Inspector Cadaver (2 page)

‘… terribly sorry to bother you
… especially as it is not on official business … Do sit down … Please
… Cigar? You may know that my wife's maiden name was Lecat … No, no
matter … That's not actually what I wanted to talk to you about … My
sister, Louise Bréjon, became a Naud by marriage …'

It was late. People looking up from the
street and seeing a light in the windows of the magistrate's office, in the
sombre mass of the formidable Palais de Justice, would have assumed
that weighty matters were being discussed up there.

And Maigret, with his bulk and furrowed
brow, gave such an impression of fierce concentration that it was unlikely anyone would
have guessed what he was thinking.

Well, while listening with half an ear to
the story the bearded magistrate was telling him, he was thinking about green
lampshades, envying the one with ridges and dreaming of getting one like it.

‘You can imagine what it's like
… Small town, absolutely minute … You'll see for yourself …
Middle of nowhere … Jealousy, envy, wanton malice … My brother-in-law
couldn't be a more decent, straightforward person … As for my niece,
she's just a child … If you agree, I'll put in for a week's
exceptional leave on your behalf and the gratitude of my entire family, along with that
which …'

That's how you let yourself get
embroiled in a stupid escapade. What had the magistrate told him exactly? He was still a
provincial at heart. And like all provincials, he loved nothing better than a long saga
about local families, whose names he pronounced as if they were figures from
history.

His sister, Louise Bréjon, had married
Étienne Naud. As though he were speaking of someone world-renowned, the examining
magistrate added, ‘Sébastien Naud's son, you know …?'

Sébastien Naud, it turned out, was
simply a well-to-do cattle dealer from Saint-Aubin, a village lost in the depths of the
Vendée marshes.

‘On his mother's
side, Étienne Naud is related to the finest families in that part of the
world.'

Very good. And?

‘They live a kilometre outside the
little town, in a house practically on the railway line that runs from Niort to
Fontenay-le-Comte. About two weeks ago, a young man from round there – a boy from
quite a good family as a matter of fact, at least on his mother's side, who is a
Pelcau – was found dead on the track. At first, everyone believed it was an
accident, and I still believe that to be the case. But since then, rumours have gone
round. Anonymous letters have been sent … To cut a long story short, my
brother-in-law now finds himself in a terrible predicament – accused, virtually to
his face, of killing the boy … He wrote me rather a vague letter about it. I in
turn wrote for more information to the public prosecutor at Fontenay-le-Comte, since
Saint-Aubin comes under Fontenay's jurisdiction. To my astonishment, I learned
that the accusations were relatively serious and that an investigation appears
inevitable … Which is why, my dear detective chief inspector, I ventured to call
on you, as a friend, entirely …'

The train stopped. Maigret wiped the
condensation from the window and saw a tiny building, a solitary light, a strip of
platform and a lone railwayman running alongside the train, already whistling. A door
slammed, and the train set off again. But not the neighbouring compartment's door;
Inspector Cadaver was still on board.

They passed the odd farm, close by or off in
the distance, but always down below, and whenever a light could
be
seen, it would invariably be reflected in a stretch of water, as if the train were
skirting a lake.

‘Saint-Aubin …!'

He gathered his things. A total of three
people got off the train: an extremely old woman weighed down by a black wicker shopping
basket, Cavre and Maigret. In the middle of the platform stood a very tall, very heavily
built man in leather gaiters and a leather jacket, with something oddly tentative about
him.

It was Naud, clearly. His brother-in-law,
the examining magistrate, had told him when the inspector was coming. But which of the
two men getting off the train was Maigret?

He approached the thinner of the two first.
He was already raising a hand to his hat, his mouth half-open in a tentative question,
when Cavre strode by disdainfully, his knowing attitude seeming to say,
‘It's not me. It's the other fellow.'

The examining magistrate's
brother-in-law turned on his heel.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, I
believe? I'm so sorry not to have recognized you immediately. Your photograph is
in the newspapers such a lot … But in our little backwater, you understand
…'

He had firmly relieved Maigret of his
suitcase and, as the inspector searched in his pocket for his ticket, he ushered him
towards the level crossing rather than the station, saying:

‘There's no need
…'

Turning to the stationmaster, he called
out:

‘Good evening,
Pierre.'

It was still raining. A horse harnessed to a
dogcart was tethered to a ring.

‘Do get in. In this weather, cars
can't really manage the lane.'

Where was Cavre? Maigret had seen him hurry
off into the darkness. Too late he felt the urge to follow him. Anyway, wouldn't
it have appeared ridiculous to leave his host stranded the minute he arrived and go
dashing off after another passenger?

There was no village to be seen. Just a
lamp-post, a hundred metres from the station, among a clump of tall trees by what seemed
to be the start of a road.

‘Spread your coat over your legs. No,
you must. Even with it, your knees will get wet because the wind's against us
… My brother-in-law wrote me a long letter about you. I am embarrassed that he
should have thought to trouble a man such as yourself over such an insignificant
business. You have no idea what people in the country are like.'

He touched the tip of his whip to the
horse's wet hindquarters, and the wheels of the cart sank deep into the black mud
of a lane that ran parallel to the railway track. On the other side, the lanterns dimly
lit up some sort of canal.

A human form loomed up out of nowhere. They
made out a man with his jacket over his head, who stepped aside.

‘Evening, Fabien!' Étienne
Naud cried out, as he had hailed the stationmaster, like a man who knows everybody, like
a lord of the manor who calls everyone by his first name.

Where the hell could Cavre
have got to, though? Try as he might, Maigret couldn't think about anything else.

‘Is there a hotel in
Saint-Aubin?' he asked.

His companion burst into good-natured
laughter.

‘Goodness, there's no call for a
hotel! We have plenty of space at home. Your room is ready. We're having dinner an
hour late because I thought you wouldn't have eaten on the way. I hope you
didn't think of dining at the buffet in Niort. A terrible idea. I should warn you,
though: we lay on a very simple spread.'

Maigret wasn't remotely interested in
the spread they had laid on. Cavre was the only thing on his mind.

‘I was wondering whether the passenger
who got out when I did …'

‘I don't know him,'
Étienne Naud said hastily.

Why? That wasn't what Maigret was
asking.

‘I was wondering whether he'll
have found somewhere to stay.'

‘Of course! I don't know how my
brother-in-law described our part of the world to you. Having moved to Paris, he
probably thinks of Saint-Aubin as a hamlet these days. But it's almost a small
town, dear sir. You haven't seen any of it because the centre is quite a distance
from the station, in the other direction. There are two first-rate inns, the Lion
d'Or, run by Father Taponnier, old François as everyone calls him, and,
directly opposite, the Hôtel des Trois Mules … Look, we're almost there
… That light you see … Yes … That's our humble abode
…'

It was obvious just from his tone that it
was going to be an imposing house, and indeed it was, vast and stocky,
with four windows lit up on the ground floor and an electric light shining like a star
in the middle of the façade to light the way for arrivals.

Judging from the warm, fragrant aroma that
filled the air, there was a huge farmyard flanked by stables at the back of the house. A
stable boy was already rushing to the horse's head, the front door was opening, a
maid was coming forwards to take the guest's luggage.

‘And here we are! You see, it's
not far. When the house was built, unfortunately no one anticipated that one day the
railway would run almost directly under our windows. Of course, one gets used to it,
especially as the service is so infrequent, but … Do come in … Take off your
coat …'

At that very second, Maigret thought,
‘He has talked the whole time.'

And then he couldn't think for a
moment because his mind was whirring with too many thoughts and a new atmosphere was
enfolding him ever more tightly in its embrace.

The passageway was broad, with grey
flagstones and walls panelled to head height in dark wood. The hall light was encased in
a coloured glass lantern. A broad oak staircase with a red carpet and heavy, well-waxed
banisters led upstairs. The whole house, in fact, was permeated with a rich smell of
wax, of food on the simmer, and a hint of something else, something bittersweet that
struck Maigret as the smell of the countryside.

What was most remarkable was the sense of
peace, a peace that seemed eternal. It felt as if the furniture and all the objects in
that house had been in their appointed place
for generations, as if the
occupants themselves in their daily round observed meticulous rituals designed to ward
off the unexpected.

‘Do you want to go up to your room for
a moment before dinner? It's just a family home. We won't stand on
ceremony.'

The master of the house pushed open a door,
and two people rose simultaneously to their feet in a snug, hushed drawing room.

‘May I introduce Detective Chief
Inspector Maigret … My wife …'

She had the same self-effacing air as
Examining Magistrate Bréjon, the same mannerliness that comes from a particular
middle-class education, but for a second Maigret thought he sensed something harder,
sharper in her gaze.

‘I'm so sorry my brother has put
you to trouble in weather like this.'

As if the rain affected his trip in any way,
or was a significant part of it!

‘May I introduce a family friend,
inspector: Alban Groult-Cotelle, whom my brother-in-law no doubt mentioned to you
…'

Had the examining magistrate mentioned him?
Perhaps he had. Maigret had been so preoccupied with the ridged green lampshade.

‘Delighted to meet you, inspector. I
am a great admirer of yours …'

Maigret felt like replying, ‘I'm
not,' as he detested people of Groult-Cotelle's sort.

‘Will you help us to
the port, Louise?'

The bottle and glasses were laid out on a
coffee table. Low, diffused lighting. Few clear-cut lines, none at all, even. Antique
armchairs, most of them upholstered in tapestry. Carpets in neutral or faded colours. A
log fire in the fireplace and, in front, a cat, stretching itself.

‘Do sit down … Groult-Cotelle
has dropped in for a neighbourly dinner …'

The latter gave an affected bow each time
his name was pronounced, like a grandee who, in the company of simple folk, archly makes
a point of being as formal as in high society.

‘The family is so kind as to keep a
regular place for me at their table, old recluse that I am …'

Recluse, yes, and no doubt a bachelor into
the bargain. Heaven knows why you could tell, but you could. A pretentious, ineffectual
character, full of quirks and eccentricities and heartily pleased to be so too.

It must have irked him not to be a count or
marquis, or even have a ‘de' in front of his name, but at least he had his
mannered Christian name, Alban, which he loved to hear on people's lips, followed
by that surname with its double barrels and hyphen.

In his forties, he was tall and slim, a
combination he no doubt thought made him look aristocratic. Sprucely turned out, he
nonetheless had a dusty air, which, like his dull skin and already receding hairline,
struck Maigret as a sign he wasn't married. He wore elegant clothes in distinctive
shades that seemed as if they had never been new, but equally, as if they would never
grow old or wear out
either, the sort of clothes that form an integral
part of a person's character and are worn religiously like a uniform. From then
on, Maigret would always see him in the same greenish, regulation country
gentleman's jacket, with the same horseshoe tiepin on a white cotton piqué
tie.

‘Your journey wasn't too tiring,
inspector?' asked Louise Bréjon, handing him a glass of port.

Ensconced in an armchair, which the lady of
the house must have been worried would give way beneath him, Maigret didn't reply
immediately. He was being assailed by such an array of sensations that he felt a little
dazed and, for part of the evening at least, can't have made a very brilliant
impression on his hosts.

There was the house first of all, this house
that was the living image of the one he had so often seen in his dreams, with its
reassuring walls, which made the air feel as dense as solid matter. The framed portraits
reminded him of the examining magistrate's rambling account of the Nauds,
Bréjons and La Noues – the Bréjons being related to the La Noues on
their mother's side – and he would have happily claimed ancestry with all
those solemn, slightly stiff figures.