Maigret's Holiday (10 page)

He sensed that it was within reach. He had a
whiff of it, trying in his mind to put each of them in their place around the family
dinner table, for example, but there was always a detail that was wrong, that
rang
false
.

It is not easy to see people through the
eyes of a butler, of Madame Popineau's lover.

‘Before being ill, how did Madame
Bellamy spend her days?'

Poor Francis! La Popine encouraged him to
talk, almost prompting him, like at school. He wanted to be helpful and tried to express
himself as clearly as possible.

‘I don't know … First of
all, she would stay in her room till late morning and have her breakfast brought up to
her.'

‘At what time?'

‘Around ten o'clock.'

‘Just a moment
… Do the doctor and his wife sleep in separate rooms?'

‘Well, there are two bedrooms and two
bathrooms, but I've never known Monsieur to sleep in his room.'

‘Even these last two days?'

‘I'm sorry! … Since the
3rd of August, he has slept alone … In the daytime, Madame often used to go into
Mademoiselle's music room … She would sit in a corner and read, listening to
the music—'

‘Does she read a lot?'

‘Whenever I see her she's nearly
always got a book in her hand.'

‘Does she go out?'

‘Rarely without Monsieur … Or
without her mother-in-law—'

‘She never goes out alone?'

‘She has done.'

‘More often recently than
before?'

‘I don't know … It's
a big house, you see … In the scullery there's a little notice board …
It's Monsieur's mother who put it there … We are three servants, the
cook, Jeanne and myself … On the notice board, we find our timetable for the whole
day … At such-and-such a time we must be in such-and-such a room, doing
such-and-such a job, and all hell breaks loose if we are found elsewhere
…'

‘Did the two sisters get on
well?'

‘I think so, yes …'

‘At the table, was Lili more cheerful,
or more talkative, than Odette?'

‘It's six of
one and half a dozen of the other …'

‘I'm going to repeat my earlier
question and I urge you to think hard: are you sure that it was the 1st of August, two
days before her sister died, that your employer fell ill?'

‘I'm certain.'

‘Where does the doctor see his
patients?'

‘He doesn't see them in the
house but in the annexe at the bottom of the garden. The annexe has a direct entrance
from a little sidestreet—'

‘Who opens the door to the
patients?'

‘No one. They ring the bell and the
door opens automatically. The patients go into a waiting room. There are very few,
nearly always by appointment … Monsieur doesn't need to do that, you
understand?'

‘Drink up, Monsieur Maigret, and let
me refill your glass.'

He drained it and they all clinked glasses
again. Francis and La Popine were both slightly overwhelmed by Maigret's gravity,
by the huge effort he was making and which they vaguely sensed.

‘It's so hard,' said La
Popine, as if to console him, ‘to know what goes on in those big houses …
People like us, we say what we think and even more … but others—'

‘Look,' broke in Francis.
‘Just take this evening, for instance … Usually, I wait for Monsieur to ring
for his whisky … Every night, at around ten, when he is in his library, he has a
nightcap … Even though I have a room in the house, he knows that I don't
sleep there … I put the tray down on the desk, I put the ice in the glass, and
invariably he says to me: “Good night, Francis … you may go
…”'

‘Tonight
…'

He sensed that Maigret was tense and it made
him awkward, as if he were afraid of letting him down once again.

‘It's only a detail … It
came back to me because La Popine just said that you never know what's going on in
big houses … Usually, I prepare the tray in advance and I sometimes sit there for
a quarter of an hour watching the clock … I am alone at that moment … Jeanne
is in her room, smoking cigarettes and reading novels in bed … The cook is married
and sleeps in town. At ten fifteen when I realized that Monsieur hadn't rung for
me, I quietly went upstairs with the tray … There was some light under the door
… I waited for a while, then I looked through the keyhole … He wasn't
in his chair … I knocked but I saw no one. I went into every room, except
Madame's bedroom, of course, but he was nowhere to be found … Not
downstairs, nor in his consulting room in the annexe … I went up to Jeanne's
room and she told me that he wasn't in Madame's room either, and that her
door was locked.'

‘Just a moment … Is the door
usually locked?'

‘Not when Monsieur is out … Mind
you, I didn't think anything of it and, at half past ten I put the tray out for
him and left … It's the first time he's ever gone out without telling
me. What's more, he'd left his light on.'

‘Are you sure he had gone
out?'

‘His hat wasn't on the coat
stand.'

‘Did he take the car?'

‘No, I looked in the garage
…'

Just then, La Popine and Francis both stared
at Maigret,
at first surprised, then anxious as he stood up, his face
inscrutable.

‘Do you have a telephone?' he
asked.

He had to go into the shop and lean on the
icy marble counter, next to the enamel scales.

‘Hello! … Is that the Brasserie
du Remblai? … Tell me … Have you seen Doctor Bellamy this
evening?'

They didn't ask who was calling.

‘No, not this afternoon … After
dinner, that's right … You haven't seen him? … Just a moment,
please … Is the chief inspector there by any chance? … He never comes in the
evening? … Don't hang up, mademoiselle … Am I talking to the waiter?
… The manager? … None of the gentlemen who play bridge are there? …
Yes. Monsieur Rouillet, Monsieur Lourceau … Right … Put Monsieur Lourceau
on, would you? …'

A languid voice on the other end, that of a
man who is on his fifth or sixth hour of bridge and at least his sixth little
tipple.

‘Hello! Monsieur Lourceau …
I'm sorry to disturb you … Chief Inspector Maigret … It doesn't
matter … I'd like a simple piece of information … Do you know where
I'm likely to find Bellamy at this hour? … No, he's not at home
… Really? … He never goes out at night? … You have no idea? …
Thank you very much …'

He became increasingly heavy, and there was
a hint of anxiety in his eyes. He flicked through the telephone directory and called the
coroner.

‘Hello … Inspector Maigret here
… No, it's not about an investigation … I would simply like to know
whether
Doctor Bellamy is with you … I thought that, given
what's happened and since you are friends … No, no! … I simply need to
ask him something … You haven't seen him? … You haven't the
least idea where I might be able to get hold of him? … What? … At the
hospital? … I hadn't thought of that.'

It was so straightforward! Might not the
doctor have gone to the hospital to see one of his patients?

‘Hello … Sister Aurélie?
… I'm sorry … I thought I recognized her voice … Can you tell me
whether Doctor Bellamy …'

Neither at the convent hospital nor at the
municipal hospital.

‘One thing, Francis … Does the
doctor's bedroom overlook Le Remblai?'

‘Not exactly … It looks on to
the east façade, but you can see it from the promenade.'

‘Thank you very much.'

‘Are you going?'

He left them completely baffled in their
little dining room, Francis in his slippers and his open shirt, La Popine thrilled to
have spent an evening with her idol.

‘If you are in the neighbourhood
tomorrow lunchtime, Monsieur Maigret, I'll be bound to have some information about
the girl …'

He was barely listening. By now the streets
were completely empty. It was past midnight. He spotted a police officer under a gas
lamp and almost stopped him to ask whether he had seen Doctor Bellamy.

In the big house on Le Remblai, the only lit
window was
that of the library. Francis had left the light on when he
went home, as he had told Maigret. If the doctor had come back, there would probably be
a light on in his room. In any case, he would have switched off the light in his study
after drinking his whisky.

La Popine had spoken of a small town. But
right now, Maigret found it too big. Big enough, in any case, for it to be impossible to
locate a man and a girl in it.

If only he had known Lucile's name
earlier!

He walked with great, rapid strides. Instead
of going back to his hotel, he took a detour and saw the red light of the police station
where only a sergeant and a few officers were on duty.

‘Do any of you happen to know a girl
called Lucile?'

They broke off their game of belote, looked
at each other and racked their brains.

‘My wife's called Lucile,'
joked one of them, ‘but, since you said a girl, it can't be her
…'

‘You don't know her
surname?' the sergeant asked naively.

It was an officer of around thirty who
taught Maigret a lesson, saying slowly:

‘That's a question you should be
asking the schoolmistresses.'

Of course! Maigret, who had never had any
children, hadn't thought of that. It was so simple!

‘How many schools are there in Les
Sables d'Olonne?'

‘Hold on a minute … If you count
Château d'Oléron, that makes three. I'm talking about girls'
schools … Not including the convent schools …'

‘Do the teachers
sleep there?'

‘Of course not … Especially as
it's the summer holidays now …'

Maigret had conducted thousands of
investigations, nosed around in the most diverse milieus. But just as, a few days
earlier, he had known nothing of nuns or the atmosphere of a hospital, he was equally
ignorant of everything to do with schools.

‘Do you think the teachers have the
telephone?'

‘It's unlikely … They earn
about as little as we do, poor things!'

Suddenly, he was weary. Since five
o'clock that afternoon, his mind had been working so fast that he suddenly felt
drained, useless, just as he hit a blank wall.

Eight or ten schoolteachers were asleep
somewhere in the town, in those little houses huddled together, their windows open on to
narrow streets or little gardens.

One of them at least knew Lucile, whose
homework she marked every day.

At one point, on the threshold of the police
station, about to step out into the dark again, he had a moment's hesitation and
nearly went back inside to ask for the list of all the local schoolmistresses, then go
from door to door.

Was it the feeling that he was being absurd
that stopped him?

‘
The town isn't so
big,
'
La Popine had said.

Too big, unfortunately! They must have been
talking about him as they fell asleep, the fishmonger and Francis! Perhaps that other
couple too, the Flemish woman and Fernand, the butcher! And Lourceau, the coroner, the
nun
on night duty at the convent hospital, all the people he had
bothered that evening.

He had probably left a trail of anxiety
behind him, or at least curiosity.

Did he have the right, because he had a
vague hunch, to disturb more streets, to disturb this entire little town nestling around
its port?

He rang at the door of his hotel. Monsieur
Léonard, who had waited up for him snoozing in a chair, came and opened it, a mute
reproach in his eyes. Not because he had been kept up, but because he assumed that
Maigret had been misbehaving.

‘You look tired,' he said.
‘A little drink, before you go upstairs?'

‘You don't happen to know a girl
called Lucile who …'

This was ridiculous. He was annoyed with
himself. Monsieur Léonard filled two small glasses with Calvados. Good Lord! How
many little tipples and glasses of white wine had Maigret drunk over the past few days!
Even so, he wasn't drunk.

‘To your good health!'

He stumbled up the stairs and dropped his
clothes casually on the floor of his room. The next day, or rather the same day, as it
was past midnight, would be the funeral. Beforehand, he would make a telephone call to
Chief Inspector Mansuy, who was in his office from eight o'clock in the
morning.

The first part of the night went by in a
sort of nightmare. He rang doorbells, hundreds of doorbells, and heads appeared around
half-open doors, heads that shook from
left to right and right to left
in negation. No one spoke. Neither did he. And yet everyone understood that he was
looking for the doctor and Lucile.

Then a big, dark void, nothingness, and
finally a knocking on his door, the voice of Germaine, the chambermaid:

‘You're wanted on the telephone
…'

He had gone to bed without putting on his
pyjamas and had to hunt for them everywhere. His pillow was damp with an acrid sweat
that smelled of alcohol. He did not hear the familiar noises in the adjacent rooms. It
was either too early or too late.

He slipped on his dressing gown as he opened
the door.

‘What time is it?'

‘Half past seven.'

Time seemed out of joint. He did not
recognize the usual morning light. And why was Chief Inspector Mansuy calling him at
half past seven?

‘Hello! … Is that you,
sir?'