“Who?”
“Your friend Albert…You said that when he left you that last evening…”
“He was very het-up. He drank several brandies before going off to meet Geneviève…”
“He didn’t tell you anything?”
“Wait…He said he probably wouldn’t stay very long in this godforsaken neighborhood…”
“How long had he been Mademoiselle Naud’s lover?”
“I don’t know…Wait though…They weren’t lovers in midsummer. They must have started sleeping together about the month of October…”
“He wasn’t in love with her before that?”
“Well, if he was, he didn’t talk to her…”
“Ssh…”
Maigret stood quite still and listened carefully. The sound of voices had died away and now, to his astonishment, the superintendent heard a different sound.
“It’s the telephone!” he exclaimed.
He had recognized the familiar sound of country telephones. Someone was turning a handle to call the woman in the post office.
“Run and have a look through the postmistress’s window…You’ll get there quicker than I will…”
He was right. A second light went on, in the window next to the first. The postmistress had gone through a door which was slightly ajar into the post office.
Maigret took his time. He loathed running anywhere. Strangely enough, it was young Louis’s presence that bothered him. He wanted to maintain a certain dignity in front of the youngster. He at last filled his pipe, lit it and walked slowly across the street.
“Well?”
“I knew she would listen in to the call,” whispered Louis. “The old shrew always listens. The doctor even complained to La Roche about it once, but she still goes on doing it…”
They could see her through the window, a small woman dressed in black with dark hair and an ageless face. She had one hand on an earphone and held a plug in the other. The call must have come to an end at that very moment, for she moved the plugs into different holes and walked across the room to switch off the light.
“Do you think she would let us in?”
“If you knock on the little door at the back…This way…We’ll go through the yard…”
They groped about in pitch darkness for a moment, edging their way past various tubs filled with washing. A cat jumped out of a dustbin.
“Mademoiselle Rinquet!” the youngster called out. “Will you open up for a minute…”
“What is it?”
“It’s me, Louis…Will you open up for a minute, please…”
As soon as she had unbolted the door, Maigret stepped hurriedly inside for fear she might shut it again.
“There is nothing to be afraid of, mademoiselle…”
He was too tall and too bulky for the tiny postmistress’s tiny kitchen which was littered with embroidered tray cloths and knick-knacks made of cheap china or spun glass she had bought at various fairs.
“Groult-Cotelle has just made a call.”
“How do you know?”
“He rang up his friend Naud…You listened in to their conversation.”
Caught at fault, she defended herself awkwardly.
“But the post office is shut, monsieur. I’m not supposed to give anyone a line after nine o’clock. I sometimes do, though, as I’m here and like to be helpful…”
“What did he say?”
“Who?”
“Look, if you’re not going to answer my questions with a good grace, I will have to come back tomorrow, officially this time, and draw up a written report which will go through the proper channels. Now, what did he say?”
“There were two of them on the line.”
“At the same time?”
“Pretty much. They spoke together sometimes. It turned into a shouting match between the two of them and in the end I couldn’t catch what they were saying…They must both have had an earpiece and were obviously pushing each other out of the way in front of the telephone.”
“What did they say?”
“Monsieur Groult said first of all:
“‘Listen, Etienne, this can’t go on. The superintendent has just left. He came face to face with your man. I’m sure he knows everything and if you go on…’”
“Well?” said Maigret.
“Wait…The other man butted in.
“‘Hello…Monsieur Naud?…Cavre speaking…Of course it’s a great pity you didn’t manage to detain him and prevent him from finding me here, but…’”
“‘But I’m the one who is compromised,’ yelled Monsieur Groult. ‘I’ve had enough, do you hear, Etienne? Put an end to all this! Telephone your idiotic brother-in-law and tell him never to meddle in our affairs again. He’s this wretched superintendent’s superior in some respects and since he’s the one who sent him down here, he must set about calling him back to Paris…So I’m warning you…if he is at your house the next time I come around, I’ll…’
“‘Hello! Hello!’ shouted Monsieur Etienne, in a real state at the other end of the line. ‘Are you still there, Monsieur Cavre?…Alban’s got me all worried…Are you sure…’
“‘Hello!…Cavre here…Will you be quiet, Monsieur Groult…Let me get a word in…Stop pushing me…Is that you, Monsieur Naud?…Yes…Well! There is nothing to worry about provided your friend Groult-Cotelle doesn’t panic and…What?…Should you call your brother-in-law?…I’d have advised you not to a moment ago…No, I’m not afraid of him…’”
The postmistress, thoroughly enjoying reporting the telephone conversation, pointed a finger at Maigret and declared:
“He meant you, didn’t he?…So he said he wasn’t afraid of you, but that because of Groult-Cotelle who was thoroughly unreliable…Ssh…”
The bell rang in the post office. The little old lady rushed next door and switched on the light.
“Hello!…What?…Galvani 17.98? I don’t know…No, there shouldn’t be any delay at this time of night…I’ll call you back.”
Galvani 17.98 was Bréjon’s home telephone number and Maigret recognized it at once.
He looked at his watch to see what time it was. Ten minutes to eleven. Unless he had gone to the cinema or the theater with his family, the examining magistrate was bound to be in bed, for everyone at the Palais de Justice knew that he got up at six in the morning and studied his briefs as day broke.
The plugs went into different holes.
“Is that Niort? Can you get me Galvani 17.98? Line 3 is free? Will you connect me, please? Line 2 was awful just now…How are you?…You’re on duty all night?…What?…No, you know perfectly well I never go to bed before one in the morning…Yes, there’s fog here too…You can’t see more than a couple of yards in front of you…It’ll be icy on the roads tomorrow morning…Hello! Paris?…Paris?…Hello! Paris?…Galvani 17.98?…Come on, dear…Speak more clearly…I want Galvani 17.98…What?…It’s ringing?…I can’t hear anything…Let it go on ringing…It’s urgent…Yes, now there’s someone…”
She turned around, terrified, for Maigret’s bulky frame towered behind her as he stretched out a hand, ready to take the headset at the appropriate moment.
“Monsieur Naud?…Hello!…Monsieur Naud?…Yes, I’m putting you through…One moment, it’s ringing…Hold on…Galvani 17.98? Saint-Aubin, here…Here’s line 3…Go ahead, 3…”
She did not dare protest when the superintendent took the headset authoritatively from her and put it on his head. She put the plug firmly in the hole.
“Hello! Is that you, Victor?…What?…”
There was interference on the line and Maigret had the feeling that the examining magistrate was taking the call in bed. A moment later, he heard him say for the second time, having heard his brother-in-law’s name:
“It’s Etienne…”
He was probably speaking to his wife who was lying in bed beside him.
“What?…There has been a new development?…No?…Yes?…You’re speaking too loudly…It’s making the l
ine buzz…”
For Etienne Naud was one of those men who yell down the telephone as if they are afraid of not being heard.
“Hello!…Listen, Victor…There’s nothing new to report really, no…Believe me…I’ll write to you, anyhow…Maybe I’ll come and see you in Paris in two or three days’ time…”
“Please talk more slowly…Move over a bit, Marthe…”
“What did you say?”
“I was telling Marthe to move over…Well?…What’s going on? The superintendent arrived safely, didn’t he?…What’s your view?”
“Yes…Never mind…In fact it’s because of him that I am calling…”
“Doesn’t he want to investigate the case?”
“Yes…But he’s investigating it too thoroughly…Listen, Victor, you’ve simply got to find a way of getting him back to Paris…No, I can’t talk now…I know the postmistress and…”
Maigret smiled as he watched the tiny postmistress. She was bubbling over with curiosity.
“You’ll find a way, I’m sure…What? It will be difficult?…But you must be able to, somehow…It is absolutely vital. I promise you…”
It was not hard to picture the examining magistrate frowning anxiously as waves of suspicion with regard to his brother-in-law began to creep into his mind.
“It is not what you are thinking…But he’s poking his nose here and there, talking to everyone and doing far more harm than good…Do you see?…If he goes on much longer, the whole town will be in an uproar and my position will become untenable…”
“I don’t know what to do…”
“Aren’t you on good terms with his boss?”
“Yes, I am…Of course, I could ask the head of the Police Judiciaire…It’s a delicate matter…The superintendent will find out sooner or later. It was a pure favor to me that he agreed to go…Do you understand?”
“Do you or don’t you want to cause trouble for your niece? And she’s your god-daughter, may I remind you…”
“It really is a serious matter, then?”
“I have already told you…”
One had the impression that Etienne Naud was stamping his feet with impatience. Alban’s own panic had rubbed off on him and the fact that Cavre had not been against his calling Bréjon to get him to summon Maigret back to Paris had not exactly reassured him.
“Can I not have a word with my sister?”
“Your sister has gone to bed…I’m the only one downstairs…”
“What does Geneviève say?”
The examining magistrate was obviously beginning to falter, and fell back on commonplace remarks.
“Is it raining in your part of the world, too?”
“I don’t know!” yelled back Naud. “I don’t care a damn! Do you hear? Just get that confounded superintendent of yours out of here…”
“What on earth has got into you?”
“What has got into me? If this goes on, we won’t be able to stay here, that’s all. He is poking his nose into everything. He says nothing. He…he…”
“Now calm down. I’ll do my best.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning…I’ll go and see the head of the Police Judiciaire as soon as the offices are open, but it goes against the grain, let me tell you. It’s the first time in my career that…”
“But you will do it, won’t you?”
“I’ve told you I will…”
“The telegram will probably arrive at about noon…He’ll be able to take the three o’clock train…Make sure the telegram arrives in time…”
“Is Louise all right?”
“Yes, she’s all right…Good night…Don’t forget…I’ll explain later…And don’t start imagining things, please…Say good night to your wife for me…”
The postmistress realized from the look on Maigret’s face that the conversation was over and she took the headset from him and moved the plugs once more.
“Hello!…Have you finished?…Hello, Paris…How many calls?…Two?…Thank you…Good night, my dear.”
And then she turned to the superintendent, who was putting his hat on again and relighting his pipe:
“I could be sacked for this…Do you think it is true, then?”
“What?”
“What people are saying…can’t think that a man like Monsieur Etienne who has everything he could possibly want to make him happy…”
“Good night, mademoiselle. Don’t worry. I’ll be very discreet…”
“What did they say?”
“Nothing much. Just family news…”
“Are you going back to Paris?”
“Maybe…My goodness, yes…It is quite possible I’ll take the train tomorrow afternoon…”
Maigret was calm, now. He felt himself again. He was almost surprised to find Louis waiting for him in the kitchen and the youngster was equally surprised when he sensed his hero’s mood had changed. The superintendent paid virtually no attention to the lad. His attitude towards him was flippant, scornful even, or so thought young Louis who was cut to the quick.
Once more, they began to make their way through the fog which seemed to reduce the world to absurdly small proportions. As before, an occasional light shone through the gloom.
“He did it, didn’t he?”
“Who?…Did what?”
“Naud…He’s the one who killed Albert…”
“I honestly don’t know, my boy…It…”
Maigret stopped himself in time. He was going to say:
“It doesn’t matter…”
For that was what he thought, or rather what he felt. But he realized that a statement such as this would only startle the youngster.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing much…Incidentally, speaking of Groult-Cotelle…”
They were approaching the two inns. The lights were still on, and on one side of the street faces could be seen through the window like silhouettes in a Chinese shadow play.
“Well?”
“Has he always been a close friend of the Nauds?”
“Wait a minute…Not always, no…I was a small boy at the time, you see…The house has been in his family for a long time, but when I was a kid we used to go there to play…It was empty then…I remember because we got into the cellar quite a few times…One of the airholes didn’t shut properly. Monsieur Groult-Cotelle was living with some relations of his, then. They have a castle in Brittany, I think…When he came back here, he was married…You should ask some of the older inhabitants…I must have been six or seven at the time…I remember his wife had a lovely little yellow car which she drove herself and she often used to go off in it alone…”
“Did the two of them visit the Nauds?”
“No…I am sure they didn’t…I say that because I remember Monsieur Groult was always in a huddle with the old doctor, a widower…I often used to see them sitting by the window playing chess…Unless I’m mistaken, it was because of his wife he didn’t see the Nauds…He was friendly with them before as he and Naud went to the same school…They used to say hello to each other in the street…I used to see them chatting on the pavement, but that’s all…”
“So it was after Madame Groult-Cotelle left…”
“Yes…About three years ago…Mademoiselle Naud was sixteen or seventeen years old…She was back from school—she was at a boarding school in Niort for a long time and only used to appear every fourth Sunday…I remember that, too, because whenever you saw her during term-time you knew it was the third Sunday in the month…They became friends…Monsieur Groult used to spend half his time at the Nauds’…”
“Do they go off on holiday together?”
“Yes, to Les Sables d’Olonne…The Nauds had a villa built there…Are you going back?…Don’t you want to know if the detective…”
The young lad looked back at Groult-Cotelle’s house and could still see a glimmer of light filtering through the shutters. Although he dared not show it, he was somewhat disillusioned with the unorthodox wa
y Maigret seemed to be conducting this inquiry, for he had certainly thought in terms of a very different approach.
“What did he say when you went in?”
“Cavre? Nothing…No, he didn’t say anything…It’s not important, anyway…”
The fact of the matter was, that at that particular moment, Maigret was living in a world of his own and not in the present at all, and he answered the boy half-heartedly without really knowing what the question was.
Many a time at the Police Judiciaire, his colleagues had joked about his going off into one of these reveries, and he also knew that people used to talk about this habit of his behind his back.
At such moments, Maigret seemed to puff himself up out of all proportion and become slow-witted and stodgy, like someone blind and dumb who is unaware of what is going on around him. Indeed, if anyone not forewarned was to walk past or talk to Maigret when he was in one of these moods, he would more than likely take him for a fat idiot or a fat sleepyhead.
“So, you’re concentrating your thoughts?” said someone who prided himself on his psychological perception.
And Maigret had replied with comic sincerity:
“I never think.”
And it was almost true. For Maigret was not thinking now, as he stood in the damp, cold street. He was not following through an idea. One might say he was rather like a sponge.
It was Sergeant Lucas who had described him thus, and he had worked constantly with Maigret and knew him better than anyone.
“There comes a time in the course of an investigation,” Lucas had said, “when the patron suddenly swells up like a sponge. You’d think he was filling up.”
But filling up with what? At present, for instance, he was absorbing the fog and the darkness. The village round him was not just any old village. And he was not merely someone who had been cast into these surroundings by chance.
He was rather like God the Father. He knew this village like the back of his hand. It was as if he had always lived here, or better still, as if he had created the little town. He knew what went on inside all those small, low houses nestling in the darkness. He could see men and women turning in the moist warmth of their beds and he followed the thread of their dreams. A dim light in a window enabled him to see a mother, half-asleep, giving a bottle of warm milk to her infant. He felt the shooting pain of the sick woman in the corner and imagined the drowsy grocer’s wife waking up with a start.
Inspector Cadaver Page 11