Inspector Cadaver (6 page)

Was this Cavre's influence? Maigret
felt like fetching his suitcase from the Nauds', catching the first train and
telling Examining Magistrate Bréjon, ‘They don't want me there. Let
your brother-in-law manage by himself …'

Nonetheless, he went into the town hall as
Cavre walked away. The former inspector had a leather briefcase under his arm, which no
doubt conferred some special status on him in the eyes of the townsfolk, elevating him
to a member of the legal profession.

The little town clerk, who smelled bad, did
not stand up as he entered his office.

‘May I help you?'

‘Detective Chief
Inspector Maigret of the Police Judiciaire. I'm in Saint-Aubin in an unofficial
capacity and I'd like to ask you for some information.'

The other hesitated irritably before
pointing Maigret to a rush-seated chair.

‘Did the private detective who just
left say who he was working for?'

The secretary did not understand, or
pretended not to understand, the question. The same, pretty much, applied to all the
inspector's other questions.

‘You knew Albert Retailleau. Tell me
what you thought of him.'

‘He was a good lad … Yes,
that's a fair description: a good lad. You couldn't lay any faults at his
door.'

‘Did he chase after women?'

‘He was a young man, wasn't he?
You never really know what young people get up to. But you definitely wouldn't say
he chased after women.'

‘Were he and Mademoiselle Naud
lovers?'

‘People have claimed as much. There
were rumours. But it was just talk, as rumours only ever are.'

‘Who found the body?'

‘Ferchaud, the stationmaster. He
telephoned the town hall, and the deputy mayor immediately called the gendarmerie at
Benet, because we don't have a squad in Saint-Aubin.'

‘What did the doctor who examined the
body say?'

‘What did he say? That he was dead.
There wasn't much of a body to examine, strictly speaking … The train had
run over it …'

‘But it was still
identified as Albert Retailleau?'

‘What? Of course. It was definitely
Retailleau, no doubt about that.'

‘When had the last train gone
by?'

‘Seven minutes past five.'

‘People didn't find it strange
that Retailleau was found on the railway track at five o'clock in the morning in
the middle of winter?'

The secretary's response was
priceless:

‘It was dry. Frosty.'

‘Even so, rumours have gone round
…'

‘Rumours, yes. You can't stop
rumours.'

‘Your personal opinion is that it was
an accident?'

‘It is very hard to form an
opinion.'

Maigret tried mentioning Madame
Retailleau:

‘A wonderful woman. That's all
there is to say about her.'

He raised Naud for discussion:

‘Such an agreeable person. His father,
who was a general councillor, was also a real gentleman.'

Finally, he asked about the girl:

‘A pretty young lady
…'

‘Well behaved?'

‘Of course she is well behaved. And
her mother is one of the finest people in this town.'

The little man said all of this without
conviction, politely at best, as he foraged in his nose and examined the results with
interest.

‘Monsieur Groult-Cotelle?'

‘An extremely decent fellow too. No
airs and graces.'

‘Is he a very close
friend of the Nauds?'

‘They often see one another, yes. They
move in the same circles, don't they?'

‘What day was Retailleau's cap
found not far from the Nauds' house?'

‘What day? Well … But was that
all that was found?'

‘I was told that someone called
Désiré, who collects milk for the dairy, had found the cap in the reeds by the
canal.'

‘People have said as much
…'

‘It's not true?'

‘It is hard to know whether it is
true. Désiré is drunk half the time.'

‘And when he's drunk?'

‘One minute he says yes, the next he
says no.'

‘But a cap! It's something
visible, tangible. People have seen it.'

‘Ah.'

‘It must be somewhere now
…'

‘Perhaps … I don't know.
You see, we're not the police, we only concern ourselves with our own business
…'

You couldn't make yourself plainer
than this grubby, gormless little fellow, who was delighted to have shut the Parisian
up.

Maigret was outside in minutes, back to
square one, or rather now certain that no one was going help him discover the truth.

And if no one wanted the truth, what had he
come here for? Wouldn't it be better to go back to Paris and tell Bréjon,
‘There it is … Your brother doesn't want there to be an investigation
into the affair. No one in the
town does. I've come back. They
gave me a first-rate dinner …'

A gilt plaque indicated the notary's
residence, which must have been the one belonging to Bréjon's father and his
sister, now Madame Naud. It was a large grey-stone building and, against the damp grey
of the sky, it looked as eternal and inscrutable as the rest of the town.

He passed the Lion d'Or. The landlady
was in conversation with someone, and he sensed they were talking about him, standing by
the window to get a better view.

A cyclist approached. Maigret recognized him
but didn't have time to turn around. It was Alban Groult-Cotelle, who was cycling
back from the Nauds'. He jumped off his bike.

‘I'm so glad to run into you. My
house is just around the corner. Will you do me the pleasure of coming and having a
drink? You must … My house is a very modest affair, but I do have a few bottles of
vintage port.'

Maigret followed his lead. He didn't
have high hopes but anything was better than dragging himself around the streets of this
hostile town.

The house was huge. It looked attractive
from a distance, solid and stocky, like a bourgeois fortress with its black railings and
high slate roof.

Inside, everything smelled of meanness and
neglect. The sulky maid looked really unkempt and yet, from their eye contact, Maigret
gathered that Groult-Cotelle was sleeping with her.

‘Excuse the mess. I'm a
bachelor, living on my own. Apart from books, I don't really have any interests,
so …'

So the wallpaper was damp
and peeling off the walls, the curtains were grey with dust, and Maigret had to test
three or four chairs before finding one that stood securely on all four feet. Probably
to save wood, only one room in the house was heated, on the ground floor, and this
served as drawing room, dining room and library. There was even a divan on which he
suspected his host slept more often than not.

‘Please, do sit down. It really is a
shame you're not visiting in summer, when our town is rather more presentable
… What do you think of my friends, the Nauds? What a lovely family they are! I
know them well. You won't find a better man than Naud. Not a very deep thinker
perhaps. Perhaps a shade pleased with himself. But so guileless, so sincere. He is very
rich, you know?'

‘And Geneviève Naud?'

‘A charming girl … Not
overwhelmingly so … Yes, charming's the word …'

‘I suppose I'll get the chance
to see her. She'll only be temporarily indisposed, won't she?'

‘I daresay … I daresay …
Young girls, eh? Your health …'

‘You knew Retailleau?'

‘By sight. His mother is apparently a
very fine woman … If you were staying a while, I'd show you round, because
you really can find some interesting people here and there, in the villages … My
uncle, the general, used to say that the countryside, especially where we are in the
Vendée …'

Useless! If Maigret had let him,
Groult-Cotelle would
have recited the histories of every local family
from scratch.

‘I have to be on my way
…'

‘Your investigation, that's
true. Is it getting anywhere? Do you have hopes? In my opinion, you need to get your
hands on the person who is behind all these false rumours …'

‘Do you have any ideas?'

‘Me? Hardly! Don't go supposing
I've got an inkling about this business, will you now. I'll probably see you
this evening because Étienne has invited me to dinner, and, unless I'm too
busy …'

Busy doing what, for goodness' sake?
Words seemed to mean something different in this part of the world.

‘Have you heard anything about the
cap?'

‘What cap? Ah, yes. I'd lost the
thread. I vaguely remember hearing something … Is it true, though? Has it really
been found? That's the key, isn't it?'

It wasn't the key, no. The
girl's confession, for instance, was just as significant as the discovery of the
cap. But could one use that confession?

Five minutes later, Maigret was ringing the
doctor's doorbell. A petite maid told him at first that the practice didn't
open for an hour, but when he insisted, she showed him into a garage, where a strapping,
red-faced fellow was repairing a motorcycle.

The usual refrain:

‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret
… Police Judiciaire … In an entirely unofficial capacity …'

‘Let's go into my consulting
room and I'll wash my hands.'

Maigret waited near the
articulated table covered with an oilcloth that was used for examining patients.

‘So you're the famous Detective
Chief Inspector Maigret. I've heard a great deal about you. I have a friend
thirty-five kilometres away who follows all the news avidly. If he knew you were in
Saint-Aubin, he'd drop everything … You were in charge of the Landru case,
weren't you?'

He had lighted on one of the few cases in
which Maigret hadn't played a part.

‘To what do we owe the honour of your
presence in Saint-Aubin? Because it certainly is an honour … You'll have a
glass of something, I trust … One of my little ones happens to be sick, and
we've put him in the sitting room because it's warmer. That's why
I'm seeing you here … A little glass, eh?'

He was true to his word. Maigret got his
little glass and not a drop more.

‘Retailleau? A nice lad. I think he
was a good son. At any rate, his mother, who is one of my patients, never complained
about him. She is quite something, that woman. She deserved a very different life. She
was from a good family, you know. We were extremely surprised when she married Joseph
Retailleau, who was just a worker at the dairy …

‘Étienne Naud? He's a
character. We go shooting together. He's a first-rate shot … Groult-Cotelle?
No, you wouldn't say he was a marksman, but that's because he's very
short-sighted …

‘So you already know everyone …
Have you met Tine too? You haven't made Tine's acquaintance yet? Notice the
respect with which I utter that name, like everyone in Saint-Aubin.
Tine is Madame Naud's mother. Madame Bréjon, if you'd rather. She has a
son who's an examining magistrate in Paris. Of course, you must know him …
She was born a La Noue herself, one of the great Vendée families. She doesn't
want to be a burden on her daughter and son-in-law, and she lives alone, near the church
… At eighty-two, she is still hale and hearty, and she is one of my most
incorrigible patients …

‘Are you staying a few days in
Saint-Aubin?

‘What? The cap? Oh, yes! No, I
haven't heard anything about it myself … Well, I did hear some vague rumours
…

‘You understand, all this is a bit
after the fact. If I had known at the time I would have performed a post-mortem. But put
yourself in my position. I'm told the poor boy has been run over by a train. I
establish that he has indeed been run over by a train and so, naturally, I write my
report to that effect.'

Maigret glowered. He could have sworn that
they were all in collusion, that, whether surly or breezy like the doctor, they were all
batting him back and forth like a ball while exchanging knowing winks.

The sky has almost cleared. There are
reflections in all the puddles and the mud is glistening in places.

Once again the inspector sets off along the
main street – whatever it's called; he hasn't seen yet, but he's
pretty sure it will be Rue de la République – and thinks he might as well go
into the Trois Mules opposite the Lion d'Or, where he had been made so unwelcome
that morning.

The parlour is lighter,
with whitewashed walls hung with framed colour prints and a photograph of a president of
the Republic from thirty or forty years ago. Beyond it there is another bleak, empty
room with paper streamers and a stage, the Sunday dance hall.

Four men are sitting at a table around a
bottle of rosé. When the inspector comes in, one of them coughs pointedly, as if
announcing to the others, ‘Here he is …'

Maigret sits on one of the benches at the
opposite end of the room. And this time, he feels that something has changed. The men
have fallen silent. Before he came in they were certainly not sitting there drinking
with their elbows on the table, staring at each other speechlessly.

They act out a dumb show, their elbows
moving closer, their shoulders brushing, until finally the oldest, who has a
ploughman's whip at his side, directs a long stream of spit at the floor, which
causes laughter.

Is that spit for Maigret's
benefit?

‘What can I get you?' a woman
comes to ask him. Still young, she has a grubby-faced baby on her hip.

‘Some rosé.'

‘A half bottle?'