The Yellow Dog (16 page)

‘Emma is there in the café. Maybe they'll suspect her instead …

‘I'd like to talk to you a little more about fear, because that's what underlies this whole business. Michoux is afraid. Michoux is more obsessed with conquering his fear than with conquering his enemy.

‘He knows Léon Le Glérec. He knows that the man won't be stopped without a struggle. He's counting on a bullet fired by the police or by some terrified townsman to take care of that problem.

‘He stays put … I bring the wounded dog, barely alive, into the hotel. I want to see if the vagrant will come to get him, and he does. We've never seen the dog since, and that probably means he's dead.'

There was a small catch in Léon's throat. ‘Yes.'

‘Did you bury him?'

‘On Cabélou. There's a little cross, made of two fir branches.'

‘The police find Léon Le Glérec. He breaks away, because his one goal is to incite Michoux to attack him. He's said it:
he wants to see him in prison
 … My job is to prevent any further harm, and that's why I
arrest Michoux, even though I tell him that my purpose is to protect him. It's not a lie. But, by the same move, I keep Michoux from committing other crimes. He's reached the point of being capable of anything. He feels threatened from all sides.

‘Nonetheless, he's still capable of doing his little act, talking to me about his poor health, blaming his panic on some mystical idea about a fortune-teller years back – a story he invented out of whole cloth.

‘What he needs desperately is for the public to decide to slaughter his enemy.

‘He knows that he could quite logically be suspected of everything that's happened up till then. Alone in his cell, he racks his brain. Isn't there some way of turning those suspicions around once and for all? For instance, if
some new crime were to occur while he's under lock and key, that would provide him with the most wonderful alibi for everything, by implication.

‘His mother comes to see him. She knows the whole story. She's got to stay clear of suspicion, of investigation. But she's got to save him! …

‘She dines at the mayor's. She gets herself driven home after dinner and leaves her light burning for the next few hours. Meanwhile, she returns to town on foot. Is everyone asleep? Everyone except those in the Admiral café. All she has
to do is wait, at some street corner, for someone
to leave the café. Then aim at his leg, to be sure he doesn't chase her.

‘That crime, that completely gratuitous crime, would be the worst of the charges against Michoux, if we didn't already have others. The next morning, when I get here, he's feverish. He doesn't know that Goyard is under
arrest in Paris. Most important, he doesn't know that at the very moment the shot hit the customs guard, I had the vagrant under my very eyes.

‘For, with the police after him, Léon had stayed right in the same neighbourhood where they'd lost him. He was anxious to finish his business, so he didn't want to get too far from Michoux.

‘He goes to sleep in a room in the vacant building. From her window, Emma sees him. And she goes over to join him. She swears that she's not guilty, that she never meant to help Michoux. She throws herself down, clings to his
knees …

‘This is the first time he's seen her face to face, heard the sound of her voice again … She's been with another man, a few others.

‘But there isn't much he hasn't been through, himself. His heart melts. He seizes her in a brutal grip, as if to crush her, but then, instead, his lips crush hers.

‘He is no longer all alone, the man with nothing to live for but a single goal, a single idea. Through her tears, she speaks to him – about a chance for happiness, a life they might begin again …

‘And they leave together, without a sou, into the night. They'll go anywhere; it doesn't matter! … They leave Michoux to his terrors.

‘They'll try to be happy somewhere …'

Maigret fills his pipe, slowly, looking at each person in the room, one after the other.

‘You'll excuse me,
Monsieur le Maire
, for not letting you know what I was up to. But when I arrived here, I felt sure the drama had just begun … To figure out its pattern, I had to let it develop, heading off further
damage as best I could … Le Pommeret is dead, murdered by his accomplice. But from what I know of him, I'm convinced he would have killed himself the moment he was arrested. A customs guard was shot in the leg; in a week, it won't even show. On the other hand, I can now
sign a new arrest warrant for Ernest Michoux, for attempted murder and assault on the person of Monsieur Mostaguen, and for the wilful poisoning of his friend Le Pommeret. Here's another warrant, against Madame Michoux, for last night's assault … As to Jean Goyard, called
Servières, I don't believe he can be cited for anything more than obstruction of justice with that hoax he set up.'

That was the only comic moment. The plump journalist heaved a sigh, an elated sigh. Then he had the nerve to babble: ‘In that case, I presume I can be released on bail? I'm prepared to put up 50,000 francs.'

‘The public prosecutor will determine that, Monsieur Goyard.'

Madame Michoux had collapsed in her chair, but her son was more resilient.

‘You have anything to add?' Maigret asked him.

‘I will answer only in the presence of my lawyer. Meanwhile, I formally protest the legality of this proceeding.'

And he stretched out his neck, a thin chicken neck with a prominent, sallow Adam's apple. His nose looked more crooked than ever. He was gripping his notepad.

‘And those two?' murmured the mayor as he rose.

‘I have absolutely no charge against them. Léon Le Glérec has stated that his goal was to provoke Michoux to shoot him. To that end, he did nothing but put himself in the man's path. There's no law against—'

‘Except vagrancy,' put in the police lieutenant.

But Maigret shrugged in a way that made the man blush at his own suggestion.

Lunchtime was long past, but there was still a crowd outside. So the mayor agreed to lend his car, which had curtains that could be sealed tight shut.

Emma climbed in first, then Léon Le Glérec and, last, Maigret, who sat on the rear seat with the young woman, leaving the sailor to arrange himself awkwardly on the jump seat.

They cut quickly through the crowd. A few minutes later, they were on the road to Quimperlé. Uncomfortable and averting his gaze, Léon asked Maigret, ‘Why did you say that?'

‘What?'

‘That you're the one who put the poison in the bottle?'

Emma was very pale. She didn't dare lean back against the cushions; it was doubtless the first time in her life that she had ridden in a limousine.

‘It just came to me!' muttered Maigret, clamping his pipe stem in his teeth.

Then the girl cried out in distress:

‘I swear to you, inspector, I didn't know what I was doing any more! Michoux made me write that letter. I'd finally recognized the dog. And on Sunday morning I saw Léon lurking around … Then I understood. I
tried to talk to him, but he walked off without looking at me, and he spat on the ground … I wanted to get revenge for his sake … I wanted … oh, I don't even know! I was nearly crazy. I knew they were trying to kill
him … I still loved him … I spent the whole day turning over ideas in my head. At noon, before lunch, I ran over to Michoux's house to get the poison. I didn't know which one to pick … He showed them to me once, and said there was enough there to kill
everyone in Concarneau …

‘But I swear I would never have let you drink … At least, I don't think so.'

She was sobbing. Léon awkwardly patted her knee to calm her.

‘I can never thank you, inspector,' she said through her sobs. ‘What you've done is … is … I can't think of the word … It's so wonderful!'

Maigret looked at each of them, at him with his split lip, his cropped hair and his face of a beast trying to become human; at her with her poor little face faded white from living in that aquarium, the Admiral café.

‘What are you going to do?'

‘We don't know yet … Leave this place. Maybe head for Le Havre … I managed to earn a living on the New York docks …'

‘Did anyone give you your twelve francs back?'

Léon flushed but did not answer.

‘What's the train fare to Le Havre?'

‘No! Don't do that, inspector. Because then … we couldn't … You see what I mean?'

They were passing a small railway station. Maigret tapped on the glass separating them from the driver.
Drawing two hundred-franc notes from his pocket, he said: ‘Take this. I'll put it on my
expense account.'

He practically pushed them out of the car and closed the door while they were still looking for words to thank him.

‘Back to Concarneau. Fast!'

Alone in the car, he shrugged his shoulders three times, like a man with a strong urge to make fun of himself.

The trial lasted a year. During that whole year, as often as five times a week, Dr Michoux went to see the examining magistrate, carrying a morocco briefcase crammed with documents.

At each court session he argued over something else. Every item in the dossier set off new controversies, investigations and counter-investigations.

Michoux grew steadily thinner, yellower, sicklier, but he never gave up.

‘I'm sure you'll allow a man with only three months to live …'

That was his favourite expression. He fought every inch of the way, with underhanded manoeuvres, unpredictable responses. And he had found a lawyer even nastier to back him up.

Sentenced to twenty years' hard labour by the Finistère Criminal Court, he spent six months trying to appeal his case to the higher court.

But a month ago, a photograph printed in all the newspapers showed him, still skinny and yellow, with his crooked nose, a bag on his back and a forage cap on his head, embarking from the Ile de Ré on the
Martinière
, which was carrying 180
convicts to Devil's Island.

Madame Michoux served her three-month sentence in prison and is in Paris pulling strings in political circles. She hopes to get her son's case reheard.

Léon Le Glérec fishes for herring in the North Sea, aboard the
Francette
, and his wife is expecting a baby.

Detective Chief Inspector Maigret was sitting with his elbows on the desk, and when he pushed his chair back with a tired sigh, the interrogation of Carl Andersen had been going on for exactly seventeen hours.

Through the bare windows he had observed at first the throng of salesgirls and office workers storming the little restaurants of Place Saint-Michel at noon, then the afternoon lull, the mad six o'clock rush to the Métro and train stations, the relaxed pace of the aperitif hour …

The Seine was now shrouded in mist. One last tug had gone past with red and green lights, towing three barges. Last bus. Last Métro. At the cinema they'd taken in the film-poster sandwich boards and were closing the metal gates.

And the stove in Maigret's office seemed to growl all the louder. On the table, empty beer bottles and the remains of some sandwiches.

A fire must have broken out somewhere: they heard the racket of fire engines speeding by. And there was a raid, too. The Black Maria emerged from the Préfecture at around two o'clock, returning later to drop off its catch at the central lock-up.

The interrogation was still going on. Every hour – or every two hours, depending on how tired he was – Maigret would push a button. Sergeant Lucas would awaken from his nap in a nearby office and arrive to take over, glancing briefly at his boss's notes. Maigret would then go and stretch out on a cot to recharge his batteries for a fresh attack.

The Préfecture was deserted. A few comings and goings at the Vice Squad. Towards four in the morning, an inspector hauled in a drug pusher and immediately began grilling him.