet at the front door. Geneviève made a move, as if to go and open the door, but then decided to remain seated and Naud himself, somewhat surprised, as if his daughter’s behavior constituted a serious breach of habit, got up and went into the hall. Maigret heard him talking about the fog and then the two men came into the drawing room.
This was the first time, in fact, that Maigret had seen Geneviève and Alban together. She held out her hand rather stiffly. Alban bowed, kissed the back of her hand and then turned towards Maigret, obviously anxious to tell him or show him something.
“Would you believe, superintendent, that after you left this morning I came across this quite by chance…”
And he held out a small sheet of paper which had been attached to some others with a pin, for there were two tiny prick marks in it.
“What is it?” asked Naud quite naturally, while his daughter looked distrustfully at Alban.
“You have all made fun of my mania for hoarding the smallest scrap of paper. I could produce the tiniest laundry bill dated three or eight years back!”
The piece of paper that Maigret kept twirling between his fat fingers was a bill from the HÔtel de l’Europe in La Roche-sur-Yon. Room: 30 francs. Breakfast: 6 francs. Service…The date: January 7.
“Of course,” said Alban, as though he were apologizing, “it’s not important. However, I remembered the police like alibis. Look at the date. Quite by chance, I was in La Roche, do you see, on the night the person you know met his death…”
Naud and his wife reacted as well-bred people do when confronted with a breach of manners. Unable to believe her ears, Madame Naud looked first at Alban, as though she would not have expected such behavior from him, and then looked down with a sigh at the logs in the grate. Her husband frowned. He was slower on the uptake. Perhaps he was hunting for some deeper meaning to his friend’s ploy?
As for Geneviève, she had turned pale with anger. She had obviously had a real shock, and the pupils of her eyes glistened. Maigret had been so intrigued by her behavior a few moments before that he tried not to look at anyone else.
Alban, with his thin, lanky physique and balding forehead, stood sheepishly in the middle of the drawing room.
“At any rate, you’re making quite sure you are in the clear before you are accused,” said Naud when he finally spoke, having had time to weigh his words.
“What do you mean by that, Etienne? I think you have all misinterpreted me. I came across this hotel bill quite by chance when I was sorting out some papers a short while ago. I was eager to show it to the superintendent as it was such a strange coincidence it had the same date on it as the day…”
Madame Naud even chipped in, something that rarely happened.
“So you’ve already said,” she retorted. “I think dinner is ready now…”
The atmosphere was still strained. Although the meal was as elaborate and well-cooked as it had been on the previous evening, their efforts to create a friendly ambience or at any rate an outward show of relaxation failed dismally. Geneviève was the most agitated. For a long time afterwards Maigret could still picture her, her chest heaving with emotion: a woman’s anger but also a mistress’s rage, Maigret was sure. She pecked at her food, disdainfully. Not once did she look at Alban who, for his part, made sure he caught no one’s eye.
Alban was just the sort of man to keep the smallest scraps of paper and file them away, pinning them together in bundles as if they were banknotes. It was also just like him to get himself out of difficulty if he had the chance and with a clear conscience leave his friends in hot water.
All this made itself felt. There was something scandalous afoot. Madame Naud looked even more anxious. Naud, on the other hand, endeavored to reassure his family, although quite probably with another objective in mind.
“By the way, I happened to meet the Director of Prosecutions in Fontenay this morning. In fact, Alban, he is almost a relative of yours through the female side, as he married a Deharme, from Cholet.”
“The Cholet Deharmes aren’t related to the general’s family. They originally came from Nantes and their…”
Naud went on:
“He was most reassuring, you know, superintendent. Admittedly, he has told my brother-in-law Bréjon that there is bound to be an official inquiry, but it will just be a formality, at any rate as far as we are concerned. I told him you were here…”
Well! He immediately regretted making this thoughtless comment. He blushed slightly, and hurriedly put a large piece of lobster à la crème into his mouth.
“What did he have to say about that?”
“He admires you greatly and has followed most of your cases in the newspapers. It is precisely because he admires you…”
The poor man did not know how to extricate himself.
“He is amazed that my brother-in-law deemed it necessary to involve a man like you in such a trivial matter…”
“I understand…”
“You’re not angry, I hope? He only said this because of his admiration for…”
“Are you sure he didn’t also say that my appearance here may well make the case seem more important than it actually is?”
“How did you know? Have you seen him?”
Maigret smiled. What else could he do? For was he not a guest in their house? The Nauds had entertained him as well as they could. And again, that night, the dinner they served was a small but consummate example of traditional provincial cooking.
In a pleasant, very polite way, his hosts now began to make him feel that his presence in their midst was a threat, a potentially harmful factor.
There was silence, as there had been a short while before, after the Alban episode. It was Madame Naud who tried to put things right and she made a bigger blunder than her husband had done.
“At any rate, I hope you’ll stay a few more days with us? I expect there will be a frost after the fog has gone and you will be able to go on some walks with my husband…Don’t you think, Etienne?”
How relieved they all would have been if Maigret had replied as they assumed he would, in the manner of a well-bred man:
“I would gladly stay, and greatly appreciate your hospitality, but alas I must return to my duties in Paris. I may pass this way in the holidays…But I have enjoyed myself enormously…”
He said nothing of the kind. He went on eating and did not reply. Inwardly, he felt a brute. These people had behaved well towards him from the outset. Perhaps Albert Retailleau’s death weighed heavily on their conscience? But had not the young man robbed their daughter of her honor, as the saying goes in their circles? And had Albert’s mother, Madame Retailleau, made a fuss? Or had she been the first to realize that it was far better to let sleeping dogs lie?
Three or four people, perhaps more, were trying to keep their secret, desperately trying to prevent anyone from discovering the truth, and for someone like Madame Naud, Maigret’s presence alone must have been an intolerable strain. Had she not been on the point of crying out in anguish a short while ago, at the end of quarter of an hour alone with the superintendent?
It was so simple! He would leave the following morning with the whole family’s blessing and, back in Paris, Bréjon the examining magistrate would thank him with tears in his eyes!
And if Maigret did not take this course of action, was it his passion for justice alone which prompted him to do otherwise? He would not have dared look someone in the eye and say this was so. For there was Cavre. There were the successive rebuttals Cavre had inflicted on him ever since their arrival the night before, without so much as a glance in the direction of his former boss. He came and went as if Maigret did not exist, or as if he were a totally innocuous opponent.
Whenever Maigret passed by, as though by magic, evidence melted away, witnesses could remember nothing or refused to speak, and items of unmistakable proof, like the cap, vanished into thin air.
At last, after so many years, the wretched, unlucky, grudging Cavre had his moment of triumph!
“What are you thinking about, superintendent?”
He gave a start.
“Nothing…I’m so sorry. My mind wanders sometimes…”
He had helped himself to a huge plateful of food without realizing what he was doing and was now ashamed of himself. To put him at his ease, Madame Naud said quietly:
“Nothing gives more pleasure to the mistress of the house than to see her cooking appreciated. Alban eats like a wolf so it doesn’t count, as he’d eat anything put in front of him. Everything tastes good to him. He’s not a gourmet. He’s a glutton.”
She was joking, of course, but nonetheless there was a trace of spite in her voice and expression.
A few glasses of wine had made Etienne Naud’s face even rosier. Playing with his knife, he ventured:
“So what do you make of it all, superintendent, now that you’ve seen something of the neighborhood and have asked a few questions?”
“He has met young Fillou…” his wife informed him, as though in warning.
And Maigret, whom each of them was watching like a hawk, said slowly and clearly:
“I think Albert Retailleau was very unlucky…”
The remark did not really imply anything and yet Geneviève grew pale, indeed seemed so taken aback by these few insignificant words that for a moment she looked as if she would get up and leave the room. Her father looked puzzled, unsure of what Maigret meant. Alban sneered:
“I reckon that’s a statement worthy of the ancient oracles! I’d certainly be very uneasy if I hadn’t miraculously found proof that I was sleeping peacefully in a room in the HÔtel de l’Europe eighty kilometers from here, on that very night…”
“Don’t you know,” retorted Maigret, “that there is a saying in the police force that he who has the best alibi is all the more suspect?”
Alban was annoyed. Taking Maigret’s little joke seriously, he answered:
“Then in that case, you will have to hold the préfet’s private secretary suspect too, as he spent the evening with me. He is a childhood friend of mine whom I see from time to time and whenever we spend an evening together we don’t usually get to bed until two or three in the morning…”
What made Maigret decide to carry on the pretense to the end? Was it the blatant cowardice of this trumped-up aristocrat which spurred him to act thus? He took a large notebook with an elastic band round it out of his pocket and asked with all seriousness:
“What is his name?”
“Do you really want it? As you wish…Musellier…Pierre Musellier…He has remained a bachelor…He has a flat in the Place Napoléon, above the Murs garages…About fifty yards from the HÔtel de l’Europe…”
“Shall we have coffee in the drawing room?” suggested Madame Naud. “Will you serve the coffee, Geneviève? You’re not too tired? You look pale to me. Do you think you had better go upstairs to bed?”
“No.”
She was not tired. She was tense. It was as if she had various accounts to settle with Alban, for she did not take her eyes off him.
“Did you return to Saint-Aubin the following morning?” asked Maigret, with a pencil in his hand.
“The very next morning, yes. A friend gave me a lift in his car to Fontenay-le-Comte, where I had lunch with some other friends, and just as I was leaving I bumped into Etienne who brought me back.”
“You go from friend to friend, in effect…”
He could not have made it clearer that he thought Alban was a sponger and it was true. Everyone understood perfectly the implications of Maigret’s words. Geneviève blushed and looked away.
“Are you sure you won’t change your mind and have one of my cigars, superintendent?”
“Would you be so kind as to tell me if you have finished questioning me? If you have, I would like to take my leave…I want to get home early tonight.”
“That’s absolutely fine. In fact, I’d like to walk as far as the town so if it’s all right with you, we can go together…”
“I came by bicycle…”
“That doesn’t matter…A bicycle can be pushed by hand, can’t it? And anyway, you might bicycle into the canal in this fog…”
What was going on? For one thing, when Maigret had talked of leaving with Alban Groult-Cotelle, Etienne Naud had frowned and appeared to be on the point of accompanying them.
Did he fear that Alban, who was far too nervous that night, might be tempted to confess all? He had given him a long look, as if to say: “For heavens’s sake, be careful! Look how het-up you are. He is tougher than you…”
Geneviève gave Alban an even sterner, more contemptuous look which said: “At least try and control yourself!”
Madame Naud did not look at anyone. She was weary. She no longer understood what was going on. It would not be long before s
he gave way under such nervous tension.
But the person who behaved most strangely of all was Alban himself. He would not make up his mind to go but walked around the drawing room, his intention in all probability being to have a private talk with Naud.
“Did you not want a word with me in your study about that insurance matter?”
“What insurance matter?” said Naud stupidly.
“Not to worry. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
What did he want to tell Naud that was so important?
“Are you coming, my dear fellow?” persisted the superintendent.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you in the car? If you would like to have the car and drive yourself…”
“No thank you. We’ll have a good chat as we walk…”
The fog swirled round them. Alban pushed his bicycle with one hand and walked quickly along, constantly having to stop because Maigret would not walk more briskly.
“They are such good sorts! Such a united family…But it must be rather a dull life for a young girl, mustn’t it? Has she many friends?”
“I don’t know of any in the neighborhood…Every now and then she goes off to spend a week or so with her cousins and they come down here in the summer, but apart from that…”
“I imagine she also goes and stays with the Bréjons in Paris?”
“Yes, indeed, she stayed with them this winter.”
Maigret changed the subject, playing the innocent. The two men could scarcely see each other in the icy white mist that enveloped them. The electric light in the station acted as a lighthouse and, further on, two more lights which could have been boats out to sea, shone through the haze.
“So apart from staying in La Roche-sur-Yon from time to time, you hardly ever leave Saint-Aubin?”
“I sometimes go to Nantes as I have friends there, and also to Bordeaux where my cousin from Chièvre lives. Her husband is a shipowner.”
“Do you ever go to Paris?”
“I was there a month ago.”
“At the same time as Mademoiselle Naud?”
“Perhaps. I really don’t know…”
They walked past the two inns opposite each other. Maigret stopped and suggested:
Inspector Cadaver Page 9
