Inspector Cadaver (12 page)

Madame Naud broke in, a rare occurrence for
her.

‘You've already told us,'
she said. ‘I think we can sit down …'

The discomfort lingers. The meal may be as
meticulous and brilliant a success as the night before's, but it is obvious that
any attempt to create a cordial or remotely relaxed atmosphere is doomed. Of everyone,
Geneviève is the most agitated. Long afterwards, Maigret will see her chest heaving
with a woman's anger, or rather a lover's rage, since he could swear that is
what she is feeling. She eats little and grudgingly. Not once does she look in
Alban's direction, who, for his part, has stopped looking anyone in the eye.

He is just the sort of man to hoard every
last scrap of paper, filing them and pinning them together in bundles like banknotes. He
is also just the sort of man to cover his back given the remotest chance, even if it
means leaving his companions in a tight spot.

All of this is palpable. There is something
nasty in the air. Madame Naud is increasingly anxious. Naud, meanwhile, is doing his
best to reassure his family, while possibly trying to accomplish something else in the
process.

‘By the way, I
happened to see the prosecutor in Fontenay this morning. Incidentally, Alban, he's
almost related to you on the distaff side because he married a Deharme, from
Cholet.'

‘The Cholet Deharmes are not related
to the general's family. They're from Nantes and …'

‘You know, inspector,' Naud went
on, ‘he was very reassuring. Of course he told my brother-in-law Bréjon that
a preliminary investigation appeared inevitable, but apparently it will be purely
formal, at least as far as we are concerned. I said you were here …'

Ah! He is already regretting blurting that
out. Blushing slightly, he hurriedly takes a large mouthful of creamy lobster.

‘What did he say about me?'

‘He admires you a great deal. He has
followed most of your investigations in the newspapers. Precisely because he admires you
…' The poor man didn't know how to finish his sentence. ‘…
He's surprised my brother saw fit to trouble a man like you over such a trivial
matter …'

‘I understand …'

‘You're not upset? It's
simply because he has such admiration …'

‘Are you sure he didn't add that
my involvement might give this affair an importance it doesn't warrant?'

‘How do you know that? Have you seen
him?'

Maigret smiles. What else can he do? He is
just a guest, after all. Their hospitality has been faultless. Tonight's dinner is
another minor masterpiece of traditional country cooking. And now, politely, and with a
great deal of tact,
they are giving him to understand that his
presence threatens to harm his hosts.

There is a silence, as there was after the
Alban incident. Madame Naud takes it upon herself to smooth things over, making a
clumsier mess of it than her husband.

‘I hope you'll stay on a few
days anyway? After the fog, there'll most likely be a frost and you'll be
able to take a few walks with my husband … Don't you think,
Étienne?'

What a relief for everyone if Maigret were
to reply, as they expect him to as someone with good manners, ‘It would be
delightful to stay, I've enjoyed your hospitality enormously, but alas, duty calls
me back to Paris. Perhaps I will be driving by in the holidays … But, in the
meantime, I will leave with wonderful memories, I can assure you …'

He does nothing of the sort. He eats without
saying a word and, in his mind, calls himself a brute. These people have shown him
nothing but kindness. Perhaps they do have the death of Albert Retailleau on their
conscience, but hadn't the young man ‘stolen their daughter's
honour', as people of their kind would say? Had Madame Retailleau, the mother,
lodged a complaint? Not a bit of it; she would be the first to say everything was for
the best in the best of all worlds, wouldn't she?

There are three or four of them, perhaps
more, trying to keep their secret, straining their every sinew, and the mere presence of
Maigret must cause Madame Naud, for instance, intolerable suffering. When they were left
alone earlier for a quarter of an hour, hadn't she been on the verge of screaming
in agony by the end?

The whole thing is so
simple! He can just leave the following morning with the entire family's blessing
and, when he gets back to Paris, Examining Magistrate Bréjon will thank him with
tears in his eyes!

If Maigret doesn't do so, is he solely
motivated by a desire for justice? He wouldn't have dared look anyone in the eye
and maintain as much. Cavre is part of the reason. As are the successive defeats
Inspector Cadaver has inflicted on him since the previous evening, without sparing his
former boss so much as a glance. He has come and gone as if Maigret didn't exist
or were an entirely harmless adversary.

Wherever he goes, as if by magic testimonies
melt away, witnesses don't remember anything or clam up, pieces of evidence like
the cap vanish.

At last, after so many years, it is the turn
of the luckless, the unlovely, the envious to win the day!

‘What are you thinking about,
inspector?'

He started:

‘Nothing … I'm sorry
… My mind sometimes wanders …'

To his embarrassment, he had piled his plate
high without realizing. To put him at his ease, Madame Naud murmured, ‘Nothing
gives a hostess more pleasure than to see her cooking being appreciated. The fact Alban
eats like a horse doesn't count; he'd eat any old thing. He's not a
gourmet, he's a glutton.'

She was joking, but there was still a trace
of rancour in her voice and eyes.

Finally Étienne Naud rejoined the
conversation. Even
ruddier cheeked after a few glasses of wine, he
ventured, toying with his knife, ‘What about you, inspector, now you've had
a little look around the town and asked a few questions, what's your view of it
all?'

‘He has got to know young
Fillou,' his wife said, as if warning him of danger.

With the eyes of everyone on him, Maigret
replied, enunciating every syllable, ‘I think Albert Retailleau was unlucky
…'

It didn't really mean anything, and
yet Geneviève turned pale and was so struck by this inconsequential little remark
that it seemed for a moment as if she were about to get up and leave. Naud was trying to
make sense of it. Alban sneered, ‘Now there's a remark worthy of a classical
oracle. If, by amazing coincidence, I hadn't found proof that I was sleeping
peacefully that night in a room in the Hotel de l'Europe eighty kilometres away, I
wouldn't be easy in mind …'

‘So you don't know,'
Maigret retorted, ‘that the police have a saying: the better a person's
alibi, the more suspect he is?'

Groult-Cotelle bristled, taking the joke
seriously.

‘In that case you'll also have
to suspect the prefect's private secretary of complicity, since he spent the
evening with me. He's one of my childhood friends, and we meet up for the
occasional dinner, which almost always goes on until two or three in the morning
…'

What made Maigret take the pretence further?
Was he provoked by this trumped-up aristocrat's blatant cowardice? He took out his
large notebook, so famous at the
Police Judiciaire, slipped off the
elastic band and began questioning him in earnest:

‘His name?'

‘You really want me to tell you? As
you wish. Musellier. Pierre Musellier. He has never married. He has a flat on Place
Napoléon, above the Murs garage. It is fifty metres from the Hotel de
l'Europe …'

‘Shall we go and have coffee in the
drawing room?' suggested Madame Naud. ‘Will you pour, Geneviève?
You're not too tired? You're looking pale, I think. Perhaps it would be
better if you went to bed?'

‘No.'

She was tense rather than tired. It was as
if she had a score to settle with Alban, whom she did not take her eyes off.

‘You returned to Saint-Aubin the
following day?' asked Maigret, pencil in hand.

‘The following day, yes. I got a lift
with a friend to Fontenay-le-Comte. There, I had lunch with friends and, as I left, I
happened to run into Étienne, who brought me back …'

‘So, you go from friend to friend
…'

He could not have said more explicitly that
Alban was a sponger, which was the case. Everyone understood so clearly that
Geneviève blushed and looked away.

‘I still can't tempt you with
one of my cigars, inspector?'

‘May I know if my interrogation is
over? In that case, I'll take the liberty of saying my goodbyes. I feel like
getting home early tonight …'

‘Perfect timing. I feel like a stroll
into town. If you don't mind, we'll head off together.'

‘I'm on my
bicycle …'

‘Not to worry. A bicycle can be
wheeled, can't it? Besides, with the fog out there you might ride into the
canal.'

What was going on? For one thing, when
Maigret mentioned leaving with Alban Groult-Cotelle, Étienne Naud had frowned and
seemed on the verge of saying he was coming with them. Did he think that Alban, who was
obviously overwrought that evening, might be persuaded to confess? He gave him an
insistent look, which clearly meant, ‘For goodness' sake, be careful! You
see the state you are in. He is more than a match for you …'

Similar, but harder, more contemptuous, was
the girl's look, which said:

‘At least try to have your wits about
you!'

As for Madame Naud, she wasn't looking
at anyone. She was worn out. Nothing made sense to her any more. She wouldn't be
able to cope with the nervous tension for much longer.

But it was Alban himself who was behaving
the most strangely. Unable to leave, he was hanging around the drawing room in what
seemed like the hope of speaking to Naud.

‘Didn't you ask me to look into
your office about that insurance business?'

‘Insurance – what do you
mean?' Naud said without thinking.

‘Doesn't matter. We'll
talk about it tomorrow.'

What did he have to tell him that was so
important?

‘Are you coming, my dear sir?'
insisted the inspector.

‘You're sure
you don't want me to drive you? If you'd like to take the car and drive
yourself …'

‘No, thank you. We're going to
have a nice chat as we walk …'

The fog closed round them. Wheeling his
bicycle with one hand and walking fast, Alban had to stop constantly because Maigret
showed no inclination to keep up.

‘Such good people. And what a
close-knit family. Goodness, though, it must get dull here for a young girl at times.
Has she got many friends?'

‘Not that I know of here. Apart from
her cousins, who come when the weather's warmer, or sometimes she goes and spends
a week with them.'

‘I suppose she also goes up to Paris
to stay with the Bréjons?'

‘She went there this winter
actually.'

Maigret good-naturedly changed the subject.
The two men could barely see one another in the whitish, freezing cloud that enveloped
them. The station's electric glare looked like a lighthouse, and two other lights
further off like boats out to sea.

‘So, apart from a few trips to La
Roche-sur-Yon, you hardly ever leave Saint-Aubin?'

‘I sometimes go to Nantes, where I
have friends, or Bordeaux, where my de Chièvre cousin is married to a ship-owner
…'

‘Paris?'

‘I was there a month ago.'

‘The same time as Mademoiselle
Naud?'

‘Possibly.
I've no idea …'

They passed the two cafés facing one
another and Maigret, stopping, suggested, ‘What about a drink at the Lion
d'Or? I am curious to see my former colleague Cadaver. A while ago at the station
I saw a little fellow getting off a train and I have a hunch he is an associate who has
been called in to help.'

‘I'll say goodbye, then
…' Alban said hastily.

‘No, no. If you're not coming,
I'll see you home. As long as you don't mind, that is?'

‘To be perfectly frank, I'm
looking forward to getting into bed. I suffer from painful headaches and I'm
having an attack right now …'

‘All the more reason to see you to
your door. Does your maid sleep in the house?'

‘Naturally.'

‘I know people who prefer not to have
their staff sleep under the same roof … Goodness! There's a light
…'

‘It's the maid.'

‘She uses the drawing room? It's
true that the room is heated. When you're not there, she does little sewing jobs,
I suppose?'

They had stopped on the doorstep and, rather
than knocking, Alban was searching for his key in his pocket.

‘See you tomorrow, inspector! I
daresay we'll run into one another at my friends, the Nauds …'

‘Tell me …'

Alban was taking care not to open the door
lest Maigret take it as an invitation to come in.

‘It's stupid … I'm
sorry … Can you believe it, nature
calls, and since we're
at your home … We men can be frank with one another, don't you
think?'

‘Come in. I'll show you the way
…'

The passage was unlit, but the door to the
drawing room on the left was ajar, casting a rectangle of light. Alban tried to usher
Maigret along the passage, but the inspector opened the door all the way, as if
involuntarily, and then stopped dead, crying, ‘What on earth! My old pal Cavre!
What are you doing here, dear friend?'

The former inspector had got to his feet,
pale as usual, a sullen expression on his face. He gave Groult-Cotelle a withering
glance, holding him responsible for the incident.