‘Where did he live before?’
‘Still on the banks of the Seine, but further upstream, on Quai de la Rapée, under Pont de Bercy.’
‘Do they often change location like that?’
‘No. It’s as big a thing for them as moving house is for us. They each have their own corner and get quite attached to it.’
In the end, as if by way of reward, or to keep up his good mood, he poured himself a little glass of sloe gin. After which, he took his hat and kissed Madame Maigret.
‘See you this evening.’
‘Do you think you’ll be back for dinner?’
He had no idea, any more than she did. To be honest, he hadn’t the slightest idea what he was going to do.
Since morning, Torrence had been checking the statement of the insurance agent and his friend with the stammer. He had probably already questioned Madame Goulet, the concierge in Rue de Turenne, and the bistro owner on the corner of Rue des Francs-Bourgeois.
They would know soon enough if the story about the dog Nestor was true or completely made up. Even if it was true, it still wouldn’t prove that the two men hadn’t assaulted Doc.
For what reason, though? At this stage, Maigret couldn’t see any.
But what reason would Madame Keller, for example, have had to have her husband thrown in the Seine? And by whom?
One day, when an unremarkable, penniless man had been murdered in similarly mysterious circumstances, he had said to the examining magistrate:
‘Losers don’t get killed.’
Nor do tramps. And yet someone had definitely tried to get rid of François Keller.
Maigret was on the platform of the bus, listening distractedly to the phrases whispered by a pair of lovers standing next to him, when a hypothesis occurred to him. It was the expression ‘loser’ that had made him think of it.
No sooner was he in his office than he asked to be put through to Madame Keller. She wasn’t at home. The maid informed him that she was having lunch in town with a friend, but had no idea in which restaurant.
He next called Jacqueline Rousselet.
‘I gather you’ve seen Mother. She phoned me last night, after your visit. She just called me again, less than an hour ago. So it really is my father.’
‘There seems to be no doubt about his identity.’
‘Do you still have no idea why he was assaulted? Are you sure it wasn’t a fight?’
‘Did your father get into fights?’
‘He was the gentlest man in the world, at least in the days when I lived with him, and I think he would have let himself be beaten without retaliating.’
‘Are you familiar with your mother’s business affairs?’
‘What business affairs?’
‘When she married, she wasn’t rich and had no idea she would be rich one day, and neither did your father. Given that, I wonder if they had the idea of drawing up a convention of separate assets. If they didn’t, they would have married according to the convention of common assets, which means that your father could well lay claim to half of her fortune.’
‘That’s not the case,’ she replied without hesitation.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Mother can confirm it. When I married my husband, we discussed it with the notary. My mother and father married under the convention of separate assets.’
‘Might I ask the name of your notary?’
‘Maître Prijean, in Rue de Bassano.’
‘Many thanks.’
‘Don’t you want me to go to the hospital?’
‘Would you like to?’
‘I’m not sure he’d be pleased to see me. He didn’t say anything to my mother. Apparently, he pretended not to recognize her.’
‘It might be better to avoid it for the moment.’
Needing to give himself the illusion that he was doing something, he immediately asked to have Maître Prijean on the telephone. He had to argue for quite a long time and even threaten an order signed by the examining magistrate, since the notary claimed professional confidentiality.
‘I’m only asking you to tell me if Monsieur and Madame Keller, from Mulhouse, were married under the convention of separate assets and if you’ve seen the papers.’
It ended with a fairly curt ‘yes’ before the call was cut short.
In other words, François Keller was indeed a loser who had no right to the fortune amassed by the scrap-metal merchant that had ended up in his wife’s hands.
The switchboard operator was quite surprised when Maigret asked:
‘Get me the lock at Suresnes.’
‘The lock?’
‘The lock, yes. Lock-keepers have telephones, don’t they?’
‘Very well, chief.’
He was eventually put through to the chief lock-keeper and introduced himself.
‘I assume you keep a note of the boats that pass from one reach to another? … I’d like to locate a motor barge which must have passed through your lock late yesterday afternoon. It has a Flemish name. De Zwarte Zwaan.’
‘I know it, yes. Two brothers, a little blonde woman and a baby. They passed the last sluice and spent the night below the gates.’
‘Do you have any idea where they are right now?’
‘Wait. They have a good diesel engine and they’re taking advantage of the fact that the current is still quite strong.’
He could be heard making calculations, muttering to himself the names of towns and villages.
‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, they must be a hundred kilometres further on by now, which would put them near Juziers. Anyway, there’s a good chance they’ve passed Poissy. That depends on how long they had to wait at the Bougival lock and then at Carrière.’
A few moments later, Maigret was in the inspectors’ office.
‘Does anyone here know the Seine really well?’
A voice asked:
‘Upstream or downstream?’
‘Downstream. Near Poissy, probably even further.’
‘I do! I have a little boat and I go all the way to Le Havre every year during the holidays. I’m particularly familiar with the Poissy area because that’s where I keep the boat.’
It was Neveu who had spoken, a nondescript, conventional-looking inspector: Maigret had no idea he was such an outdoor person.
‘Get a car from the courtyard. You can drive me there.’
Maigret had to keep him waiting, because just then Torrence returned and communicated the result of his inquiries.
‘The dog did die on Monday night,’ he confirmed. ‘Madame Guillot still cries when she talks about it. The two men put the body in the boot of the car and went to throw it in the Seine. The owner of the bar in Rue de Turenne remembers them. They arrived just before closing time.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Just after eleven thirty. Some customers playing belote were just finishing their game, and the owner was waiting to lower the shutters. Madame Guillot also confirmed that her husband got back late, she doesn’t know exactly when, because she’d fallen asleep, and that he was half drunk. She was quite embarrassed and felt she had to swear to me that he wasn’t in the habit, that you had to put it down to the emotion.’
Maigret finally got in the car next to Neveu, and they set off in the direction of Porte d’Asnières.
‘We can’t follow the Seine all the way,’ Neveu said. ‘Are you sure the barge has passed Poissy?’
‘According to the chief lock-keeper.’
On the road, they started seeing cars with their tops down, and some drivers had their companions’ arms around their waists. People were planting flowers in their gardens. At one point, a woman in a light-blue dress was feeding her hens.
Eyes half closed, Maigret dozed, apparently indifferent to the landscape. Each time they caught a glimpse of the Seine, Neveu would say the name of the place where they were.
They passed several boats peacefully going up and down the river. Here, a woman was washing her line
n on deck; there, another was holding the helm, a child of three or four sitting at her feet.
The car stopped at Meulan, where several barges were moored.
‘What name did you say, chief?’
‘De Zwarte Zwaan. It means Black Swan.’
Neveu got out of the car, crossed the quayside and started up a conversation with some bargees. From a distance, Maigret saw them gesticulating.
‘They passed half an hour ago,’ Neveu announced as he got back in behind the wheel. ‘As they’re doing a good ten kilometres an hour or even more, they should be in the Juziers area by now.’
It was soon after Juziers, opposite the island of Montalet, that they spotted the Belgian barge travelling downstream.
They drove another two or three hundred metres and stopped, and Maigret went and took up position on the riverbank. There, unafraid of looking ridiculous, he started waving his arms.
It was Hubert, the younger of the two brothers, who was at the wheel, a cigarette in his mouth. Recognizing Maigret, he went and leaned over the hatch and slowed the engine. A moment later, the long, thin figure of Jef Van Houtte appeared on deck, first his head, then his chest, finally the whole of his tall, lanky body.
‘I have to talk to you,’ Maigret shouted to them, his hands cupped round his mouth.
Jef signalled that he couldn’t hear anything, because of the engine, and Maigret tried to explain that he had to stop.
They were in open country. About a kilometre away, they could see red and grey roofs, white walls, a petrol pump, a golden inn sign.
Hubert Van Houtte put the engine into reverse. The young woman now also put her head out through the hatch. It wasn’t hard to guess that she was asking her husband what was going on.
The manoeuvre was quite muddled. From a distance, it looked as if the two men were at odds. Jef, the older, was pointing to the village, as if ordering his brother to go in that direction, while Hubert, at the helm, was already approaching the bank.
Unable to do otherwise, Jef finally threw a rope, which Inspector Neveu caught, proud to show off his expertise as a sailor. There were mooring posts on the bank, and a few minutes later the barge came to a standstill.
‘What is it you want now?’ Jef called out, apparently in a temper.
There was a gap of several metres between the bank and the barge, and he made no move to lay down the gangplank.
‘Do you think it’s right to stop a boat, just like that? It’s a good way to have an accident, let me tell you.’
‘I need to talk to you,’ Maigret replied.
‘You talked to me as much as you wanted in Paris. I don’t have anything else to tell you.’
‘In that case, I’m obliged to summon you to my office.’
‘What is this? You want me to go back to Paris without unloading my slates?’
Hubert, who was more accommodating, gestured to his brother to calm down. It was he who finally threw the gangplank towards the bank, walked across it like an acrobat and secured it.
‘Don’t take any notice of him, monsieur. It’s true, what he says. You can’t stop just anywhere.’
Maigret climbed on board. Deep down, he felt quite embarrassed, not knowing exactly what questions he was going to ask. Moreover, he was now in Seine-et-Oise, and according to regulations it was up to the Versailles police to question the Van Houttes, and then only if they had a judge’s order.
‘Are you going to keep us here long?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Because we’re not going to spend the night here, you know. We still have time to get to Mantes before the sun goes down.’
‘In that case, keep going.’
‘You mean you want to come with us?’
‘Why not?’
‘Now I’ve seen everything!’
‘Did you hear, Neveu? Continue in the car as far as Mantes.’
‘What do you say to that, Hubert?’
‘There’s nothing we can do about it, Jef. When the police are involved, there’s no point getting angry.’
They could still see the blonde head of the young woman at the level of the deck and hear a child’s babble from below. As had been the case the day before, pleasant cooking smells rose from the living quarters.
The gangplank was removed. Before getting back in the car, Neveu loosened the ropes, sending bright sprays of water flying up from the river.
‘Since you still have questions, go ahead.’
They heard again the panting of the engine and the noise of the water sliding against the hull.
Standing in the stern of the barge, Maigret slowly filled his pipe, still wondering what he was going to say.
6.
‘You did tell me yesterday that the car was red, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, monsieur. As red as the red on that flag.’
He pointed to the black, yellow and red Belgian flag fluttering in the stern.
Hubert was at the helm, and the young blonde woman had joined the child inside. As for Jef, his face betrayed two contradictory feelings between which he seemed torn. On the one hand, Flemish hospitality dictated that he should welcome Maigret in the manner appropriate to anyone you received in your home, and even offer him a little glass of genever; on the other hand, he was still angry at being stopped in open country and he considered this new interrogation an affront to his dignity.
He kept his sly eyes fixed on the intruder, whose city suit and black hat stood out like a sore thumb on board the barge.
As for Maigret, he wasn’t particularly at his ease and was still wondering how to tackle his difficult interlocutor. He had had a great deal of experience of these simple, not very intelligent men, who think you are taking advantage of their naivety and who, because they don’t trust you, either become aggressive or withdraw into a stubborn silence.
It wasn’t the first time that Maigret had conducted an investigation on board a barge, although it hadn’t happened for a long time. He particularly remembered what used to be called a stable boat, towed along the canals by a horse that spent the night on board with its carter.
Those boats were of wood and smelled good because of the resin with which they were periodically coated. The interior was neat and tidy, not unlike that of a suburban house.
Here, through the open door, the decor looked more bourgeois: solid oak furniture, rugs, vases on embroidered doilies, a multitude of shiny brasses.
‘Where were you when you heard noises on the quayside? You were busy working on the engine, I think?’
Jef’s light-coloured eyes were fixed on him. He looked as if he was still hesitating as to what attitude to adopt and fighting against his own anger.
‘Listen, monsieur. Yesterday morning, you were there when the judge asked me all those questions. You asked me some yourself. And the little man who was with the judge wrote everything down. In the afternoon, he came back and made me sign a statement. Is that correct?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And now you come here and ask me the same thing. I don’t think it’s fair. Because if I make a mistake, you’ll think I lied to you. I’m no intellectual, monsieur. I never had much schooling. Nor did Hubert. But we’re both hard workers, and Anneke is also a working woman.’
‘I’m only trying to check—’
‘There’s nothing to check. I was minding my own business on my boat, like you were in your house. A man was thrown in the water, and I jumped into the lifeboat to fish him out. I’m not asking for a reward, or congratulations. But that’s no reason for you to come and pester me with questions. That’s what I think, monsieur.’
‘We tracked down the two men in the red car.’
Did Jef’s face really cloud over, or did it just seem that way to Maigret?
‘Well, then, you only have to ask them.’
‘They claim it wasn’t midnight, but eleven thirty, when they got out of the car on the riverbank.’
‘Maybe their watches were slow, right?’
/> ‘We’ve checked their testimony. They next went to a bar in Rue de Turenne. It was eleven forty when they got there.’
Jef looked at his brother, who had turned to him quite abruptly.
‘Do you think we could go inside?’
The cabin was quite spacious and served as both kitchen and dining room. A stew was simmering on the white enamel stove. Madame Van Houtte, who was breastfeeding the baby, rushed into one of the bedrooms, where Maigret just had time to glimpse a bed covered with a counterpane.
‘You can sit down, right?’
Still hesitant, as if reluctant, he took from the buffet with its stained-glass doors a brown stoneware pitcher of genever and two thick-bottomed glasses.
Through the square windows, the trees on the riverbank could be seen, and occasionally the red roof of a villa. There was a fairly long silence, during which Jef remained standing, his glass in his hand. He finally took a swig, keeping it in his mouth for a time before swallowing it.
‘Is he dead?’ he asked at last.
‘No. He’s regained consciousness.’
‘What does he say?’
It was Maigret’s turn not to reply. He was looking at the embroidered curtains at the windows, the house plants in their copper flowerpot holder, the photograph on the wall in a gilded frame, showing a large, middle-aged man in a thick sweater and a sailor’s cap.
He was the kind of character you see often on boats, thickset, with huge shoulders and a walrus moustache.
‘Is that your father?’
‘No, monsieur. That’s Anneke’s father.’
‘Was your father also a bargee?’
‘My father, monsieur, was a docker in Antwerp. And that isn’t a job for a respectable man, if you know what I mean.’
‘Is that why you became a bargee?’
‘I started working on the barges at the age of thirteen, and nobody has ever complained about me.’
‘Last night—’
Maigret thought he had softened him up with his indirect questions, but the man shook his head.
Maigret and the Tramp Page 8
