In the centre of the cleared area stood a big new house of grey stone, with a terrace, an ornamental pool and flower beds laid out but not yet planted.
Further along were the foundations of other houses, and stretches of wall that already indicated the layout.
Some windowpanes were missing in the booth. Piles of sand stood waiting to be spread on the new road, which was half blocked now by a steamroller. At the top of the cliff was a hotel – a future hotel, rather – with unfinished stucco walls and windows sealed by planks and cardboard.
Maigret calmly pushed open the gate of the grey-stone house, Dr Michoux’s. When he was on the doorstep and reaching for the knob, Leroy murmured: ‘We have no warrant! Don’t you think …?’
Once again, Maigret shrugged. On the path, they could see the deep tracks left by the yellow dog’s paws. There were also other prints: those of enormous feet, in hobnail boots – size twelve at least!
The knob turned. The door opened as if by magic, and on the carpet inside were the same muddy tracks, of the dog and of those amazing boots.
The house, elaborate in its architecture, was just as pretentious inside. Nothing but nooks and crannies everywhere, filled with couches, low bookcases, Breton closet-beds transformed into vitrines, little Turkish or Chinese tables, dozens of rugs and hangings. The place strained for a kind of folk-modern effect.
There were a few Breton landscapes, and some signed nude drawings with dedications on them: ‘To my good friend Michoux,’ ‘To the artists’ friend.’
The inspector gazed sullenly at all the bric-a-brac, but the young Leroy was rather impressed by the false elegance.
Maigret opened doors, glanced into the rooms. Some were unfurnished. The plaster was barely dry on the walls.
Finally he pushed one door open with his foot and gave a grunt of satisfaction on seeing the kitchen. On the pine table stood two empty Bordeaux bottles.
A dozen cans had been roughly opened with a knife. The table was smeared with dirt and grease. Someone had eaten straight from the cans – herring in white wine, cold cassoulet, mushrooms and apricots.
The floor was filthy. Scraps of meat lay around. There was a broken bottle of brandy, and the stench of alcohol mingled with that of the food.
Maigret looked at his companion with an odd smile. ‘Well, Leroy, do you suppose the doctor is the pig who eats like this?’
When the dumbfounded Leroy did not answer, he went on: ‘Not his mum, either, I hope! Or the maid. Look! You like prints. These are more like crusts of mud. That’ll give you a perfect outline of the soles – size eleven or twelve, I’d say. And the dog’s tracks too!’
He filled a new pipe, picked up some matches from a shelf. ‘Take whatever evidence there is to take in here. You’ve got a big job ahead of you. See you later!’
His hands in his pockets, the collar of his coat turned up, he went off along the White Sands beach.
When he stepped into the Admiral café, the first person he saw was Dr Michoux, in his usual corner, still in his slippers, unshaven, his scarf around his neck.
Next to him sat Le Pommeret, turned out as meticulously as the night before. The two men watched silently as the inspector approached.
It was the doctor who finally said, in a hoarse voice, ‘You know what I just heard? Servières has disappeared … His wife is going out of her mind … He left here last night, and nobody’s seen him since.’
Maigret gave a start, not because of this news, but because he had just caught sight of the yellow dog, stretched out at Emma’s feet.
3. Fear Reigns in Concarneau
Le Pommeret had to confirm Michoux’s story, for the pleasure of hearing himself talk.
‘She came to my house a while ago, begging me to look for him. Servières – his real name is Goyard – is an old friend …’
Maigret’s gaze moved from the yellow dog to the door as it flew open for a newsboy, who entered like a gust of wind, and then to a headline in type big enough to read from across the room:
FEAR REIGNS IN CONCARNEAU
The subheadings read:
New mystery daily
Disappearance of our colleague Jean Servières
Bloodstains in his car
Whose turn next?
Maigret caught the newsboy by the sleeve. ‘Have you sold a lot of those?’
‘Ten times as many as on a regular day. There are three of us running them from the station.’
Set free, the boy raced off along the quay calling, ‘Brest Beacon! Sensational news!’
The inspector had hardly had time to start reading the article when Emma announced, ‘You’re wanted on the phone.’
It was the mayor’s voice. He was furious. ‘Hello, chief inspector! Are you behind this idiotic article? … And I didn’t know a thing! I insist – do you hear me? – I insist on being the first person informed about what happens in this town. I’m the mayor! What is this story about the car? And this man with big feet? In the past half-hour I’ve had over twenty phone calls from panicky people asking me if the news is true! … I repeat, from now on I want—’
Without turning a hair, Maigret hung up and returned to the café, where he sat and began to read. Michoux and Le Pommeret scanned a copy of the paper on the marble table.
Our esteemed colleague Jean Servières reported in these very pages the recent dramatic events in Concarneau. That was Friday. A respected businessman of that town, Monsieur Mostaguen, left the Admiral Hotel, stopped in the doorway of a vacant house to light a cigar and was shot in the stomach by a bullet fired through the letterbox in the door.
On Saturday, Chief Inspector Maigret, recently seconded from Paris to head the Rennes Flying Squad, arrived on the scene. This did not prevent a new drama from occurring.
Indeed, that very evening, a telephone call informed us that, as they were about to drink an aperitif, three prominent local figures – Messieurs Le Pommeret, Jean Servières and Dr Michoux – noticed that the Pernod served them contained a strong dose of strychnine.
Then this morning, Sunday, Jean Servières’ empty car was found near the Saint-Jacques River. Its owner has not been seen since Saturday evening.
The front seat is stained with blood. One window is shattered, and all the evidence suggests that a struggle took place.
Three days: three incidents! Little wonder that Concarneau is in the grip of terror, as anxious citizens wonder who the next victim will be.
The public is particularly disturbed by the mysterious presence of a yellow dog, which no one knows, which seems to have no master and which reappears with each new misfortune.
This dog appears to have given the police a significant lead. They are looking for a person, still unidentified, who has left curious footprints – larger-than-average footprints – in several places
A madman? A drifter? Is he the perpetrator of all these crimes? Whom will he attack tonight?
He will certainly meet opposition from now on, because the frightened citizenry will be armed and ready to shoot at the slightest alarm.
Meanwhile, today, Sunday, the town is deathly still, an atmosphere reminiscent of towns in northern France during the War when the air-raid sirens sounded.
Maigret stared out through the windowpanes. The rain had let up, but the streets were still thick with black mud, and the wind still blew violently. The sky was a livid grey.
People were coming out of Mass. Almost all of them carried a copy of the Brest Beacon. Faces were turned towards the Admiral Hotel, and several people quickened their step as they passed.
There was indeed a dead feeling about the town. But wasn’t that how it was on any Sunday morning? The telephone rang again. Emma could be heard answering. ‘I don’t know, monsieur. I haven’t heard. Do you want me to get the inspector? … Hello! Hello! … They hung up!’
‘Who was that
?’ growled Maigret.
‘A Paris newspaper, I think. They asked if there were any new victims … They reserved a room.’
‘Call the Brest Beacon for me.’
While he waited, he paced up and down, without a glance at the doctor, who was huddling in his chair, or at Le Pommeret, who was contemplating the many rings on his fingers.
‘Hello! The Brest Beacon? Inspector Maigret here. The editor, please … Hello – is that the editor? Good! Would you tell me what time your paper was printed this morning? … Nine thirty, eh? Who did the piece on the business at Concarneau? … Ah, no, seriously! … Really? The article just turned up in a sealed envelope? … Unsigned? … So, then, you publish whatever material you get, name or no name, just like that? … Well, I take my hat off to you!’
He tried to go out to the quay but found the door locked. ‘What does this mean?’ he asked Emma, looking straight into her eyes.
‘The doctor insisted …’
Maigret stared at Michoux, whose expression was more evasive than ever, shrugged his shoulders and went out through the hotel door. Most of the shops had their shutters closed. People in Sunday clothes hurried by.
Beyond the harbour, where boats were tugging at their moorings, Maigret found the mouth of the Saint-Jacques River. It was at the very edge of town, where houses thinned out and shipyards took over. Several half-finished vessels stood on the ways. Old boats lay rotting in the mud.
A stone bridge crossed the river where it emptied into the harbour, and there a group of inquisitive people stood around a small car.
The nearby wharves were blocked by building sites, so Maigret had to make a detour to get there. From the looks he received on the way, he realized that everyone already knew who he was. He saw anxious people talking quietly in the doorways of the closed shops.
Finally, he reached the car abandoned at the side of the road. He pulled the door open brusquely, scattering shards of glass, and easily made out the brown streaks on the seat cover.
The onlookers crowded around him, mainly kids and young people in their Sunday best.
‘Monsieur Servières’ house?’
A dozen people led him to it. It was a quarter of a mile away, rather secluded – a middle-class house with a garden. His escort stopped at the gate. Maigret rang the bell and was let in by a little maid who looked upset.
‘Is Madame Servières here?’
She was already opening the door to the dining room.
‘Oh, inspector! … Do you think he’s been killed? I’m going out of my mind! I …’
She was a handsome woman, about forty, with the look of a scrupulous housewife, an impression confirmed by the tidiness of her home.
‘You haven’t seen your husband since—’
‘He was home for dinner last night. I could see that he was worried, but he didn’t want to say anything to me … He’d left the car at the gate, which meant that he was going out again that night … to play his regular card game at the Admiral. I asked him if he’d be late coming home … At ten o’clock, I went to bed. I was awake a long time. I heard the clock strike eleven, then half past. But he often came home very late … I must have fallen asleep finally. I woke up in the middle of the night and was upset not to find him beside me … Then I decided that he must have gone on to Brest with some people. There’s not much going on here, so sometimes he … I couldn’t get back to sleep. From five o’clock on, I was up and watching out of the window. He doesn’t like me to wait up for him, and even less for me to check on him … At nine, I ran over to Monsieur Le Pommeret’s … I was coming back another way when I saw people gathered round his car … Tell me! Why would anyone want to kill him? He’s the kindest man on earth … I’m sure he has no enemies.’
A small group still clustered at the gate.
‘They say there are bloodstains! I saw people reading a newspaper, but no one showed it to me.’
‘Did your husband have much money on him?’
‘I don’t think so … The same as usual – three or four hundred francs.’
Maigret promised to keep her informed and even took the trouble to give her a few bland words of comfort. A scent of roast lamb came from the kitchen. The maid, in her white apron, led him back to the door.
The inspector had gone no more than a hundred yards when a man approached him eagerly. ‘Excuse me, inspector. Let me introduce myself: Monsieur Dujardin, teacher. For the past hour, people – mostly the parents of my students – have been coming to ask me whether there’s any truth to what the newspaper says. Some of them want to know whether they have the right to shoot if they see that man with the big feet—’
Maigret was no angel of patience. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he snarled, ‘Leave me alone!’
And he headed back to the centre of town.
It was idiotic! He’d never known anything like it. It made him think of a storm in a film: you’re seeing a cheerful street scene, a clear sky. Then an image of a cloud slides over the scene, it blocks the sun. A violent wind sweeps through; dim light, banging shutters, whirling dust, some fat drops splash, and suddenly the street is lashed by rain, under a dramatic sky.
Concarneau was changing before his eyes. The piece in the Brest Beacon was only the beginning: for some time now, word of mouth had far outstripped the written version.
And besides, it was Sunday. The townspeople had time on their hands. You could see them deciding, for their walk, to go and take a look at Jean Servières’ car, where two policemen had been posted. The idlers hung around for an hour or so, as the better-informed among them explained the situation.
When Maigret got back to the Admiral Hotel, the proprietor, in his chef’s toque, clutched nervously at his sleeve. ‘I’ve got to talk to you, inspector … This is becoming impossible.’
‘Just give me some lunch.’
‘But—’
Maigret, in a temper, sat down in a corner and ordered. ‘Bring me a beer! … Have you seen my officer?’
‘He went out. I think he was called over to the mayor’s house … Someone just telephoned again from Paris. A newspaper has reserved two rooms, for a reporter and a photographer.’
‘Where’s the doctor?’
‘He’s upstairs. He told us not to let anyone up.’
‘And Monsieur Le Pommeret?’
‘He’s just left.’
The yellow dog was gone. Several young fellows, flowers in their buttonholes, hair slicked down with pomade, were seated around the tables, but they were not drinking the lemonades they had ordered. They had come to watch and they were visibly proud of themselves for their boldness.
‘Come here, Emma.’
There was an instinctive rapport between the waitress and the inspector. She approached readily and let him draw her into the corner.
‘You’re sure the doctor never went out last night?’
‘I swear I didn’t sleep in his room.’
‘So he might have gone out?’
‘I don’t think so. He’s afraid … I told you he made me lock the door to the quay this morning.’
‘How come that yellow dog knows you?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before … He comes, he goes … I wonder who feeds him.’
‘Has he been gone long?’
‘I wasn’t paying attention.’
Leroy came back in a nervous state. ‘You know, sir, the mayor is furious … And he’s a very influential man! He told me he’s a cousin of the minister of justice. He claims all we’re doing is churning things up and throwing the town into a panic … He wants us to arrest someone, anyone, to calm people down. I promised him I’d talk to you about it. He kept telling me our careers – yours and mine, that is – are on the line.’
Maigret scraped serenely at the bowl of his pipe.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Le
roy.
‘Nothing at all.’
‘But—’
‘You’re young, Leroy! … Did you pick up any worthwhile evidence at the doctor’s house?’
‘I’ve sent everything to the laboratory – the glasses, the cans, the knife. I even made a plaster cast of the footprints, the man’s and the dog’s. That was hard, because the plaster they’ve got here is very poor quality … Do you have any ideas?’
By way of answer, Maigret pulled a notebook from his pocket. The officer, more baffled than ever, read:
Ernest Michoux (known as Doctor): Son of small manufacturer in Seine-et-Oise who served as deputy for that department for one term and then went bankrupt. Father dead. Mother a schemer. Tried, with son, to establish property development at Juan-les-Pins. Complete failure. Started again at Concarneau. Set up a company, trading on dead husband’s name. Invested no capital herself. Now trying to get town and department to underwrite development costs.
Ernest Michoux was married, then divorced. His former wife married a notary in Lille.
Degenerate type. Has difficulty paying bills.
Leroy looked at his chief as if to say, ‘Meaning?’ Maigret showed him the next entry:
Yves Le Pommeret: Prominent family. Brother Arthur runs biggest canning plant in Concarneau. Minor gentry. Yves the playboy of the family. Never worked. Long ago ran through most of his money in Paris. Came back to live in Concarneau when he was down to 20,000 francs a year. Manages to come across as gentry even if he does polish his own shoes. Many affairs with working girls. A few scandals hushed up. Hunts at all the big estates in the neighbourhood. Big shot. Through connections got himself named vice-consul for Denmark. Pulling strings now for Légion d’Honneur. Sometimes borrows from brother to pay his debts.
Jean Servières (pseudonym for Jean Goyard): Born in Morbihan. Long-time journalist in Paris, manager of small theatres, etc. Came into small inheritance and settled in Concarneau. Married former usherette who’d been his mistress for fifteen years. Middle-class household. Occasional flings in Brest and Nantes. Lives off small investments more than off newspaper work, but very proud of latter. Decorated by Academy.
The Yellow Dog Page 3
