‘Marguerite? … You’re mad! … Who could have come up with such a thing? … Marguerite, the … the …’
And Maigret, who was already holding the door handle, left without even smiling. The house smelled of both chemicals and cooking. The servant who opened the door to the clients was as fresh as if she had just emerged from a hot bath.
But outside it was all rain and mud again, and passing lorries splashed the pavements.
It was Saturday. Joseph Peeters was due to arrive in the afternoon and spend Sunday in Givet. At the Café des Mariniers they were engaged in a passionate discussion because the Department of Roads and Bridges had just announced that shipping traffic had resumed between the border and Maastricht.
Except that, given the strength of the current, the tugs were asking for fifteen francs a kilometre per ton, rather than ten. They had also learned that an arch of the Namur bridge had been obstructed by a barge loaded with stones that had broken its mooring and crashed into the pier.
‘Any casualties?’ asked Maigret.
‘The wife and her son. The bargeman himself was in the bar, and by the time he got to the waterside his boat had already taken off!’
Gérard Piedboeuf passed by on his bicycle, coming back from the factory offices. And a few moments later Machère came back from the Flemish house, where he had gone to announce the news, rang the doorbell of the Piedboeuf house and found himself face to face with the midwife, who curtly let him in.
‘So tell me about your indecent assault case.’
On most barges, the accommodation is cleaner than most people’s houses. But that was not the case on the Étoile Polaire.
The bargeman had no wife. He was helped by a lad of about twenty who wasn’t quite right in the head and who had epileptic seizures from time to time.
The cabin smelled like a barracks. The man was busy eating bread and sausage and drinking a litre of red wine.
He was less drunk than usual. He looked suspiciously at Maigret, and it was quite a long time before he decided to speak.
‘It wasn’t even an assault … I’d already slept with the girl two or three times … One evening, in the street, I meet her and, because I’ve been drinking, she turns me down … So I hit her … She screamed … Some cops happened to be passing by, and I knocked one of them down …’
‘Five years?’
‘Nearly. She denied that we’d had relations before … Some friends of mine came to court and said we had, but they only half believed them … Without the cop, who spent a fortnight in hospital, I’d have got off with a year, maybe even suspended …’
And he cut his bread with a penknife.
‘Are you thirsty? … We might leave tomorrow … We’re waiting to see if the bridge at Namur is cleared …’
‘Now tell me why you made up the story of the woman you saw on the quay.’
‘Me?’
He took some time to think and pretended to eat hungrily.
‘Admit it, you didn’t see anything at all!’
Maigret caught a flicker of joy in the other man’s eyes.
‘That’s what you think? Well! I’m sure you’re right!’
‘Who asked you to give that statement?’
‘Me?’
And he was still laughing. He spat his sausage skin out right in front of him.
‘Where did you meet Gérard Piedboeuf?’
‘Oh! I see …’
But he was face to face with a man as placid as himself.
‘Did he give you something?’
‘He bought some rounds …’
Then, suddenly, with a silent chuckle:
‘Except it isn’t true! I’m just saying that to please you … If you want me to tell the court the opposite, you just have to give me a sign …’
‘What did you see exactly?’
‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.’
‘Tell me anyway!’
‘Well! I saw a woman waiting … then a man came, and she threw herself into his arms …’
‘Who was it?’
‘How do you expect me to recognize them in the dark?’
‘Where were you?’
‘I was coming back from the bar …’
‘And where did the couple go? To the Flemish house?’
‘No! They went in the back way.’
‘The back of what?’
‘The back of the house … But if you don’t think I’m telling the truth … I’m used to it, you understand! … They told so many stories at my trial … Even my lawyer, who was the worst liar of all …’
‘Do you go and have a glass at the Flemish house from time to time?’
‘Me? … They refuse to serve me, on the grounds that I once broke the scales by punching my fist down on them … They need customers who get off their faces without moving or saying anything …’
‘Did Gérard Piedboeuf speak to you?’
‘What did I tell you a moment ago?’
‘That he’d asked you to say …’
‘Well! That’s the truth … And the truth, honest to God, is that I’ll never tell you what I know, because I hate the cops, you as much as the others! … You can go and tell the judge … I’ll swear you beat me, and I’ll show them the marks … Which won’t stop me offering you a glass of red wine, if your stomach can take it …’
At that very moment, Maigret looked him in the eyes and suddenly got to his feet.
‘Show me around your boat!’ he said curtly.
Surprise? Fear? Simple annoyance? Whatever it was, the man, his mouth full, pulled a face.
‘What do you want to see?’
‘One moment …’
And Maigret went outside and came back a few seconds later with a customs officer in an oilskin glistening with rain. The bargeman sniggered:
‘I’ve already passed the inspection …’
Maigret was talking to the customs officer.
‘You’re used to it … I imagine all boats do a certain amount of smuggling …’
‘Not a certain amount!’
‘Where do they usually hide the goods?’
‘It depends … In the old days they used to lock it up in waterproof boxes that they fastened under the boat … But now we put a chain under the hull, so they can’t do that now … Under the floor too, sometimes, between the floor and the bottom … But we tend to make a few holes with a huge drill that you might have seen on the quay …’
‘So?’
‘Wait! What’s your cargo?’
‘Ironwork …’
‘It would take too long …’ grunted the customs officer. ‘We’ll have to look elsewhere …’
And Maigret didn’t take his eyes off the bargeman. He hoped for a revealing glance towards some hiding place. The man was still eating, not hungrily, just to do something. He wasn’t frightened. On the contrary, he sat firmly where he was.
‘Get up!’
This time he obeyed with bad grace.
‘Am I not allowed to sit down in my own place these days?’
On the chair there was a filthy cushion, which Maigret picked up. Three sides of the cushion were sewn normally. The fourth bore coarse stitches that hadn’t been made by a seamstress.
‘Thank you! I don’t need you any more!’ Maigret said to the customs man.
‘You think he’s smuggling?’
‘Not in the slightest … Thank you …’
And he waited until the official reluctantly left.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing at all!’
‘Do you usually put things as hard as that in cushions?’
The stitches parted, revealing something black. And soon Maigret unfolded a little worn serge coat, full of creases.
It was the same serge described in the report from the Belgian public prosecutor’s office. There was no label. The piece of clothing had been made by Germaine Piedboeuf herself.
But that wasn’t the most interesting object. In the middle of th
e parcel there was a hammer, its handle polished with use.
‘The funniest thing,’ the bargeman muttered, ‘is that you’re making a big mistake … I haven’t done anything! … I got those two things there out of the Meuse, on the fourth of January, first thing …’
‘And you thought it was a good idea to put them in a safe place!’
‘I’m starting to get used to it!’ the man replied complacently. ‘Are you arresting me?’
‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘That you’re making a big mistake!’
‘Are you still leaving tomorrow?’
‘If you don’t arrest me, it’s very likely.’
It must have been the biggest surprise in the world to see Maigret carefully making up the parcel again, slipping it under his overcoat and leaving without a word.
He watched him walk off in the rain, along the quay, passing in front of the customs man, who saluted him. Then he went back down into his cabin, shaking his head, and poured himself a drink.
7. A Three-Hour Gap
When Maigret arrived at his hotel for lunch, the landlord told him the postman had turned up with a recorded delivery letter at his address but hadn’t wanted to leave it.
It was like a signal for a thousand petty concerns to get together and start harassing a man. As soon as he sat down, the inspector asked after his colleague. No one had seen him. He had them call his hotel. He was told that he had left half an hour before.
It didn’t matter. Maigret didn’t even have the power to give instructions to Machère. But he would have liked to suggest that he keep an eye on the bargeman.
At two o’clock he was at the post office, where he was handed the recorded delivery letter. It was a silly story. Some furniture he had bought and refused to pay for because it wasn’t what he’d ordered. The supplier had sent him a formal demand.
He had to spend half an hour writing his reply, then a letter to his wife to give her instructions on the subject.
No sooner had he finished than he was called to the phone. It was the head of the Police Judiciaire asking him when he would be back and requesting that he send some details about two or three cases currently under way.
Outside, it was still raining. The café floor was covered with sawdust. There was no one there at that time of day, and the waiter was taking advantage of the fact to get on with his own correspondence.
One ridiculous little detail: Maigret hated writing on marble tables, and there were no others.
‘Please call the Hôtel de la Gare and find out if anyone’s seen the inspector.’
Maigret was in a vaguely bad mood, all the more aggravating because it had no serious cause. Two or three times he went and pressed his forehead against the misted window. The sky was becoming a little clearer, the drops of rain less frequent. But the muddy quay was still deserted.
At about four o’clock he heard a blast from a whistle. He ran to the door and saw a tug, belching out thick steam for the first time since the spate had begun.
The current was still violent. When the tug, slender and light, a thoroughbred in comparison with the barges, came away from the shore, it literally reared up, and for a moment looked as if it was going to be dragged away by the flood.
A new whistle-blast, more strident this time. And it turned into the current. A cable stretched behind it. A first barge broke away from the block of waiting boats and drifted across the Meuse as two men pulled with all their might on the helm.
In the doorways of the cafés, customers had gathered to witness the manoeuvre, which took no more than six minutes. Two or three barges entered the struggle in turn, formed a semi-circle and suddenly, at the sound of a whistle, vibrant with pride, the tug set off towards Belgium, while the barges behind it did their best to stay in a straight line.
The Étoile Polaire was not part of the train.
… and consequently I ask you to be so kind as to collect from my home at Boulevard Richard Lenoir the furniture which …
Maigret wrote unusually slowly, as if his fingers were too big for the pen that they were crushing on to the paper. By contrast, this produced handwriting that was small but fat which, from a distance, looked like a series of stains.
‘Monsieur Peeters going past on his motorbike …’ announced the waiter, who was lighting the lamps and drawing the curtains over the big window.
It was half past four.
‘It takes courage to cover 200 kilometres in weather like that! He’s muddy from head to toe!’
‘Albert! The telephone!’ cried the landlady.
Maigret signed the letter and put it in an envelope.
‘It’s for you, inspector! From Paris …’
‘Hello! … Hello! … Yes, it’s me …’
And Maigret tried to rein in his bad mood. It was his wife on the phone, asking him when he was coming back.
‘Hello … They came for the furniture …’
‘I know! I’ll do what needs to be done …’
‘There’s also a letter from the English colleague who …’
‘Yes, darling! It doesn’t matter …’
‘Is it cold there? Cover up well … You haven’t quite recovered from your cold and …’
Why did he feel almost painful impatience? A vague impression. He felt as if he was missing something, wasting his time in this cabin.
‘I’ll be in Paris in three or four days.’
‘Is that all!’
‘Yes … Lots of love … Goodbye …’
In the café, he asked where he would find a post box.
‘Just on the corner of the street, by the tobacconist’s.’
It was dark outside. All that could be seen of the Meuse was the reflections of the street lights. Against the trunk of a tree, Maigret noticed a figure that made him start. It wasn’t the sort of weather to go for a walk in the rain and the wind.
He put the letter in the box, turned round and saw the figure detaching itself from the tree. He walked off, and the stranger started walking behind him.
It was quick work! A few hasty steps back and Maigret grabbed the man by the collar.
‘What are you doing here?’
He was holding him a bit too tightly. The stranger’s face was flushed. Maigret relaxed his grip.
‘Speak!’
Something shocked him, he didn’t know what. That evasive gaze was awkward, even more awkward than the smile on the man’s face.
‘Aren’t you the steward on the Étoile Polaire?’
The man nodded his head delightedly.
‘Were you tailing me?’
There was a mixture of fear and gaiety on the man’s long face. Had the sailor not confessed to Maigret that his steward was simple-minded and prey to epileptic seizures?
‘Don’t laugh! Tell me what you’re doing here …’
‘I’m watching you.’
‘Was it your boss who told you to keep me under surveillance?
It was impossible to be brutal with this poor wretch, all the more pitiful because of his age. He was twenty. He didn’t shave, but his sparse beard, of very fine hairs, wasn’t even as long as a centimetre. His mouth was twice as big as a normal mouth.
‘Don’t beat me …’
‘Come!’
Some barges had changed places. For the first time in weeks there was activity on board, because they were preparing to leave. Women could be seen going for provisions. Customs men were walking around, boarding the boats.
The Étoile Polaire, once the other boats had left, was isolated, and her bows were some distance from the shore. There was a light in the cabin.
‘You go ahead!’
He had to walk along a gangway that consisted only of a sagging and unstable plank.
There was no one on board, even though the paraffin lamp was lit.
‘Where does your boss keep his Sunday best?’
For Maigret saw an unusual degree of chaos.
The steward opened a cupboard and was amaz
ed by what he saw. The clothes that the bargeman had been wearing in the morning could be seen lying on the floor.
‘And his money?’
Gestures of furious denial. The idiot didn’t know! The money was hidden!
‘It’s all right! You can stay here.’
Maigret went outside, his head down, and bumped into a customs man.
‘You haven’t seen the man from the Étoile Polaire?’
‘No! Isn’t he on board? I thought he was supposed to be leaving first thing.’
‘Does he own the boat?’
‘Far from it! It belongs to one of his cousins, who lives in Flémalle. An eccentric like himself …’
‘What does he earn from the barge?’
‘Six hundred francs a month? Perhaps a bit more with the smuggling … But not much …’
The Flemish house was lit up. There were lights on not only in the windows of the shop, but also on the first floor.
A few minutes later, the bell of the grocery rang. Maigret wiped the soles of his shoes on the mat, and called out to Madame Peeters, who was already running from the kitchen:
‘Don’t let me bother you!’
The first person he saw, when he was ushered into the dining room, was Marguerite Van de Weert, who was flicking through a musical score.
She was more diaphanous than ever in her pale-blue satin dress, and she gave Maigret a welcoming smile.
‘Have you come to see Joseph?’
‘Isn’t he here?’
‘He’s gone upstairs to change … It’s insane to go out on a motorbike in weather like this! Especially him, when his health is already delicate and his exams are taking such a toll on him …’
It wasn’t love! It was adoration! It was as if she was capable of spending hours not moving, looking at this young man!
What was it about him that inspired such feelings? Did his sister not speak of him in almost identical terms?
‘Is Anna with him?’
‘She’s getting his clothes ready for him.’
‘What about you? Have you been here for long?’
‘An hour.’
‘Did you know that Joseph Peeters was going to come?’
Slight unease. It only lasted a second and she continued straight away:
‘He comes every Saturday at the same time.’
The Flemish House Page 7