‘Madame Michoux came back shortly before dinner to ask for the latest news. My wife invited her to eat with us.’
‘They’re friends?’
‘In a manner of speaking. Good neighbours is more accurate. In the winter, there are very few people in Concarneau.’
Maigret resumed his stroll across the library. ‘So the three of you ate together?’
‘Yes. That often happens … I reassured Madame Michoux as best I could. She was quite upset by the business of the police barracks … She had a difficult time raising her son; his health has never been very good.’
‘Did you discuss Le Pommeret and Jean Servières?’
‘She never liked Le Pommeret. She claimed he led her son to drink. The fact is that—’
‘And Servières?’
‘She didn’t know him as well. He didn’t move in her circle. An unimportant newspaperman, a café acquaintance – merely an amusing fellow. One couldn’t, for example, receive his wife, a woman whose past is not entirely above reproach … That’s small-town life, chief inspector! You’ve got to resign yourself to these distinctions. They partly explain my own short temper. You don’t know what it is to manage a community of fishermen and at the same time watch out for the sensibilities of the gentry – and of some middle-class elements besides—’
‘What time did Madame Michoux leave here?’
‘About ten. My wife drove her back in the car.’
‘That light means that Madame Michoux hasn’t gone to bed yet.’
‘That’s usual for her … For me as well. At a certain age, we need less sleep. Very late at night I’m still in here reading, or looking over files—’
‘Are the Michoux doing well with their business?’
Uneasiness showed again, though barely perceptible.
‘Not yet … It will take time for the White Sands project to begin producing a profit. But, given Madame Michoux’s connections in Paris, that shouldn’t be long. A number of plots have been sold already, and construction will start again in the spring. On this recent trip, she practically persuaded a certain banker whose name I can’t mention to build a magnificent house on the bluff …’
‘One more question, Monsieur le Maire: who used to own the land they’re developing?’
His companion did not hesitate. ‘I did. It belonged to my family, as did this house. There was nothing there but heather and broom when the Michouxs got the idea—’
Just then the distant light went out.
‘Another whisky, chief inspector? … Of course, I’ll have my chauffeur drive you back.’
‘You’re very kind. But I love to walk, especially when I have things to think over.’
‘What do you make of this business of the yellow dog? I confess that that may be what upsets me most – that and the poisoned Pernod! Because actually—’
But Maigret was looking around for his hat and coat.
The mayor had no choice but to press the buzzer. ‘The chief inspector’s things, Delphin.’
The silence was so complete that they could hear the muffled, rhythmic sound of the surf on the rocks below the villa.
‘You’re sure you don’t want my car?’
‘Quite sure.’
Wisps of discomfiture hung in the air like the wisps of tobacco smoke coiling about the lamps.
‘I wonder what the mood will be in town tomorrow. If the sea is calm, at least we won’t have the fishermen on the streets. They’ll leap at the chance to set out their lobster pots.’
Maigret took his coat from the butler and put out his big hand. The mayor still had questions, but he was reluctant to ask them in the butler’s presence.
‘How much longer do you think—’
The clock struck one in the morning. ‘I hope it will all be cleared up by tomorrow night.’
‘So soon? Despite what you told me earlier? Then you must be counting on Goyard? … Unless—’
He was too late. Maigret had started down the stairs. The mayor searched for some last words, but nothing came to mind that expressed his feeling. ‘I’m uncomfortable letting you go back on foot – along those roads—’
The door closed. Maigret was on his way, under a fine sky with heavy clouds that raced one another across the moon. The air was sharp. The wind, from off the water, brought the smell of the seaweed strewn in dark masses on the beach.
The inspector walked slowly, his hands in his pockets, his pipe between his teeth. Looking back, he saw the lights go out in the mayor’s library, then others going on behind upstairs curtains.
He did not take the road through town, but followed the shore, as the customs guard had, and stopped for a moment at the corner where the man had been shot. All was calm. Street lamps shone here and there into the distance. Concarneau was asleep.
When he reached the square, he saw that the café windows were still shining, violating the nocturnal peace with their poisonous halo. He pushed the door open. A reporter was dictating over the phone.
‘… By now no one knows whom to suspect. In the streets, people look anxiously at one another. Could this be the killer? Or maybe that one over there? The cloud of mystery and fear has never been so thick …’
The proprietor himself stood gloomily at the till. The moment he caught sight of the inspector, he made a move to approach and speak. It was easy enough to guess his complaints.
The café was a shambles, with newspapers and empty glasses on the tables. A photographer was busy drying prints on the radiator.
Leroy walked over to his chief. ‘That’s Madame Goyard,’ he said in an undertone, pointing to a plump woman collapsed on a banquette.
She rose, wiping her eyes.
‘Tell me, inspector, is it true? … I don’t know who to believe any more. They say Jean is alive. But it’s impossible – isn’t it? – that he would trick us like that. He wouldn’t have done that to me. He would never put me through such worry … I feel as though I’m going mad! – Why would he have gone to Paris? Tell me! … And without me!’
She wept – the way certain women can weep, with great floods of tears pouring down her cheeks, flowing to her chin, while one hand pressed against her plump bosom. She looked for her handkerchief.
‘I swear it can’t be true!’ she insisted. ‘I know he ran around a little … but he would never do anything like this. Whenever he came home, he asked me to forgive him … They’re saying’ – she pointed to the reporters – ‘they’re saying he put the bloodstains in the car himself, to make it look like murder. But that would mean he never meant to come back! And I know better. I’m sure he would have … He never would have gone gallivanting if the others hadn’t dragged him along – Monsieur Le Pommeret, the doctor … and the mayor too! That whole bunch, who never even greet me in the street, because I’m not good enough for them …
‘Someone said he’s been arrested … I don’t believe it. What harm did he ever do? He earned enough for the kind of life we led. We were happy, even if he did treat himself to a fling once in a while …’
Maigret looked at her and sighed. Then he picked up a glass from a table, swallowed the contents straight down and murmured, ‘You’ll have to excuse me, madame. I’ve got to get some sleep.’
‘Do you believe it too – that he’s done something wrong?’
‘I never believe anything. You should do the same, madame. Tomorrow is another day.’
And as he climbed the stairs heavily, the reporter at the phone turned Maigret’s parting words to his own account:
‘According to the latest word, Chief Inspector Maigret expects to clear up the mystery by tomorrow.’
His tone changed as he finished. ‘That’s all, mademoiselle. Now be sure to tell the boss not to change one line of my story. He couldn’t understand … he’d have to be on the scene …’
Hanging up, he shoved his notes into his po
cket and called to the proprietor, ‘Give me a toddy! Lots of rum and just a splash of hot water.’
Meanwhile, Madame Goyard accepted a reporter’s offer to drive her back to her house. On the way she began again: ‘He did run around a little … but you know how it is, monsieur! All men do that!’
9. The Seashell Box
Maigret was in such good spirits in the morning that Leroy felt free to follow him around, chattering and even asking some questions.
In fact, everyone was more relaxed, though it would be hard to say why. It may have been the weather, which had suddenly turned fine. The sky looked freshly laundered. It was blue, a rather pale but vibrant blue, glistening with light clouds. It made the horizon bigger, as if the celestial bowl were hollowed out. The sea sparkled, utterly flat and studded with tiny sails that looked like flags pinned to a military map.
It takes but a single sunbeam to transform Concarneau. Then the Old Town’s walls, so gloomy in the rain, turn a joyful, dazzling white.
Exhausted by the comings and goings of the past three days, the reporters sat downstairs, telling each other stories over coffee; one of them had come down in his dressing gown and slippers.
Meanwhile, Maigret had gone into Emma’s attic room. The roof sloped, so a person could stand up straight in only half the space. The gable window, which looked over the alleyway, was open. The air was cool, but you could feel the caress of the sun. Across the way, a woman had taken the opportunity to hang her laundry out of her window. The noise of children came up from a school playground somewhere nearby.
Leroy, sitting on the edge of the little iron bed, remarked, ‘I still don’t quite understand your methods, inspector, but I think I’m beginning to see …’
Maigret gave him an amused glance and sent a large cloud of smoke out into the sunshine. ‘You’re lucky, my friend! Especially in this case, in which my method has actually been not to have one … I’ll give you some good advice: if you’re interested in getting ahead, don’t take me for a model, or invent any theories from what you see me doing.’
‘Still … I do notice that you’re getting round to hard evidence now, after—’
‘Exactly – after! After everything else! In other words, I ran this investigation from the end, backwards – which doesn’t mean I won’t go the other way in the next one. It’s a question of atmosphere, a question of faces … When I first got here, I came across one face that appealed to me, and I never let go of it.’
But he did not say whose face he meant. He lifted aside an old sheet that hid a wardrobe. Inside hung a black velvet Breton costume, which Emma probably saved for special occasions.
On the dressing table were a comb with several teeth missing, some hairpins and a box of too-pink face powder. In a drawer he found what he seemed to be looking for: a box encrusted with shiny seashells, the kind sold in souvenir shops all along the coast. This one, which looked perhaps ten years old and as though it had weathered God knows what travels, bore the words Souvenir of Ostend.
A smell of old cardboard, dust, perfume and yellowed paper rose from it. Maigret sat down on the edge of the bed beside his companion and, with his large fingers, lifted out the inventory of tiny items.
There was a rosary of faceted blue glass beads on a flimsy silver chain, a first communion medal and an empty perfume bottle that Emma must have found abandoned in a guest’s room and saved for its appealing shape …
A paper flower, the keepsake from some dance or festival, struck a lively red note. Beside it was a small gold crucifix, the only object of any value …
A whole pile of postcards … One showed a large hotel in Cannes. On the back, in a woman’s handwriting:
You reely awt to come here, insted of sticking in that awful hole were it rains all the time. And we earn good mony here. We get all we want to eat. Big kiss – Louise.
Maigret passed the card to Leroy and stared attentively at a photograph you get at fairground shooting galleries. Because of the rifle on his shoulder, they could barely see the man taking aim, with one eye shut. He had an enormous build, and a sailor’s cap on his head. Emma, grinning into the lens, gripped his arm proudly. At the bottom of the card was the name Quimper.
Next was a letter, on paper so tattered that it must have been reread many times:
Darling,
It’s done, it’s signed: I have my boat. She’ll be called the Pretty Emma. The priest in Quimper promised he would christen her next week, with holy water, grains of wheat, salt and all, and there will be real champagne, because I want it to be a party people will talk about for a long time around here.
It will be hard to pay for her at first, because I have to hand the bank 10,000 francs a year. But just think, she’ll carry over 3,000 square feet of sail and make ten knots. There’s good money in carrying onions to England. What I mean is that it won’t be too long before we can get married. I’ve already found a cargo for the first trip, but they’re trying to bargain me down, because I’m new.
Your boss ought to give you two days off for the launch because everyone will be drunk and you won’t be able to get back to Concarneau. I’ve had to treat everyone in the cafés round here to celebrate the boat, which is already in port and flying a brand-new flag.
I’ll get my picture taken on board and send you one. I kiss you with all my love, waiting for the day when you’ll be the beloved wife of your
Léon.
Gazing dreamily at the drying laundry on the other side of the alley, Maigret slipped the letter into his pocket. There was nothing else in the shell box but a pen holder carved of bone; a little glass lens in the base showed a view of the crypt at Notre-Dame de Lourdes.
‘Is there anyone in the room the doctor generally uses?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so. The reporters are on the third floor.’
Out of duty, the inspector searched the room again, but he found nothing else of interest. A little later, down on the second floor, he opened the door to Michoux’s room, the one with the balcony overlooking the port and the roadstead.
The bed was made, the floor polished. There were clean towels on the washstand.
Leroy watched his chief with a mixture of curiosity and scepticism. But Maigret whistled a quiet tune as he looked around, then headed for a small oak table in front of the window. On it lay a promotional writing folder and an ash tray.
Inside the folder were white paper with the hotel’s letterhead and a blue envelope to match. But there were also two large sheets of blotting paper – one nearly black with ink, the other barely marked with sketchy characters.
‘Go and get a mirror, son!’
‘A big one?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Just one I can set up on the table.’
When Leroy returned, he found Maigret planted on the balcony, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his waistcoat, smoking his pipe with obvious satisfaction.
‘Will this do?’
The balcony window was closed again. Maigret stood the mirror on the table and, using two candlesticks from the mantel, he set the sheet of blotting paper upright in front of it.
The characters reflected in the mirror were far from easy to read. Letters, even whole words, were missing. Others were so distorted that he could only guess at them.
‘I see what you’re doing!’ said Leroy, looking sly.
‘Good! Now go and ask the proprietor for one of Emma’s account books, or anything else with her handwriting on it.’
With a pencil he transcribed words on a sheet of paper: ‘… see you … o’clock … vacant … absolutely …’
By the time Leroy returned, Maigret had filled in the blanks roughly and pieced together the following note:
I need to see you. Come tomorrow night at eleven to the vacant house on the square, a few doors past the hotel. I’m absolutely counting on you. Just knock and I’ll o
pen the door.
‘Here’s the book Emma keeps for the laundry,’ Leroy announced.
‘It’s the same writing. And look – the letter is signed. An initial E … And the letter was written here in this room.’
‘Where she spent nights with the doctor?’ Leroy was aghast.
Maigret could understand his repugnance at accepting this idea, especially after the scene they had witnessed the night before from their perch on the roof.
‘In that case, then she’s the one who—’
‘Easy! Easy, my boy! No jumping to conclusions. And no deductions, remember? … What time does Jean Goyard’s train get in?’
‘Eleven thirty-two.’
‘Here’s what you’re going to do, my friend. First, tell our two colleagues with him to bring the fellow to me at the police barracks … He’ll get there at about noon. Telephone the mayor that I’d like to see him at the same time, same place … Wait! Same message for Madame Michoux – phone her at home … Then, at some point, the local police or others will probably be bringing in Emma and her sweetheart. Same place, same time for them … Am I forgetting anyone? … Good! Just one thing: Emma’s not to be questioned in my absence. In fact, stop her from talking if she tries.’
‘The customs guard?’
‘I don’t need him.’
‘Monsieur Mostaguen?’
‘Hmm … no. That’s all.’
In the café, Maigret ordered the local brandy and sipped it with visible pleasure as he remarked to the newspapermen: ‘We’re winding up, gentlemen. You should be getting back to Paris tonight.’
His walk through the Old Town’s twisting streets added to his good humour. And when he reached the gateway to the police barracks, with the bright French flag above it, he noticed that, by some magical effect of the sunlight, the three colours and the wall rippling with light, there was a kind of Bastille Day gaiety to the atmosphere.
The Yellow Dog Page 9
