People were eating dinner, each in their own little world of boredom and silence. Maigret drank a glass of beer, wiped his mouth and grabbed his suitcase. On his way out, he passed within a couple of metres of his former colleague while the latter stared fixedly at a gob of spit on the floor.
Black and wet, the local train was already on platform three. Maigret settled down in the damp chill of an old-fashioned compartment and tried unsuccessfully to close the window all the way.
There were comings and goings on the platform, those familiar noises that one absorbs unconsciously. Two or three times the door opened, a head appeared – train travellers always instinctively hunt for an empty compartment – but, at the sight of Maigret, the door quickly closed again.
As the train pulled out, the Maigret went into the corridor to shut a window that was letting in a draught. In the next-door compartment, he saw Inspector Cadaver, pretending to be asleep.
For goodness sake, it was just a meaningless coincidence. It was absurd to give it any thought. The whole business he had got himself involved in was ridiculous anyway, and Maigret wished he could just shrug it all off.
Why on earth should he care if Cavre was going to Saint-Aubin like him?
Darkness slid by outside the windows, with the occasional gleam of light by a road: the passing headlights of a car or, more mysteriously, more appealingly, the yellowish rectangle of a window.
Bréjon, the examining magistrate – a charming, shy man with old-fashioned, punctilious manners – had told him more than once, ‘My brother-in-law Naud will be waiting for you at the station. I have made sure he knows when you will be getting in.’
As he drew on his pipe, Maigret couldn’t help thinking: ‘What’s that wretched Cadaver up to, though?’
Maigret wasn’t even on an official case. Bréjon, whom he had worked with on numerous occasions, had sent him a short note asking if he would be so kind as to drop by his office for a moment.
It was January. It was raining in Paris, same as it was in Niort. There hadn’t been a break in the rain or glimpse of sun for over a week. In the examining magistrate’s office the lamp on the desk had a green shade. And while Monsieur Bréjon talked, incessantly wiping the lenses of his glasses as he did so, Maigret thought that there was a green lampshade in his office too, but that the magistrate’s was ridged like a melon.
‘… terribly sorry to bother you … especially as it is not on official business … Do sit down … Please … Cigar? You may know that my wife’s maiden name was Lecat … No, no matter … That’s not actually what I wanted to talk to you about … My sister, Louise Bréjon, became a Naud by marriage …’
It was late. People looking up from the street and seeing a light in the windows of the magistrate’s office, in the sombre mass of the formidable Palais de Justice, would have assumed that weighty matters were being discussed up there.
And Maigret, with his bulk and furrowed brow, gave such an impression of fierce concentration that it was unlikely anyone would have guessed what he was thinking.
Well, while listening with half an ear to the story the bearded magistrate was telling him, he was thinking about green lampshades, envying the one with ridges and dreaming of getting one like it.
‘You can imagine what it’s like … Small town, absolutely minute … You’ll see for yourself … Middle of nowhere … Jealousy, envy, wanton malice … My brother-in-law couldn’t be a more decent, straightforward person … As for my niece, she’s just a child … If you agree, I’ll put in for a week’s exceptional leave for you and the gratitude of my entire family, along with that which …’
That’s how you let yourself get embroiled in a stupid escapade. What had the magistrate told him exactly? He was still a provincial at heart. And like all provincials, he loved nothing better than a long saga about local families, whose names he pronounced as if they were figures from history.
His sister, Louise Bréjon, had married Étienne Naud. As though he were speaking of someone world-renowned, the examining magistrate added, ‘Sébastien Naud’s son, you know …?’
Sébastien Naud, it turned out, was simply a well-to-do cattle dealer from Saint-Aubin, a village lost in the depths of the Vendée marshes.
‘On his mother’s side, Étienne Naud is related to the finest families in that part of the world.’
Very good. And?
‘They live a kilometre outside the little town, in a house practically on the railway line that runs from Niort to Fontenay-le-Comte. About two weeks ago, a young man from round there – a boy from quite a good family as a matter of fact, at least on his mother’s side, who is a Pelcau – was found dead on the track. At first, everyone believed it was an accident, and I still believe that to be the case. But since then, rumours have gone round. Anonymous letters have been sent … To cut a long story short, my brother-in-law now finds himself in a terrible predicament – accused, virtually to his face, of killing the boy … He wrote me rather a vague letter about it. I in turn wrote for more information to the public prosecutor at Fontenay-le-Comte, since Saint-Aubin comes under Fontenay’s jurisdiction. To my surprise, I learned that the accusations were relatively serious and that an investigation appears inevitable … Which is why, my dear detective chief inspector, I ventured to call on you, as a friend, entirely …’
The train stopped. Maigret wiped the condensation on the window and saw a tiny building, a solitary light, a strip of platform and a lone railwayman running alongside the train, already whistling. A door slammed, and the train set off again. But not the neighbouring compartment’s door; Inspector Cadaver was still on board.
They passed the odd farm, close by or off in the distance, but always down below, and whenever a light could be seen, it would invariably be reflected in a stretch of water, as if the train were skirting a lake.
‘Saint-Aubin …!’
He gathered his things. A total of three people got off the train: an extremely old woman weighed down by a black wicker shopping basket, Cavre and Maigret. In the middle of the platform stood a very tall, very heavily built man in leather gaiters and a leather jacket, with something oddly tentative about him.
It was Naud, clearly. His brother-in-law, the examining magistrate, had told him when the inspector was coming. But which of the two men getting off the train was Maigret?
He approached the thinner of the two first. He was already raising a hand to his hat, his mouth half-open in a tentative question, when Cavre strode by disdainfully, his knowing attitude seeming to say, ‘It’s not me. It’s the other fellow.’
The examining magistrate’s brother-in-law turned on his heel.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, I believe? I’m so sorry not to have recognized you immediately. Your photograph is in the newspapers such a lot … But in our little backwater, you understand …’
He had firmly relieved him of his suitcase, and, as the inspector searched in his pocket for his ticket, he ushered him towards the level crossing rather than the station, saying:
‘There’s no need …’
Turning to the stationmaster, he called out:
‘Good evening, Pierre.’
It was still raining. A horse harnessed to a dogcart was tethered to a ring.
‘Do get in. In this weather, cars can’t really get down the lane.’
Where was Cavre? Maigret had seen him hurry off into the darkness. Too late he felt the urge to follow him. Anyway, wouldn’t it have appeared ridiculous to leave his host stranded the minute he arrived and go dashing off after another passenger?
There was no village to be seen. Just a lamppost, a hundred metres from the station, among a clump of tall trees at what seemed to be the start of a road.
‘Spread your coat over your legs. No, you must. Even with it, your knees will get wet because the wind’s against us … My brother-in-law wrote me a long letter about you. I am embarrassed that he should have thought to trouble a man such as yourself over such an insignificant business.
You have no idea what people in the country are like.’
He touched the tip of his whip to the horse’s wet hindquarters, and the wheels of the cart sunk deep into the black mud of a lane that ran parallel to the railway track. On the other side, the lanterns dimly lit up some sort of canal.
A human form loomed up out of nowhere. They made out a man with his jacket over his head, who stepped aside.
‘Evening, Fabien!’ Étienne Naud cried out, as he had hailed the stationmaster, like a man who knows everybody, like a lord of the manor who calls everyone by his first name.
Where the hell could Cavre have got to, though? Try as he might, Maigret couldn’t think about anything else.
‘Is there a hotel in Saint-Aubin?’ he asked.
His companion burst into good-natured laughter.
‘Goodness, there’s no call for a hotel! We have plenty of space at home. Your room is ready. We’re having dinner an hour late because I thought you wouldn’t have eaten on the way. I hope you didn’t think of dining at the buffet in Niort A terrible idea. I should warn you, though: we lay on a very simple spread.’
Maigret wasn’t remotely interested in the spread they had laid on. Cavre was the only thing on his mind.
‘I was wondering whether the passenger who got out when I did …’
‘I don’t know him,’ Étienne Naud said hastily.
Why? That wasn’t what Maigret was asking.
‘I was wondering whether he’ll have found somewhere to stay.’
‘Of course! I don’t know how my brother-in-law described our part of the world to you. Having moved to Paris, he probably thinks of Saint-Aubin as a hamlet these days. But it’s almost a small town, dear sir. You haven’t seen any of it because the centre is quite a distance from the station, in the other direction. There are two first-rate inns, the Lion d’Or, run by Father Taponnier, old François as everyone calls him, and, directly opposite, the Hôtel des Trois Mules … Look, we’re almost there … That light you see … Yes … That’s our humble abode …’
It was obvious just from his tone that it was going to be an imposing house, and indeed it was, vast and stocky, with four windows lit up on the ground floor and an electric light shining like a star in the middle of the façade to light the way for arrivals.
Judging from the warm, fragrant aroma that filled the air, there was a huge farmyard, flanked by stables at the back of the house. A stable boy was already rushing to the horse’s head, the front door was opening, a maid was coming forward to take the guest’s luggage.
‘And here we are! You see, it’s not far. When the house was built, unfortunately no one anticipated that one day the railway would run almost directly under our windows. Of course, one gets used to it, especially as the service is so infrequent, but … Do come in … Take off your coat …’
At that very second, Maigret thought, ‘He has talked the whole time.’
And then he couldn’t think for a moment because his mind was whirring with too many thoughts and a new atmosphere was enfolding him ever more tightly in its embrace.
The passageway was broad, with grey flagstones and walls panelled to head height in dark wood. The hall light was encased in a coloured glass lantern. A broad oak staircase with a red carpet and heavy, well-waxed banisters led upstairs. The whole house, in fact, was permeated with a rich smell of wax, of food on the simmer, and a hint of something else, something bittersweet that struck Maigret as the smell of the countryside.
What was most remarkable was the sense of peace, a peace that seemed eternal. It felt as if the furniture and all the objects in that house had been in their appointed place for generations, as if the occupants themselves in their daily round observed meticulous rituals designed to ward off unexpected.
‘Do you want to go up to your room for a moment before dinner? It’s just a family home. We won’t stand on ceremony.’
The master of the house pushed open a door, and two people rose simultaneously to their feet in a snug, hushed drawing room.
‘May I introduce Detective Chief Inspector Maigret … My wife …’
She had the same self-effacing air as Examining Magistrate Bréjon, the same mannerliness that comes from a particular middle-class education, but, for a second, Maigret thought he sensed something harder, sharper in her gaze.
‘I’m so sorry my brother has put you to trouble in weather like this.’
As if the rain affected his trip in any way, or was a significant part of it!
‘May I introduce a family friend, inspector: Alban Groult-Cotelle, whom my brother-in-law no doubt mentioned to you …’
Had the examining magistrate mentioned him? Perhaps he had. Maigret had been so preoccupied with the ridged green lampshade.
‘Delighted to meet you, inspector. I am a great admirer of yours …’
Maigret felt like replying, ‘I’m not,’ as he detested people of Groult-Cotelle’s sort.
‘Will you help us to the port, Louise?’
The bottle and glasses were laid out on a coffee table. Low, diffused lighting. Few clear-cut lines, none at all, even. Antique armchairs, most of them upholstered in tapestry. Carpets in neutral or faded colours. A log fire in the fireplace and, in front, a cat, stretching itself.
‘Do sit down … Groult-Cotelle has dropped in for a neighbourly dinner …’
The latter gave an affected bow each time his name was pronounced, like a grandee who, in the company of simple folk, archly makes a point of being as formal as in high society.
‘The family is so kind as to keep a regular place for me at their table, old recluse that I am …’
Recluse, yes, and no doubt a bachelor into the bargain. Heaven knows why you could tell, but you could. A pretentious, ineffectual character, full of quirks and eccentricities and heartily pleased to be so too.
It must have irked him not to be a count or marquis, or even have a ‘de’ in front of his name, but at least he had his mannered Christian name, Alban, which he loved to hear on people’s lips, followed by that surname with its double barrels and hyphen.
In his forties, he was tall and slim, a combination he no doubt thought made him look aristocratic. Sprucely turned out, he nonetheless had a dusty air, which, like his dull skin and already receding hairline, struck Maigret as a sign he wasn’t married He wore elegant clothes in distinctive shades that seemed as if they had never been new, but equally, as if they would never grow old or wear out either, the sort of clothes that form an integral part of a person’s character and are worn religiously like a uniform. From then on, Maigret would always see him in the same greenish, regulation country gentleman’s jacket, with the same horseshoe tiepin on a white cotton piqué tie.
‘Your journey wasn’t too tiring, inspector?’ asked Louise Bréjon, handing him a glass of port.
Ensconced in an armchair, which the lady of the house must have been worried would give way beneath him, Maigret didn’t reply immediately. He was being assailed by such an array of sensations that he felt a little dazed and, for part of the evening at least, can’t have made a very brilliant impression on his hosts.
There was the house first of all, this house that was the living image of the one he had so often seen in his dreams, with its reassuring walls, which made the air feel as dense as solid matter. The framed portraits reminded him of the examining magistrate’s rambling account of the Nauds, Bréjons and La Noues – the Bréjons being related to the La Noues on their mother’s side – and he would have happily claimed ancestry with all those solemn, slightly stiff figures.
The smells of cooking heralded an exquisite dinner, the chink of porcelain and crystal evoked a table being meticulously laid next door in the dining room. He imagined the groom rubbing down the mare in the stable, as two long rows of reddish-brown cows chewed the cud in the barn.
Everything radiated the peace of the Good Lord, order and virtue, as well as all the little mannerisms, all the charming little idiosyncrasies of simple families who lead c
loistered lives.
Tall and broad-shouldered, with a ruddy complexion and prominent eyes, Étienne Naud met his gaze with complete candour, as if to say:
‘You see what I’m like! … Straight as a die … Not an unkind bone in my body …’
The gentle giant. The good boss. The attentive father. The man who called out from his cart, ‘Evening, Pierre … Evening, Fabien …’
His wife smiled timidly in the strapping fellow’s shadow, as if apologizing for all the space he took up.
‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment, inspector …’
Of course. He had been expecting as much. The impeccable hostess who casts a final eye over the preparations for dinner.
Even Alban Groult Cotelle was true to type, the more refined, better-bred, more intelligent friend. He looked as if he had stepped out of an engraving, the old friend of the family with his slightly condescending ways.
‘You see,’ the look in his eyes seemed to say, ‘these are decent people, ideal neighbours … You shouldn’t try to have a conversation about philosophy with them but, apart from that, you’ll be very well looked after, and you’ll find their Burgundy is the genuine article and their brandy deserving of the highest praise …’
‘Dinner is served …’
‘If you’d like to sit on my right, inspector …’
Weren’t there any sign of anxiety, though? After all, Examining Magistrate Bréjon had clearly been concerned when he summoned Maigret to his office.
‘You can understand,’ he had insisted, ‘I know my brother-in-law, just as I know my sister and my niece. Besides, you will see them for yourself. Yet this vicious accusation is gaining so much ground by the day that the public prosecutor’s department is having to investigate … My father has been a notary for forty years in Saint-Aubin, and he took over from his father. They’ll show you the family house in the middle of town … I can’t understand how such blind hatred could have sprung up so suddenly, how it can keep on spreading, threatening to ruin innocent people’s lives … My sister has never had a strong constitution. She’s a highly strung person who has trouble sleeping and takes the least setback very hard …’
Signed, Picpus Page 14