The Misty Harbour

by Georges Simenon

  Nothing in the darkness but yellow glints on wet things. On the fo’c’sle, a vague form: the captain, looking at Louis in astonishment. He wore tall rubber boots, an oilskin slicker, a sou’wester, and he was still clutching the mooring line.

  No one did anything. They all waited … The three men of the Saint-Michel must have been studying Maigret, who cut such a strange figure with his velvet-collared overcoat and bowler hat, held clamped to his head to preserve it from the gale.

  ‘You will not leave tonight!’ he announced.

  No protest. But a look passed between Lannec and Louis that meant, ‘We sail anyway?’ … ‘Better not.’

  The wind was now so violent that they could barely stand upright, and again it was Maigret who took the lead by going to the hatchway, which he remembered from his first visit.

  ‘We’ll talk – and bring that other sailor down too!’

  He did not want anyone left up on deck, out of his sight. The four men went down the hatch.

  Off came boots and oilskins. The gimballed lamp was lit, and there were glasses on the table next to a greasy sea-chart heavily marked with pencil lines.

  Lannec put two coal briquettes into the small stove but looked askance at Maigret and seemed hesitant to offer him a drink. As for old Célestin, he went to huddle in a corner, peevish and uneasy, wondering why he had been brought down to the cabin.

  Everyone’s attitude clearly meant the same thing: no one wanted to speak up, because no one knew how matters stood. The puzzled skipper stared at Louis, who looked back at him helplessly.

  What he had to say would require such long, complicated explanations!

  ‘You’ve thought it over?’ muttered Lannec hoarsely, after coughing to clear his throat a little.

  Maigret was sitting on a bench, elbows on the table, playing absently with an empty glass so smudged that it was now opaque.

  Standing there, Big Louis had to bow his head to avoid touching the roof.

  Lannec fiddled around in the cupboard to give himself something to do.

  ‘Thought what over?’

  ‘I don’t know which legal powers you have. What I do know is, I answer only to the maritime authorities. They alone can stop a vessel from entering or leaving a port.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You’re keeping me from leaving Ouistreham. I’ve got cargo to take on in La Rochelle, plus there’s penalties to pay for every day I’m late.’

  They were getting off on the wrong foot, with this serious, semi-official approach. Maigret knew that game by heart! Hadn’t the mayor threatened him almost in the same way? And hadn’t Martineau then talked of appealing, not to the maritime authorities, but to his consul?

  He paused a moment to take a deep breath and give them all a rapid – and now strangely cheerful – glance.

  ‘Why don’t you give all that a rest!’ he said in Breton. ‘And pour us a drink instead.’

  It was a long shot. The old sailor was the first one to turn towards Maigret in amazement. Big Louis’ face relaxed.

  ‘You’re a Breton?’ asked Lannec, still wary.

  ‘Not quite. I’m from the Loire, but I studied for some time in Nantes.’

  What a look! The face coastal Bretons make at the mention of inland Bretons, and especially the halfway Bretons around Nantes.

  ‘Any of that Dutch gin left from the other day?’

  Lannec brought the bottle and slowly filled the glasses, happy to have something to do. Because he still didn’t know what to do about Maigret. There he was: big, affable, pipe between his teeth, his bowler pushed back on his head, settling in nicely.

  ‘You can sit down, Big Louis.’

  The first mate obeyed. The uneasy atmosphere still lingered some, but in another way. The sailors felt awkward, not being able to return the inspector’s cordiality, but they had to remain on their guard.

  ‘Your health, boys! And admit it: by keeping you here tonight I’m saving you from a nasty run.’

  ‘It’s the harbour channel, mostly,’ murmured Lannec. A swallow of gin, and then, ‘Once we’re out of the gat, we’re clear … But with that current from the Orne, and all those sandbanks, the channel’s tough. Every year she grounds some ships.’

  ‘The Saint-Michel’s never had real trouble?’

  The captain quickly touched wood. Célestin growled angrily at the mere mention of bad luck.

  ‘The Saint-Michel?’ exclaimed Lannec. ‘She’s maybe the best schooner on the coast. Listen! Two years ago, in dense fog, she fetched up on the rocky English coast in a hell of a surf. Any ship but her would have left her bones there. Well! She floats away on the next tide, didn’t even need to lie up in dry dock.’

  Maigret felt they could get along fine in this vein, but he wasn’t in the mood to talk ships all night. Their wet clothes were beginning to steam. Water was snaking down the ladder. And the ever-increasing heaving of the ship, which slammed now and then into the pilings, was beginning to tell on the inspector.

  ‘She’ll make a fine yacht!’ he exclaimed, looking off into the distance.

  So that was it! Lannec flinched.

  ‘Yes, she’d make a fine one,’ he countered. ‘With only the deck to change. And a little less canvas, especially aloft.’

  ‘Has the Norwegian signed the contract?’

  Lannec looked sharply at Louis, who sighed. They would have given a great deal, those two, to talk privately for even a few seconds. What had Louis already revealed? What could the captain safely say?

  Big Louis was wearing his stubborn look. He knew the fix they were in but had no way of explaining what was going on to the skipper. It was too complicated!

  And would all end badly, of course. He had best have a drink. He poured himself one, drank it straight off and faced the inspector. He wasn’t even really feeling up for a fight, but simply resigned.

  ‘What Norwegian?’

  ‘Well, the Norwegian who isn’t exactly a Norwegian. Martineau. Anyway, it certainly wasn’t in Tromsø that he saw the Saint-Michel, since she never went that far north.’

  ‘Mind you, she could! Could handle all the way to Archangel, right enough.’

  ‘When’s he taking delivery?’

  The old sailor snorted derisively, off in his corner. His contempt was not directed at Maigret, but at the three men of the Saint-Michel, himself included.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ replied Lannec lamely.

  Maigret elbowed him gaily in the ribs.

  ‘Come off it! Really, boys. Stop looking as if you were all at a funeral! And wipe those grumpy looks off your pig-headed Breton faces … Martineau promised to buy the schooner, but has he actually purchased it?’

  Inspiration struck.

  ‘Show me the muster roll.’

  He felt that shot strike home.

  ‘I’ve no idea where it …’

  ‘I told you to give that stuff a rest, Lannec! Show me the crew list, damn it all!’

  He was playing the pretend bully, the good-hearted brute. The skipper went to the cupboard for a well-worn briefcase, grey with age. It was full of official documents and business letters from ship-brokers’ firms. One thing was new, a big yellow folder containing some impressively large pages: it was the muster roll. It had been drawn up and dated only a month and a half before, on 11 September. Five days before Captain Joris disappeared.

  Schooner Saint-Michel, 270 gross tons, licensed for the coastal trade. Owner of record: Louis Legrand, Port-en-Bessin. Captain: Yves Lannec. Seaman: Célestin Grolet.

  Big Louis poured himself another. Lannec hung his head in embarrassment.

  ‘Look at this! You’re the present owner of this boat, Big Louis?’

  No reply. Off in his corner, old Célestin bit off a great chunk of his chewing tobacco.

  ‘Listen, boys. There’s no point in wasting time over this. I’m not a complete fool, eh? Granted, I’m no expert on life at sea, but Big Louis is flat broke. A boat like this one is worth at least a
hundred and fifty thousand francs.’

  ‘I’d never have sold her for that!’ Lannec shot back.

  ‘Let’s say two hundred thousand. So Big Louis bought the Saint-Michel on someone else’s behalf! And let’s say … on behalf of Jean Martineau. For some reason or other, the Norwegian doesn’t want anyone to know he owns the schooner … cheers!’

  Célestin shrugged, as if deeply disgusted by the entire business.

  ‘Was Martineau in Fécamp on the 11th of September, when the sale took place?’

  The others just frowned. Louis picked Célestin’s quid up from the table and bit off his own chunk of tobacco while the deck-hand spattered the cabin floor with great spurts of brown spittle.

  There was a lull in the conversation because the wick of the lamp was charring for lack of fuel. Lannec had to fetch more from the can on deck and returned soaked through. The others sat for a minute in darkness, and when the lamp was relit none of them had moved.

  ‘Martineau was there, I’m sure of it! The boat was purchased in Big Louis’ name, and Lannec was to stay aboard, perhaps permanently, perhaps only for a while.’

  ‘For a while …’

  ‘Right! I thought so. Long enough to captain the Saint-Michel on a most unusual voyage.’

  Lannec got to his feet in such agitation that he chewed through his cigarette.

  ‘You came to Ouistreham. On the night of the 16th, the schooner was moored in the outer harbour, ready to head out to sea. Where was Martineau?’

  The captain sat down again, still distressed but determined to keep silent.

  ‘On the morning of the 17th, the Saint-Michel sails. Who is aboard? Is Martineau still there? Is Joris there too?’

  Maigret did not seem like a judge or even a police officer. His voice was still pleasant; there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. It was as if he were playing a game of riddles with his companions.

  ‘You sail to England. Then you set a course for Holland. Is that where Joris and Martineau leave you? Because they have further to go. I have good reasons to believe they go all the way up to Norway.’

  Big Louis grunted at that.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That you’ll never get anywhere.’

  ‘Was Joris already wounded when he came aboard? Was he injured during your voyage, or only up in Scandinavia?’

  He no longer waited for replies.

  ‘All three of you continue your business as usual. You stick close to the northern coast. You’re waiting for a letter or telegram informing you of a rendezvous. Last week, you were in Fécamp, the port where Martineau met you the first time. Big Louis learns that Captain Joris has been found in Paris, in a bad way, and will be brought home to Ouistreham. He travels here by train. There is no one in the captain’s cottage. He leaves a note for his sister. He returns to Fécamp.’

  Maigret sighed, took his time lighting his pipe.

  ‘And here we are! Getting close to the end. You return with Martineau and set him ashore at the entrance to the harbour, which proves he did not want to be seen. Big Louis joins him on the dredger … cheers!’

  He poured his own drink and drained his glass under the mournful gaze of the three men.

  ‘In a nutshell, the only thing left in order to make sense of everything is to discover why Big Louis went to the mayor’s house while Martineau was speeding off to Paris. A bizarre mission: thumping silly a man with the reputation of not suffering common folk lightly.’

  Big Louis couldn’t help grinning angelically at the memory of his punching sessions.

  ‘There you have it, my friends! Now, try to get it through your skulls that the whole truth will come out in the end. The sooner the better, don’t you think?’

  And Maigret knocked out his pipe against his shoe, refilled it and started all over.

  Célestin had fallen deeply asleep. He was snoring, open-mouthed. Big Louis, his head tipped to one side, was looking at the dirty floor, while Lannec tried in vain to catch his eye and solicit some advice.

  At last the captain muttered, ‘We have nothing to say.’

  There was a noise up on deck. As if a rather heavy object had fallen. Maigret started; Big Louis stuck his head out of the hatchway, leaving nothing to see except his legs on the ladder.

  If he had disappeared up on to the deck, the inspector would no doubt have followed him. There was nothing to hear besides the hammering of the rain and some creaking blocks.

  This pause lasted for half a minute, no more. Big Louis came back down, his hair plastered to his forehead by the rain streaming down his cheeks, but at first offered no explanation.

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘A pulley block.’

  ‘How …?’

  ‘Banged into the bulwarks.’

  The captain replenished the stove. Did he believe what Louis had just said? In any case, instead of responding to his pleading looks, Louis was shaking Célestin.

  ‘Go and rig the mizzen sheet …’

  The old man rubbed his eyes, still drowsy. The order was repeated twice more. Then he donned his oilskins and sou’wester and climbed the ladder, stiff with the comfort of recent sleep and angry at being sent out into the cold and rain. He wore clogs that clattered up and down the deck, over their heads.

  Big Louis poured himself what was at least his sixth glass, yet he showed no signs of intoxication.

  His face was always the same: uneven, a trifle bloated, with big eyes that almost bulged from his head. He seemed to be a man plodding glumly through life.

  ‘What do you think, Louis?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Idiot! Have you thought about the fix you’re in? Don’t you understand that you’re the one who’ll get it in the neck? Your record, first of all. An ex-convict! Then this schooner you now own even though you haven’t a sou to your name. Joris barred you from his house because you’d sponged off him too often! The Saint-Michel, here in Ouistreham the evening he vanished. You were here the day he was poisoned … And your sister then inherits three hundred thousand francs!’

  Did Big Louis have a single thought in his head? His eyes were as vacant as could be. China-doll eyes, staring absently at the wall.

  ‘What’s he doing up there?’ asked Lannec anxiously, looking over at the half-open hatch. Rainwater was pooling on the floor.

  Maigret had not had a lot to drink, albeit enough to bring the blood to his head, especially in that stuffy cabin. And enough to inspire a moment of reverie.

  Now that he knew the three men, he could imagine their lives in the world of the Saint-Michel.

  The one man in his bunk, fully dressed most of the time. Always a bottle and some dirty glasses on the table. At least one man on deck; the comings and goings of his clogs or boots … Then that dull, steady sound of the sea … The compass in the binnacle with its tiny light … The other lamp, swaying up on the mizzen-mast …

  Eyes peering into the darkness, hunting for the firefly gleam of the lighthouse … And the loading docks … Two or three days with nothing to do, spending hours in bistros that are everywhere the same …

  Strange noises were heard overhead. Was Big Louis also sinking into a deep slumber? A small alarm-clock showed it was already three o’clock. The bottle was almost gone …

  Lannec yawned, felt around in his pockets for some cigarettes.

  Hadn’t the ship’s company spent the night this way, in this same hothouse atmosphere smelling of close quarters and coal tar, on the day Captain Joris had disappeared? And had the captain been among them then, drinking, struggling against drowsiness?

  This time, voices were heard on deck, although the tempest reduced them to a whisper down in the cabin.

  Maigret stood up with a frown, saw Lannec pouring himself another drink, saw Big Louis’ chin touching his chest and his eyes half closed.

  He felt for the revolver in his pocket and climbed the almost vertical ladder.

  The hatchway was exactly big enough for a man, and the
inspector was much taller and bulkier than the average sailor.

  So he couldn’t even fight back! Hardly had his head emerged from the hatchway when a gag was placed over his mouth and tied behind his neck.

  That was the work of the men on deck, Célestin and someone else.

  Meanwhile, down below, the revolver was torn from his right hand and his wrists were bound behind him.

  He kicked violently back with his foot and hit something that felt to him like a face, but an instant later a rope coiled around his legs.

  ‘Heave ho!’ said the flat, indifferent voice of Big Louis.

  That was the hard part. He was heavy. He was pushed from below; pulled from above.

  The rain was coming down like a waterfall. The wind was blasting up the channel with unbelievable force.

  He thought he saw four silhouettes, but the ship’s lantern had been put out, and the passage from warmth and light to freezing night had bewildered his senses.

  ‘One … Two … And away!’

  They swung him over like a sack. He sailed fairly high and landed on the wet stones of the quay.

  Louis went over after him and bent down to make sure all his bonds were tight. For a moment the inspector had the ex-convict’s face quite close to his and had the impression the man was reluctantly carrying out a sad duty.

  ‘You got to tell my sister …’ he began.

  Tell her what? Louis himself didn’t know. Aboard the Saint-Michel there were hasty footsteps, creaking, grinding sounds, muttered orders. The jibs were unfurled. The mainsail rose slowly up the mast.

  ‘Remember, you must tell her, I’ll see her again one day … And maybe you, too.’

  He jumped heavily back on deck. Maigret was lying facing out to sea. A lantern on a halyard ran up to the masthead. There was a black figure by the tiller.

  ‘Cast off!’

  The mooring rope snaked off the bollards, hauled in from the boat. The jibs snapped in the wind for an instant or two … The bow paid off, and the schooner almost swung completely around, so ferociously was she attacked by the storm.

  But no – a heave on the tiller brought her into the wind’s eye. She hesitated, seeking her way and, heeling over, shot suddenly between the jetties.