The Grand Banks Café (5 page)

And then that peace was shattered.
Another woman burst on to the scene. Captain Fallut went to Le Havre frequently,
took more care of his appearance, shaved more closely, even bought silk socks and
hid it all from his landlady.

Still, he wasn't married, he had made no promises.
He was free and yet he had never appeared once in public in Fécamp with his unknown
woman.

Was it the grand passion, his belated
big adventure? Or just a sordid affair?

Maigret reached the beach, saw his wife
sitting in a red-striped deckchair and, just by her, Marie Léonnec, who was
sewing.

There were a few bathers on the shingle,
which gleamed white in the sun. A drowsy sea. And further on, on the other side of
the jetty, the
Océan
at her berth, and the cargo of cod that was still
being unloaded, and the resentful sailors exchanging veiled comments.

He kissed Madame Maigret on the
forehead. He nodded politely to the girl and replied to her questioning look:

‘Nothing special.'

His wife said in a level voice:

‘Mademoiselle Léonnec has been
telling me her story. Do you think that her young man is capable of doing such a
thing?'

They walked slowly towards the hotel.
Maigret carried both deckchairs. They were about to sit down to lunch when a
uniformed policeman arrived, looking for the inspector.

‘I was told to show you this, sir.
It came an hour ago.'

And he held out a brown envelope, which
had been already opened. There was no address on it. Inside was a sheet of paper. On
it, in a tiny, thin, cramped hand, was written:

No one should be accused of bringing about my death,
and no attempt should be made to understand my action.

These are my last wishes. I
leave all my worldly goods to Madame Bernard, who has always been kind to me, on
the condition that she sends my gold chronometer to my nephew, who is known to
her, and that she sees to it that I am buried in Fécamp cemetery, near my
mother.

Maigret opened his eyes wide.

‘It's signed Octave
Fallut!' he said in a whisper. ‘How did this letter get to the police
station?'

‘Nobody knows, sir. It was in the
letterbox. It seems that it's his handwriting right enough. The chief
inspector informed the public prosecutor's department immediately.'

‘Despite the fact that he was
strangled! And that it is impossible to strangle yourself!' muttered
Maigret.

Close by, guests who had ordered the set
menu were complaining loudly about some pink radishes in a hors d'oeuvres
dish.

‘Wait a moment while I copy this
letter. I imagine you have to take it back with you?'

‘I wasn't given any special
instructions but I suppose so.'

‘Quite right. It must be put in
the file.'

A moment or two later, Maigret, holding
the copy in his hand, looked impatiently round the dining room, where he was about
to waste an hour waiting for each course to arrive. All this time, Marie Léonnec had
not taken her eyes off him but had not dared interrupt his grim reflections. Only
Madame Maigret reacted, with a sigh, at the sight of pale cutlets.

‘We'd have been better off going to
Alsace.'

Maigret stood up before the dessert
arrived and wiped his mouth, eager to get back to the trawler, the harbour, the
fishermen. All the way there, he kept muttering:

‘Fallut knew he was going to die!
But did he know he would be killed? Was he trying in advance to save his
killer's neck? Or was it just that he intended to commit suicide? Then again,
who dropped the brown envelope in the station's postbox? There was no stamp on
it, no address.'

The news had already got out, for when
Maigret had nearly reached the trawler, the head of French Cod called out to him
with aggressive sarcasm:

‘So, it seems Fallut strangled
himself! Who came up with that bright idea?'

‘If you've got something to
say, you can tell me which of the
Océan
's officers are still on
board.'

‘None of them. The first mate has
gone on the spree to Paris. The chief mechanic is at home, at Yport and won't
be back until they've finished unloading.'

Maigret again looked round the
captain's quarters. A narrow cabin. A bed with a dirty quilt over it. A
clothes press built into the bulkhead. A blue enamel coffee-pot on an
oilcloth-covered table. In a corner, a pair of boots with wooden soles.

It was dark and clammy and permeated
with the same acrid smell which filled the rest of the ship. Blue-striped knitted
pullovers were drying on deck. Maigret nearly lost his footing as he walked across
the gangway, which was slippery with the remains of fish.

‘Find anything?'

The inspector gave a shrug, took yet another gloomy look
at the
Océan
, then asked a customs officer how he could get to Yport.

Yport is a village built under the
cliffs six kilometres from Fécamp. A handful of fishermen's cottages. The odd
farm round about. A few villas, most let furnished during the summer season, and one
hotel.

On the beach, another collection of
bathing costumes, small children and mothers busily knitting and embroidering.

‘Could you tell me where Monsieur
Laberge lives?'

‘The chief mechanic on the
Océan
or the farmer?'

‘The mechanic.'

He was directed to a small house with a
small garden round it. As he came up to the front door, which was painted green, he
heard the sound of an argument coming from inside. Two voices: a man's and a
woman's. But he could not make out what they were saying. He knocked.

It all went quiet. Footsteps approached.
The door opened and a tall, rangy man appeared looking suspicious and cross.

‘What is it?'

A woman in housekeeping clothes was
quickly tidying her dishevelled hair.

‘I'm from the Police
Judiciaire and I'd like to ask you a few questions.'

‘You'd better come
in.'

A little boy was crying, and his father
pushed him roughly into the adjoining room, in which Maigret caught sight of the
foot of a bed.

‘You can leave us to it!' Laberge snapped at
his wife.

Her eyes were red with crying too. The
argument must have started in the middle of their meal, for their plates were still
half full.

‘What do you want to
know?'

‘When did you last go to
Fécamp?'

‘This morning. I went on my bike.
It's no fun having to listen to the wife going on all day. You spend months at
sea, working your guts out, and when you get back …'

He was still angry. However, his breath
smelled strongly of alcohol.

‘Women! They're all the
same! Jealous don't say the half of it! They imagine a man's got nothing
else on his mind except running after skirts. Listen to her! That's her giving
the kid a hiding, taking it out on him!'

The child could be heard yelling in the
next room, and the mother's voice getting louder.

‘Stop that row, you hear! … Just
stop it!'

Judging by the sounds, the words were
accompanied by slaps and thumps, for the crying started up again, with interest.

‘Ah! What a life!'

‘Had Captain Fallut told you he
was worried about anything in particular?'

Laberge scowled at Maigret, then moved
his chair.

‘Who made you think he
had?'

‘You'd been sailing with him
for a long time, hadn't you?'

‘Five years.'

‘On board you took your meals
together.'

‘Except this last time! He got the
idea that he wanted
to eat alone, in his
cabin … But I'd rather not talk any more about that damned trip!'

‘Where were you when the crime was
committed?'

‘In the café, with the others …
They must have told you.'

‘Do you think the wireless
operator had any reason for attacking the captain?'

Suddenly, Laberge lost his temper.

‘Where are all these questions
leading? What do you want me to say? Look, it wasn't my job to keep everybody
in order, was it? I'm fed up to the back teeth, fed up with this business and
all the rest of it! So fed up that I'm wondering if I'm going to sign up
for the next tour!'

‘Obviously the last one
wasn't exactly a roaring success.'

Another sharp glance at Maigret.

‘What are you getting
at?'

‘Just that everything went wrong!
A ship's boy was killed. There were more accidents than usual. The fishing
wasn't good, and when the cod arrived back in Fécamp it was off …'

‘Was that my fault?'

‘I'm not saying that. I
merely ask if in the events at which you were present there was anything that might
explain the captain's death. He was an easy-going sort, led a quiet life
…'

The mechanic smiled mockingly but said
nothing.

‘Do you know anything about him
that says otherwise?'

‘Look, I told you I don't
know anything, that I've had enough of the whole business! Is everybody trying
to drive me crazy? … What more do you want now?'

He had it in most for his wife. She had
just come back
into the room and was
hurrying to the stove, where a saucepan was giving off a smell of burning.

She was about thirty-five. She
wasn't pretty and she wasn't ugly.

‘I'll only be a
minute,' she said meekly. ‘It's the dog's dinner
…'

‘Get on with it, woman! …
Haven't you finished yet?'

And turning to Maigret:

‘Shall I give you a piece of good
advice? Let it alone! Fallut is well off where he is! The less said about him, the
better it'll be! Now listen: I don't know anything. You can ask me
questions all day, and I wouldn't have anything else to say … Did you get the
train here? If you don't catch the one that leaves in ten minutes,
you'll not get another until eight this evening.'

He had opened the door. Sunshine flooded
into the room.

When he got to the doorway, the
inspector asked quietly: ‘Who is your wife jealous of?'

The man gritted his teeth and did not
speak.

‘Do you know who this
is?'

Maigret held out the photo with the head
obscured by the red scribble. But he kept his thumb over the face. All that was
visible was the cleavage in the silk dress.

Laberge glanced up at him quickly and
tried to grab the picture.

‘Do you recognize her?'

‘Why should I recognize
her?'

His hand was still open when Maigret put
the photograph back in his pocket.

‘Will you be coming to Fécamp tomorrow?'

‘I don't know … Will you be
needing me?'

‘No. I was just asking. Thanks for
the information you gave me.'

‘But I didn't tell you
anything!'

Maigret had not gone ten paces from the
door when it was kicked shut and voices were raised inside the house, where the
argument would now start up again, even more acrimoniously.

The chief mechanic was right: there
were no trains to Fécamp until eight in the evening, and Maigret, having time on his
hands, was inevitably drawn to the beach, where he sat down on the terrace of a
hotel.

There was the usual holiday atmosphere:
red sun umbrellas, white dresses, white trousers and a group of sightseers clustered
around a fishing boat that was being winched up on to the pebble beach with a
capstan.

To right and left, light-coloured
cliffs. Straight ahead, the sea, pale green with white combers, and the regular
murmur of wavelets lapping the shoreline.

‘A beer!'

The sun was hot. A family were eating
ice-creams on the next table. A young man was taking photos with a Kodak, and
somewhere there were the shrill voices of little girls.

Maigret allowed his eyes to wander over
the view. His thoughts grew hazy, and his brain sluggishly started weaving a
daydream around Captain Fallut, who became increasingly insubstantial.

‘Thanks a million!'

The words went round and round in his
head, not on account of their meaning, but because they had been pronounced curtly,
with biting sarcasm, by a woman somewhere behind the inspector.

‘But Adèle, I told you
…'

‘Shut up!'

‘You're not going to start
all that again …'

‘I'll do exactly as I
please!'

It was obviously a good day for
arguments. First thing that morning, Maigret had encountered a man who bristled: the
head man from French Cod.

At Yport, there had been that domestic
scene between the Laberges. And now on the hotel terrace an unknown couple were
exchanging heated words.

‘Why don't you stop and
think!'

‘Get lost!'

‘Do you think it's clever to
talk like that?'

‘Damn and blast you! Haven't
you got the message yet? … Waiter, this lemonade is warm. Get me another!'

The accent was common, and the woman was
speaking more loudly than was necessary.

‘But you must make up your
mind!' the man said.

‘Just go by yourself! I told you!
And leave me alone.'

‘You know, what you're doing
is pretty shabby.'

‘So are you!'

‘Me? You dare … Listen, if we
weren't here, I don't think I'd be able to keep control of
myself!'

She laughed. Much too loudly.

‘You tell a girl the nicest
things!'

‘Be quiet! Please!'

‘Why should I?'

‘Because!'

‘Now that really is a clever
answer, I must say!'

‘Are you going to shut
up?'