42 - Maigret In Exile Page 2

  To add confusion, the watery sky was intermittently crisscrossed by beams from two or three nearby lighthouses.

  There was the murmur of flowing water, as waves drove inshore against the current of the little river, which increased their volume. Soon—at ten-fifty-one precisely, if the old woman was to be believed—it would be high tide. Against the wall of a shack a pair of lovers, oblivious of the rain, clung together, mouth to mouth, wordless, motionless.

  He made for the bridge, an immensely long wooden structure, just wide enough to take a single line of traffic. He could faintly make out the shadowy outlines of masts and fishing boats bobbing on the tide. Behind him could be seen the lights of the hotel from which he had just come, and, barely a hundred yards away, two lighted windows, the windows of the Judge’s house.

  “Is that you, Chief Superintendent?”

  He gave a start. The man was so close that he had almost bumped into him. Maigret noticed that he had a pronounced squint.

  “I’m Justin Hulot… My wife told me… I’ve been here for the past hour, in case he took it into his head…”

  The rain was cold. An icy wind was blowing in from the sea. The grating of chains could be heard. Invisible in the darkness, the nocturnal life of the waterfront was in full spate.

  “I must bring you up to date on events… At three o’clock, when I went up the ladder, the corpse was still there. At four o’clock, I decided to take one last look before it got dark… Well, I found that it was no longer there. He must have taken it downstairs. I guess he wanted it handy near the door, to save time when the opportune moment came… I can’t imagine how he’ll manage to carry it. The Judge is even smaller and skinnier than I am… Well, actually he’s about the same build and weight as my wife. The corpse, on the other hand… Shh!”

  Someone was abroad in the dark. One after another, the planks of the bridge could be heard to creak. When there was no further risk of being overheard, the customs officer went on:

  “On the other side of the bridge lies the village of La Faute… Well, you can scarcely call it a village, really, or even a hamlet. It’s just a cluster of little bungalows for renting to summer visitors. You’ll see for yourself by daylight… I’ve discovered one thing that may interest you, and that is that on the night of the bridge party Albert called to see his father… Watch out!”

  It was the lovers this time, who had moved to within earshot, and were leaning on the parapet of the bridge, gazing into the water. Maigret’s feet were frozen. Water had seeped in through the seams of his shoes. The former customs officer, he noticed, was wearing rubber boots.

  “It’s a three-foot-six tide… At six o’clock tomorrow morning, you’ll see them all going out to the mussel beds.”

  He spoke in hushed tones, as if in church. It was slightly ludicrous, and yet at the same time somehow a little creepy. Maigret could not help wondering whether he would not have felt more in his element back there in Luçon playing cards in the Café Français with his regular cronies, the proprietor, the doctor, and the owner of the hardware store, with that senile old fool Memimot watching over their shoulders and nodding and shaking his head at every card on the table.

  “My wife is keeping watch on the back door.”

  So the old woman was still an active partner.

  “You never know… He might decide to get out his car and dump the corpse farther afield.”

  The corpse! The corpse! Did any such corpse really exist?

  His third pipe… His fourth pipe… From time to time, the door of the hotel opened and shut. Distant footsteps and voices could be heard. Then the lights went out. A rowboat glided under the bridge.

  “That’ll be old Bariteau, going out to lay his eel traps. He won’t be back for at least a couple of hours.”

  How could old Bariteau possibly find his bearings on a night as dark as this? It was a mystery. One could feel the sea, very close at hand now, at the mouth of the channel. One could breathe it in. It was rising, ineluctably engulfing the outflow of the river.

  Maigret experienced a sudden aberration. He could not have explained why at this particular moment his mind should have veered toward the recent amalgamation of the Police Judiciaire and the Sûreté Générale, with its attendant disruptions which… Luçon! They had shunted him off to Lucon, where…

  “Look over there!”

  Agitated, the former customs officer gripped him by the arm.

  No, really! It was beyond belief. The thought of those two old people… Didine holding the ladder… The field glasses… The tide tables…

  “They’ve switched off the lights.”

  Well, what of it? Was it to be wondered at, at this hour, that the lights had gone out in the Judge’s house?

  Whatever he might think, Maigret was careful nevertheless to walk on tiptoe, so that the planks of the bridge would not creak. That wretched foghorn, mooing like a hoarse cow!

  The water was lapping almost at the base of the wooden shacks. His foot struck a battered lobster pot.

  “Shh!”

  And then, as they watched, the Judge’s front door swung open.

  There appeared on the threshold a spry little man, who glanced to the right and the left and then returned indoors.

  A few seconds later, that which had seemed incredible to Maigret happened. The little man reappeared, bent double this time, dragging a long bundle through the mud.

  It must have been heavy. He was barely a few feet from the house when he had to pause for breath. The front door had been left open. He had some twenty or thirty yards to go to reach the sea.

  “Heave!”

  The sound came to them as a heavy sigh. They could almost feel his muscles strained to the limit. It was still raining. Through the sleeve of his thick overcoat, Maigret could feel the convulsive clenching of the customs officer’s hand.

  “You see!”

  Yes, indeed! It had all happened exactly as the old woman had predicted, as the former customs officer had predicted. There could be no doubt as to the identity of the little man. It was Judge Forlacroix, and that bundle he was dragging through the mud was, unquestionably, the lifeless body of a man.

  * * *

  2: “Pardon me, old man… ”

  « ^ »

  The fact that the Judge was unaware of being watched gave a dreamlike quality to the scene. He believed himself to be alone in that dark, empty place. From time to time, he was momentarily touched by the beam from a lighthouse, which revealed an old raincoat, a felt hat. Maigret even caught a glimpse of a cigarette between his lips, which had been extinguished by the rain.

  They were now scarcely four feet apart. The Chief Superintendent and Didine’s husband were standing near a shed, not unlike a sentry box. They made no attempt to avoid being seen. The only reason the Judge had not spotted them was that his attention was engaged elsewhere. The Judge, poor man, was in deep trouble. The bundle he was dragging along the ground had caught in a rope, which was strung out along the quayside about ten inches above the ground. He had somehow to pull it through underneath. He set about it clumsily. It was plain to see that he was unused to heavy manual labor. He was sweating, and kept wiping his forehead with his hand.

  It was at this point that Maigret, quite without any conscious volition or plan, said simply:

  “Pardon me, old man…”

  The Judge turned his head and saw the two men, the towering figure of Maigret and the diminutive customs officer. It was too dark. It was impossible to discern the expression on his face. A few seconds went by. It seemed an eternity. Then a voice spoke, a somewhat quavering voice surely.

  “Who are you?”

  “Chief Superintendent Maigret.”

  He stepped forward, but still could not see the man’s face clearly.

  His feet were almost touching the corpse, which appeared to be wrapped in sacking. Why on earth, at such a moment, should the Judge have responded by exclaiming in a tone of astonishment, tempered by esteem:


  “Maigret of the Police Judiciaire?”

  All around them were people asleep in their houses. Old Bariteau, out there in the clamorous night, was searching for the deepest pools, in which to lay his eel traps.

  “Maybe it’s all for the best… ”

  It was the Judge speaking.

  “Would you care to come back to the house?”

  He began walking away, apparently forgetting his bundle. Everything around them was so oppressively still that they felt as if the whole scene were being enacted in slow motion.

  “Ought we not perhaps to take the body with us?” suggested the Judge, ruefully.

  And he bent down. Maigret went to his assistance. The door was not shut. The customs officer stopped on the threshold, and Forlacroix, who had not recognized him, wondered whether or not he was going in.

  “Thanks for your help, Hulot,” said Maigret. “I’ll see you in the morning. Meanwhile, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep all this to yourself. Have you a telephone, Monsieur Forlacroix?”

  “Yes, but we’re disconnected after nine o’clock.”

  “One moment, Hulot. Would you be so good as to make a call for me from the post office? The number is Luçon two three. It’s a hotel. Ask to speak to Inspector Méjat, and tell him I want him to join me here as soon as he can.”

  So! Now there were only the two of them, face to face in the hallway, the Judge having switched on the light. He removed his dripping hat and raincoat. The sense of mystery that had pervaded the night was dispelled. What he could see, now that there was light, was a slightly built little man, with neat features, his face framed by long, very silky fair hair streaked with gray, which might almost have been a wig.

  He looked down at his hands, which were filthy, and then at the bundle. Maigret saw that the body was wrapped in two coal sacks, one over the head and torso, the other over the legs. The two sacks had been clumsily sewn together with string.

  “Would you like to see him right away?”

  “Who is he?” asked Maigret.

  “I haven’t the least idea. Do please take off your coat, and follow me.”

  He wiped his hands on his handkerchief, opened a door, switched on another light, and stood waiting for Maigret to join him on the threshold of a spacious room, at the end of which was a fireplace with a crackling log fire.

  This pleasantly warm, well-lit, tastefully furnished, tidy room was the last thing Maigret was expecting to see at that moment. The ceiling was of oak beams, which made it seem lower than it was, the more so since there were two steps leading down from the doorway into the room. The floor was of white tiles, with two or three rugs scattered about. And all along the white walls were bookcases filled with books, thousands of them.

  “Take a seat, Chief Superintendent. If I remember right, you like a good fire.”

  More books on an antique table. An armchair on each side of the hearth. It was almost beyond belief that just outside the door, sewn up in a couple of coal sacks…

  “What a stroke of luck for me to have run into a man like you. Though I don’t quite see… I understood you were in Paris and…”

  “I’ve been posted to Luçon.”

  “All the better for me. If I’d had to resort to the local police, I very much doubt if I’d have been able to make myself understood… Allow me.”

  On a sixteenth-century sideboard stood a cut-glass decanter and glasses on a silver tray. They flashed and glittered magnificently under an artfully positioned spotlight. The whole atmosphere was one of serene refinement and comfort. The Judge brought the tray over to Maigret.

  “Allow me to pour you a glass of Armagnac… By the way, I almost forgot to ask… How on earth did that dreadful cross-eyed customs fellow come to be mixed up in… ?”

  And it was at this point that Maigret suddenly appreciated how matters really stood. He had a vivid picture of himself ensconced in his armchair, his legs stretched out to the fire, his glass of Armagnac cradled in the palm of his hand. It was brought home to him that it was not he who was doing the talking, asking the questions, but this self-possessed, shrewd little man who, only a few minutes earlier, had been dragging a corpse toward the sea.

  “Forgive me, Monsieur Forlacroix, but I really think you owe it to me to answer a few questions.”

  The Judge turned and looked at him, with an expression of mingled surprise and reproach in his periwinkle-blue eyes, as if to say:

  Questions? What for? I expected better things of you. Oh, well! Have it your own way.

  But, in fact, he said nothing. He merely cocked his head slightly to one side, the better to hear. He was all polite attention. Maigret recognized the mannerism as an indication that he was a little hard of hearing.

  “You assured me just now that this… this man was a stranger to you.”

  Heavens, this was awkward. It was a straightforward question, but in these delightful surroundings it seemed somehow indelicate.

  “I swear to you, I don’t know him from Adam.”

  “In that case, why… ?”

  It had to be said. Get on with it. Maigret felt like screwing up his eyes, as if he were about to swallow a bitter pill.

  “Why did you kill him?”

  He looked at the Judge, whose face once again expressed mingled surprise and reproach.

  “But I didn’t kill him, Chief Superintendent! Good heavens! Why on earth should I want to kill a total stranger, a man whom I never saw alive? I realize that it’s hard to swallow, but I feel sure that a man of your experience must see that I am telling the truth.”

  And the trouble was that Maigret was already convinced of it! This house, silent but for the crackling of logs and the distant murmur of the sea, had put a kind of spell on him.

  “With your permission, I will describe events as they occurred. A little more Armagnac? An old friend of mine, who for many years was the public prosecutor in Versailles, sends it to me from his estate in the Gers region.”

  “You yourself formerly lived in Versailles, did you not?”

  “I spent the greater part of my life there. It’s a delightful town. It still retains a flavor of the golden age of Louis XIV, and in my opinion you would have to go far to find a community more civilized, in the traditional sense of the word. Our little group…”

  He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if to banish all such nostalgic irrelevancies.

  “No matter… It was… Let me think… It was last Tuesday…”

  “Tuesday the tenth,” specified Maigret. “You were entertaining friends, I believe.”

  The Judge’s lips twitched.

  “You are well informed, I see… Hulot was with you just now. And I daresay you have also met Didine. She knows more than I do about what goes on in my house.”

  A sudden thought struck Maigret. He looked about him with a feeling that there was something missing in the household.

  “Have you no servants?” he asked, in some surprise.

  “None living in. An old woman and her daughter, who live in the village, come in every morning, and leave as soon as they’ve cleared away the dinner at night… Anyway, about Tuesday… My friends came to spend the evening with me, as they do regularly once a fortnight. Doctor Brénéol, who lives about a mile away, and his wife and Françoise…”

  “Françoise being Madame Brénéol’s daughter?”

  “That’s right. By her first marriage. Not that it matters, except, of course, to Brénéol.”

  A faint smile flitted across his face.

  “The Marsacs, who live in the village of Saint-Michel-en-l’Hermitage, arrived a little later. We played bridge…”

  “Was your daughter also present?”

  His glance wavered. He hesitated, then, looking a little pensive, said:

  “No. She was in bed.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “In bed.”

  “Didn’t she hear anything?”

  “Nothing. I was careful to make as little noise as possible.
Well, to revert to Tuesday, the party broke up around about midnight.”

  “And then you had another visitor,” said Maigret, turning toward the door. “Your son.”

  “Yes, Albert did come to see me. He stayed only a few minutes.”

  “Does your son not live with you?”

  “He lives near the town hall… My son and I have very little in common. My son is a mussel-gatherer. I daresay you have already discovered that mussel farming is the principal local industry.”

  “Would it be indiscreet to ask for what purpose your son visited you in the middle of the night?”

  The Judge gazed into his glass. There was a brief silence. Then he exclaimed:

  “Yes, it would.”

  And he waited.

  “Did your son go up to the next floor?”

  “He was already there when I went upstairs.”

  “On his way to see his sister, I suppose?”

  “No… He didn’t see her.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because—I may as well tell you, because if I don’t someone else will—I make a habit of locking my daughter in her room every night… Let’s say she’s given to sleepwalking.”

  “What was your son doing up there?”

  “Waiting for me, since I was entertaining friends downstairs. He was sitting on the top step. We exchanged a few words.”

  “On the stairs?”

  The Judge nodded. Surely they were entering a world of fantasy? Maigret drained his glass in one gulp, and Forlacroix refilled it.

  “I went downstairs again to bolt the door. Then I read for a little while and went to bed. Next morning, I went up to the fruit loft to look for… To tell the truth, I don’t remember what I was looking for… We call the room the fruit loft, since it’s mostly used to store fruit, but we keep all sorts of other things up there as well. It’s more of a general storeroom really… There was a man lying on the floor. A man whom I had never seen before. He was dead. His skull had been bashed in by what you people call a ‘blunt instrument.’ I searched through his pockets… Presently, I’ll show you what I found… But there was no wallet. Not a single clue to his identity, no papers, nothing.”