Inspector Cadaver (8 page)

Some flat-bottomed boats filled with milk
churns were moored next to the dairy.

‘Hey, Philippe. Has old
Désiré gone home?'

‘He can't have gone home seeing
as he never set foot out of doors. He must have had a skinful last night because he
hasn't done his round this morning.'

An idea occurred to Maigret.

‘Do you think the manager will be here
now?' he asked his companion.

‘He should be in his office. The
little door on the side.'

‘Wait here a moment.'

Oscar Drouhet, the manager of the dairy, was
in fact making a telephone call as Maigret opened the door. He introduced himself. The
man had the serious, steady air of all rural artisans turned small manufacturers. Taking
small puffs on his pipe, he studied the inspector and let him speak as he sized him
up.

‘Albert
Retailleau's father used to be on your staff, didn't he? From what
I've been told he was the victim of a work accident …'

‘A boiler ring blew.'

‘I understand you pay the widow a
fairly high pension?'

The man was quick, realizing immediately
that it was a loaded question.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Did the widow take you to court or
did you set it up of your own accord?'

‘Don't go looking for any
mystery in all this. It was my fault the accident happened. Retailleau had been telling
me for two months, more or less, that the boiler needed a complete overhaul, if not
replacing. As it was the height of the season, I kept putting it off.'

‘Your workers were insured?'

‘Inadequately.'

‘Sorry. May I ask whether it was you
who thought the sum inadequate or …?'

They had already understood each other so
well that Maigret left his sentence unfinished.

‘The widow put in a claim, as she was
entitled to,' admitted Oscar Drouhet.

‘I am certain,' continued the
inspector with a hint of a smile, ‘that she didn't seek you out merely to
ask you to study the question of compensation. She sent lawyers …'

‘Is that so strange? A woman
isn't an expert in these matters, is she? I recognized the validity of her claim
and, in addition to the pension paid by the insurance, I set up
one
that I pay personally. I also paid for the son's education and I took him on here
as soon as he was old enough to work. I got a lot out of it too, because he was an
honest, hardworking, clever lad, who could run the dairy while I was away
…'

‘Thank you … Or rather, one more
thing: since Albert's death, you haven't received a visit from his
mother?'

Drouhet managed not to smile, but a glint
passed through his brown eyes.

‘No,' he said, ‘she
hasn't come
yet
.'

So Maigret hadn't been mistaken about
Madame Retailleau. She was a woman who knew how to defend herself, even go on the attack
if necessary, and who never lost sight of her interests.

‘Apparently Désiré, your
milk collector, didn't come to work this morning?'

‘That happens with him. Days when
he's drunker than usual …'

Maigret rejoined the pockmarked teenager,
who was terrified he wasn't being taken seriously any more.

‘What did he tell you? He's a
good guy, but he's part of the other lot, really …'

‘What other lot?'

‘Monsieur Naud, the doctor, the mayor
… He couldn't turn you against me, though …'

‘No, of course not …'

‘We've got to find old
Désiré. Let's go to his place, if you don't mind. It's not
far.'

They set off again, both forgetting that it
was lunchtime. At the entrance to the village, they went round to the back
of a house. Louis knocked on a glass door, then pushed it open and
shouted into the semi-darkness:

‘Désiré! Hey!
Désiré …'

Only a cat came to rub itself against his
leg, while Maigret peered into what looked like an animal's den. There was a bed
without sheets or pillow, on which one would have had to sleep fully dressed, a small
cracked cast-iron stove and a jumble of clothes, empty litre bottles and gnawed
bones.

‘He must be drinking somewhere. Come
on.'

Still the same fear of not being taken
seriously.

‘He worked on Étienne
Naud's farm once, you see. Even though he was sacked, he stayed on good terms with
them. He's the sort of person who likes staying on good terms with everybody.
That's why, the day after the one I told you about, he put on a big act when he
was asked about the cap: “What cap? … Oh yes, that rag I picked up
somewhere, I'm not sure where any more. I don't even know where it's
got to …”

‘Well, sir, I can tell you for a fact
that there were bloodstains on the cap, as I wrote to the prosecutor …'

‘You wrote the anonymous
letters?'

‘I wrote three, at least. If there
were any others, they weren't by me. I wrote about the cap, then about Albert
going with Geneviève Naud … Wait, maybe Désiré is here
…'

It was a grocer's but, through the
windows, Maigret saw that there were bottles on the end of the counter and two tables,
at the back of the room, where people could have a drink. The kid emerged
empty-handed.

‘He came by early
this morning. He must have visited all the chapels …'

Until then, Maigret had known of only two
cafés in Saint-Aubin, the Lion d'Or and the Trois Mules. He now added at
least a dozen more to that total in less than half an hour – not cafés as
such but drinking dens that would have been invisible to the average passer-by. The
saddler ran one next to his workshop. There was another in the blacksmith's. And
old Désiré had been seen at all, or almost all, of them.

‘How was he?'

‘He was fine.'

It was obvious what that meant.

‘He was in a hurry when he left
because he had something to do at the post office …'

‘The post office is closed,'
Louis said. ‘I know the postmistress. You just have to knock on the window.
She'll open up for you.'

‘Especially because I have a telephone
call to make,' said Maigret.

And indeed, as soon as the kid knocked on
the glass, the window opened a crack.

‘Is that you, Louis? What do you
want?'

‘The gentleman from Paris needs to
make a telephone call.'

‘I'll open up right
away.'

Maigret asked to be put through to the
Nauds'.

‘Hello! Who's
calling?'

He didn't recognize the voice, a
man's.

‘Hello! What's that? Ah, sorry
… Alban, yes … I didn't
understand … Maigret
here … Would you tell Madame Naud that I won't be coming back for lunch
… Apologize to her for me … No, nothing important … I don't know
when I'll be back yet …'

Coming out of the booth, he saw from his
companion's face that he had some interesting information to relay.

‘How much do I owe you, mademoiselle?
Thank you. I'm sorry to have disturbed you.'

In the street, Louis announced in a state of
high agitation:

‘I told you something was up. Old
Désiré came on the stroke of eleven. Do you know what he did at the post
office? He sent a postal order for five hundred francs to his son in Morocco … His
son is a bad lot, who up and left one day just like that. When he was here, the old man
and him quarrelled and fought non-stop. Désiré has always been blind drunk as
long as we can remember. His son writes to him now and again, always complaining and
asking for money. But all the money goes on drink, see? The old man never has a sou.
Sometimes, at the start of the month, he sends a postal order for ten or twenty francs
… I wonder … Wait … If you still have some time, we'll go and
look in at his sister-in-law's.'

The inspector was becoming familiar with the
streets and houses he had passed repeatedly since that morning. He recognized the faces
as he went by, the names painted over the shops. Rather than brightening up, the sky was
getting dark again, and the air was growing thick with moisture. The fog hadn't
rolled in yet but it was on its way.

‘His sister-in-law does knitting.
She's an old girl who was the last priest's maid. Look, it's here
…'

He climbed the three steps
of a porch, knocked and opened a door painted blue.

‘Désiré isn't here, is
he?'

He immediately waved Maigret over.

‘Hi, Désiré …
I'm sorry, Mademoiselle Jeanne. There's a gentleman from Paris who'd
like to have a quick word with your brother-in-law.'

The table was laid in a small, very clean
room, near a mahogany bed covered with a huge red eiderdown. There was a sprig of box
tucked into a crucifix, a virgin under a glass dome on the chest of drawers and two
cutlets on a plate with an illustration and a motto.

Désiré made a move to get up,
before realizing he was in danger of falling off his chair. Maintaining a dignified
stillness instead, he muttered, his tongue so thick that he could hardly articulate the
syllables:

‘How can I be of service to
you?'

He had manners, clearly. That was something
he was keen to stress himself.

‘I may have been drinking … Yes,
I may have had a little drink, but the thing about me, sir, is that I am polite.
Everyone will tell you that Désiré is polite to everyone he meets
…'

‘Listen, Désiré, the
gentleman needs to know where you found the cap … You know, Albert's cap
…'

That was enough. Clouding over with a look
of utter stupor, the drunkard's face became blank, his watery eyes even more
opaque.

‘… don't know what you
mean …'

‘Stop fooling around,
Désiré. Anyway, I've got that cap
myself. You remember
that evening when you threw it on the table at François', saying you'd
found it near the dead poplar …'

The old ham didn't simply deny it. He
contorted his face into a series of grimaces, throwing himself into his role with far
more gusto than was necessary.

‘Understand what he's going on
about, do you, sir? Why would I have thrown a cap on the table, eh? Never worn a cap in
my life … Jeanne! Where's my hat? Show the gentleman my hat … Those
kids, they've got no respect for age.'

‘Désiré …'

‘What do you mean,
“Désiré?”? Désiré may be drunk, but he is polite and he
requests that you call him Monsieur Désiré … Understand, you brat, you
bastard?'

‘Have you heard from your son?'
Maigret broke in abruptly.

‘Well, what about my son? What's
he done, my son? My son's a soldier, for a start! He's a brave man, my
son!'

‘That's what I meant. I'm
sure he'll be glad to get his postal order.'

‘Don't I have the right to send
my son a postal order now? Hey, Jeanne! Do you hear that? Perhaps I'm not allowed
to come and have a bite with my sister-in-law either?'

He may have been afraid initially but now he
was enjoying himself. He was overacting with such a will that, when Maigret left, he
staggered after him to the door and would have followed him on to the street if Jeanne
hadn't stopped him.

‘Désiré has
manners … Understand, you little brat? And you there, my Parisian friend, if
anyone tells you Désiré's son isn't a brave man …'

Doors opened. Maigret chose to walk away.

With tears in his eyes, Louis said through
gritted teeth, ‘I swear to you, inspector …'

‘Yes, son, I believe you.'

‘It was that man who stayed at the
Lion d'Or, wasn't it?'

‘Yes, I'm sure it was. I'd
like to have proof, though. Do you know anyone who was at the Lion d'Or last
night?'

‘I bet the Liboureau kid was there. He
goes there every night.'

‘Well then, while I wait for you at
the Trois Mules, go and ask him if he saw old Désiré in there and if he got
into conversation with the visitor from Paris … Wait … I suppose you can eat
at the Trois Mules? We'll have a bite together … Be quick about
it.'

There was no tablecloth. The cutlery was
iron. There was only beetroot salad, rabbit and a piece of cheese washed down with a
wretched bottle of white. But when he came back, Pockmarks was too shy to sit at the
inspector's table.

‘Well?'

‘Désiré went to the Lion
d'Or yesterday.'

‘He talked to Cadaver?'

‘To what?'

‘Take no notice. It's a nickname
we gave him. Did he talk to him?'

‘That wasn't what happened. The
character you call Ca … It makes me feel strange saying it …'

‘His name is Justin
Cavre.'

‘From what Liboureau told me, Monsieur
Cavre spent most of the evening watching people playing cards without saying anything.
Désiré was off in a corner, drinking on his own. He left about ten
o'clock and a few minutes later Liboureau noticed the Parisian wasn't there
any more. But he didn't know if he'd gone out or upstairs.'

‘He went out.'

‘What are you going to do?'

Proud to be the inspector's
accomplice, Louis was seething with impatience to act.

‘Who was it who saw a large sum of
money at Madame Retailleau's?'

‘The postman, Josaphat. He's
another drinker. We call him Josaphat because when his wife died he got even more
cock-eyed than usual and wouldn't stop crying and saying: “Goodbye,
Céline. We'll meet again in the valley of Josaphat, we will. Count on me
…”'

‘What would you rather for
dessert?' asked the landlady, who clearly spent her days with one or other of her
children on her arm, doing her work one-handed. ‘I've got biscuits and
apples.'