The Yellow Dog (12 page)

‘Even you.'

These last words were spoken casually as Maigret leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs towards the fire. The mayor gave the merest start. ‘I hope that's just a little retaliation …'

Then Maigret stood up suddenly, knocked out his pipe on the hearth and declared, as he walked up and down:

‘Not at all! You wanted answers? Well, there you are. I just wanted to show you that a case like this is no simple little police operation that can be handled by making a few telephone calls from an armchair … And I will add,
Monsieur le Maire
, with all due respect, that when I take charge of an investigation, I insist above all, dammit, on being
left
alone
!'

That came out with no premeditation. It had been incubating for days. Perhaps to calm down, Maigret took a swallow of whisky and looked at the door like a man who has said what he has to say and is waiting for permission to leave.

The mayor was silent for a few minutes, contemplating the white ash of his cigar. Finally, he let it fall into a blue porcelain bowl and rose slowly, his eyes seeking Maigret's.

‘Listen, chief inspector …'

He must have been weighing his words, for they were separated by pauses.

‘I may have been wrong, in the course of our brief connection, to show some impatience …'

This was rather unexpected – especially in this setting,
where the man seemed more aristocratic than ever, with his white hair, his silk-trimmed smoking jacket, his sharply creased grey trousers.

‘I am beginning to appreciate your true worth. In these few minutes, by means of a simple summary of the facts, you've made me understand the terrible mystery of this business. It's more complex than I ever suspected. I confess
your inertia in the matter of the vagrant did dispose me against you.' He approached the inspector and touched his shoulder. ‘I ask you not to hold it against me … I have some heavy responsibilities myself.'

It would have been impossible to guess Maigret's thoughts as his thick fingers packed his pipe from a worn tobacco pouch. Through a large window, his gaze wandered over the vast ocean horizon.

‘What's that light?' he asked suddenly.

‘The beacon.'

‘No, I mean that small light to the right.'

‘That's Dr Michoux's house.'

‘The servant's back, then?'

‘No. It's Madame Michoux, the doctor's mother. She came back this afternoon.'

‘You've seen her?'

Maigret thought he sensed some discomfort in his host.

‘Well, she was surprised not to find her son at home. She came by to ask. I told her about the arrest, explaining that it was mainly a protective measure … Because that's what it is, isn't it? She asked my authorization
to visit him … At the hotel, no one knew where you were. So I took it on myself to permit the visit.

‘Madame Michoux came back shortly before dinner to ask for the latest news. My wife invited her to eat with us.'

‘They're friends?'

‘In a manner of speaking. Good neighbours is more accurate. In the winter, there are very few people in Concarneau.'

Maigret resumed his stroll across the library. ‘So the three of you ate together?'

‘Yes. That often happens … I reassured Madame Michoux as best I could. She was quite upset by the business of the police barracks … She had a difficult time raising her son; his health has never been very good.'

‘Did you discuss Le Pommeret and Jean Servières?'

‘She never liked Le Pommeret. She claimed he led her son to drink. The fact is that—'

‘And Servières?'

‘She didn't know him as well. He didn't move in her circle. An unimportant newspaperman, a café acquaintance – merely an amusing fellow. One couldn't, for example, receive his wife, a woman whose past is not entirely above
reproach … That's small-town life, chief inspector! You've got to resign yourself to these distinctions. They partly explain my own short temper. You don't know what it is to manage a community of fishermen and at the same time watch out for the sensibilities of the
gentry – and of some middle-class elements besides—'

‘What time did Madame Michoux leave here?'

‘About ten. My wife drove her back in the car.'

‘That light means that Madame Michoux hasn't gone to bed yet.'

‘That's usual for her … For me as well. At a certain age, we need less sleep. Very late at night I'm still in here reading, or looking over files—'

‘Are the Michoux doing well with their business?'

Uneasiness showed again, though barely perceptible.

‘Not yet … It will take time for the White Sands project to begin producing a profit. But, given Madame Michoux's connections in Paris, that shouldn't be long. A number of plots have been sold already, and construction
will start again in the spring. On this recent trip, she practically persuaded a certain banker whose name I can't mention to build a magnificent house on the bluff …'

‘One more question,
Monsieur le Maire
: who used to own the land they're developing?'

His companion did not hesitate. ‘I did. It belonged to my family, as did this house. There was nothing there but heather and broom when the Michouxs got the idea—'

Just then the distant light went out.

‘Another whisky, chief inspector? … Of course, I'll have my chauffeur drive you back.'

‘You're very kind. But I love to walk, especially when I have things to think over.'

‘What do you make of this business of the yellow dog? I confess that that may be what upsets me most – that and the poisoned Pernod! Because actually—'

But Maigret was looking around for his hat and coat.

The mayor had no choice but to press the buzzer. ‘The chief inspector's things, Delphin.'

The silence was so complete that they could hear the muffled, rhythmic sound of the surf on the rocks below the villa.

‘You're sure you don't want my car?'

‘Quite sure.'

Wisps of discomfiture hung in the air like the wisps of tobacco smoke coiling about the lamps.

‘I wonder what the mood will be in town tomorrow. If
the sea is calm, at least we won't have the fishermen on the streets. They'll leap at the chance to set out their lobster
pots.'

Maigret took his coat from the butler and put out his big hand. The mayor still had questions, but he was reluctant to ask them in the butler's presence.

‘How much longer do you think—'

The clock struck one in the morning. ‘I hope it will all be cleared up by tomorrow night.'

‘So soon? Despite what you told me earlier? Then you must be counting on Goyard? … Unless—'

He was too late. Maigret had started down the stairs. The mayor searched for some last words, but nothing came to mind that expressed his feeling. ‘I'm uncomfortable letting you go back on foot – along those roads—'

The door closed. Maigret was on his way, under a fine sky with heavy clouds that raced one another across the moon. The air was sharp. The wind, from off the water, brought the smell of the seaweed strewn in dark masses on the beach.

The inspector walked slowly, his hands in his pockets, his pipe between his teeth. Looking back, he saw the lights go out in the mayor's library, then others going on behind upstairs curtains.

He did not take the road through town, but followed the shore, as the customs guard had, and stopped for a moment at the corner where the man had been shot. All was calm. Street lamps shone here and there into the distance. Concarneau was
asleep.

When he reached the square, he saw that the café windows were still shining, violating the nocturnal peace with their poisonous halo. He pushed the door open. A reporter was dictating over the phone.

‘… By now no one knows whom to suspect. In the streets, people look anxiously at one another. Could this be the killer? Or maybe that one over there? The cloud of mystery and fear has never been
so thick …'

The proprietor himself stood gloomily at the till. The moment he caught sight of the inspector, he made a move to approach and speak. It was easy enough to guess his complaints.

The café was a shambles, with newspapers and empty glasses on the tables. A photographer was busy drying prints on the radiator.

Leroy walked over to his chief. ‘That's Madame Goyard,' he said in an undertone, pointing to a plump woman collapsed on a banquette.

She rose, wiping her eyes.

‘Tell me, inspector, is it true? … I don't know who to believe any more. They say Jean is alive. But it's impossible – isn't it? – that he would trick us like that. He wouldn't have done that to me. He would
never put me through such worry … I feel as though I'm going mad! – Why would he have gone to Paris? Tell me! … And without me!'

She wept – the way certain women can weep, with great floods of tears pouring down her cheeks, flowing to her chin, while one hand pressed against her plump bosom. She looked for her handkerchief.

‘I swear it can't be true!' she insisted. ‘I know he ran around a little … but he would never do anything like this. Whenever he came home, he asked me to forgive him … They're saying' – she
pointed to the reporters – ‘they're saying he put the bloodstains in the car himself, to make it look like murder. But that would mean he never meant to come back! And I know better. I'm sure he would
have … He never would
have gone gallivanting if the others hadn't dragged him along – Monsieur Le Pommeret, the doctor … and the mayor too! That whole bunch, who never even greet me in the street, because I'm not good enough for them …

‘Someone said he's been arrested … I don't believe it. What harm did he ever do? He earned enough for the kind of life we led. We were happy, even if he did treat himself to a fling once in a while …'

Maigret looked at her and sighed. Then he picked up a glass from a table, swallowed the contents straight down and murmured, ‘You'll have to excuse me, madame. I've got to get some sleep.'

‘Do you believe it too – that he's done something wrong?'

‘I never believe anything. You should do the same, madame. Tomorrow is another day.'

And as he climbed the stairs heavily, the reporter at the phone turned Maigret's parting words to his own account:

‘According to the latest word, Chief Inspector Maigret expects to clear up the mystery by tomorrow.'

His tone changed as he finished. ‘That's all, mademoiselle. Now be sure to tell the boss not to change one line of my story. He couldn't understand … he'd have to be on the scene …'

Hanging up, he shoved his notes into his pocket and called to the proprietor, ‘Give me a toddy! Lots of rum and just a splash of hot water.'

Meanwhile, Madame Goyard accepted a reporter's offer to drive her back to her house. On the way she began again: ‘He did run around a little … but you know how it is, monsieur! All men do that!'

Maigret was in such good spirits in the morning that Leroy felt free to follow him around, chattering and even asking some questions.

In fact, everyone was more relaxed, though it would be hard to say why. It may have been the weather, which had suddenly turned fine. The sky looked freshly laundered. It was blue, a rather pale but vibrant blue, glistening with light clouds. It
made the horizon bigger, as if the celestial bowl were hollowed out. The sea sparkled, utterly flat and studded with tiny sails that looked like flags pinned to a military map.

It takes but a single sunbeam to transform Concarneau. Then the Old Town's walls, so gloomy in the rain, turn a joyful, dazzling white.

Exhausted by the comings and goings of the past three days, the reporters sat downstairs, telling each other stories over coffee; one of them had come down in his dressing gown and slippers.

Meanwhile, Maigret had gone into Emma's attic room. The roof sloped, so a person could stand up straight in only half the space. The gable window, which looked over the alleyway, was open. The air was cool, but you could feel the caress of
the sun. Across the way, a woman had taken the opportunity to hang her laundry out of her window. The noise of children came up from a school playground somewhere nearby.

Leroy, sitting on the edge of the little iron bed, remarked, ‘I still don't quite understand your methods, inspector, but I think I'm beginning to see …'

Maigret gave him an amused glance and sent a large cloud of smoke out into the sunshine. ‘You're lucky, my friend! Especially in this case, in which my method has actually been not to have one … I'll give you some good
advice: if you're interested in getting ahead, don't take me for a model, or invent any theories from what you see me doing.'

‘Still … I do notice that you're getting round to hard evidence now, after—'