The Misty Harbour (7 page)

Instead of an answer, another
question.

‘Did you see your
brother?'

She shuddered in surprise.

‘When?'

‘Last night … or this
morning.'

‘Louis is here?'

She seemed
frightened, disoriented.

‘The
Saint-Michel
has
arrived.'

His words appeared to reassure her, as
if she had been afraid that her brother had shown up without the schooner.

‘So he's on his way to
Caen?'

‘No, he spent the night aboard one
of the dredgers.'

‘Let's go – I'm
cold …'

The wind from the ocean was freshening
as the overcast deepened.

‘Does he often sleep on an empty
old boat?'

When she didn't reply, the
conversation died on its own. They walked on, hearing only the sand crunching softly
underfoot and the snapping leaps of tiny crustaceans, disturbed at their feast of
seaweed swept in by the tide.

Maigret was seeing two images come
together in his mind's eye: a yacht … and a gold fountain-pen.

Then his thoughts came like clockwork.
Earlier that morning, the pen had been difficult to explain because it didn't
fit in with the
Saint-Michel
or its rough-and-ready crew.

A yacht … and a fountain-pen.
That made more sense! A wealthy, middle-aged man is looking for a pleasure yacht and
loses a gold pen.

But how to explain why this man, instead
of going ashore at the quay, took the schooner's dinghy, hauled himself up the
jetty ladder and hid in a waterlogged dredger?

‘The night Joris vanished, when
your brother came to see you, did he talk about this buyer? He didn't mention,
for example, that the man was aboard the
Saint-Michel
?'

‘No. He simply said that the deal
was almost settled.'

They were approaching the foot of the
lighthouse. Joris'
cottage was just
to the left, and flowers planted by the captain were still blooming in the
garden.

Julie's face fell. She seemed sad
and looked around vacantly like someone who no longer knew what to do with her
life.

‘You'll probably be going to
see Joris' lawyer soon, for the reading of the will. You're a wealthy
woman, now.'

‘Fat chance!' she said
curtly.

‘What do you mean?'

‘You know perfectly well. All this
nonsense about a fortune, huh … The captain wasn't rich.'

‘You don't know
that.'

‘He didn't keep secrets from
me. If he'd had hundreds of thousands of francs, he would have told me. And he
wouldn't have hesitated, last winter, to buy himself a two-thousand-franc
shotgun! He really wanted that gun … He'd had a look at the
mayor's and found out how much it cost.'

They had reached the front gate.

‘Are you coming in?'

‘No. Perhaps I'll see you
later.'

She hesitated before going inside the
cottage, where she would be all alone.

Nothing much happened over the next few
hours. Maigret hung around the dredger like someone with time on his hands and a
deep fondness for strange sights. There were chains, capstans, dredging buckets,
huge pipes …

Towards eleven, he had an aperitif with
the bar regulars.

‘Has anyone seen Big
Louis?'

They had seen him, rather early that
morning. He had
downed two glasses of rum
there and taken off along the main road.

Maigret was drowsy. Perhaps he had
caught a chill the night before. In any case, he felt as if he were coming down with
the flu and looked it, too. He seemed lethargic.

But it didn't appear to bother him
– and that bothered everyone else! His companions stole worried glances at him; the
general mood was subdued.

‘What should I do with the
dinghy?' asked Delcourt.

‘Tie it up somewhere.'

Maigret tossed out another disquieting
question.

‘Has a stranger been seen around
here, this morning? Or anything unusual, over by the dredgers?'

No, nothing! But now that he had asked,
they all felt something was in the offing.

It was funny: they all expected high
drama! A presentiment? The feeling that this chain of events still had one more link
to go?

A boat sounded its horn at the lock. The
men stood up. Maigret trudged to the post office to see if there were any messages
for him. A telegram from Lucas announced his arrival at 2.10.

And when that time came, so did the
little train that runs along the canal from Caen to Ouistreham. With its 1850-model
carriages, it looked like a child's toy when it appeared in the distance, but
it pulled into the station with squealing brakes and a cloud of hissing steam.

Lucas came towards Maigret with his hand
outstretched – and was surprised by the inspector's weary gloom.

‘What's wrong?'

‘I'm
fine.'

Lucas couldn't help laughing at
that, even though Maigret was his boss.

‘You certainly don't look
it! Well, since I haven't had any lunch …'

‘Come to the hotel, they must
still have something there to eat.'

They sat in the main dining room, where
the hotel-owner served the sergeant himself. He hovered around Maigret and Lucas as
they talked quietly and when he brought over the cheese he saw his chance to speak
up.

‘Did you hear what happened to the
mayor?'

Maigret reacted with such alarm that the
man was taken aback.

‘Oh, nothing serious! It's
just that a little while ago, at home, he fell while coming downstairs. No one knows
how he managed to do that, but his face is so battered that he had to take to his
bed.'

Then Maigret had a brainwave. That is
the right word, for his intellect deciphered the incident in an instant.

‘Is Madame Grandmaison still in
Ouistreham?'

‘No, she took the car and left
early this morning with her daughter. I suppose they went to Caen.'

Maigret's flu vanished.

‘Are you going to sit there all
day?' he grumbled.

‘Of course,' replied Lucas
placidly, ‘it's easy for someone with a full stomach to wax impatient
watching a hungry man tuck into his food. Let's say, three minutes
more … Oh! Don't take the camembert away yet please!'

The hotel-owner had not been lying, but
the news he had passed on had been somewhat exaggerated, for Monsieur Grandmaison
was not laid up in bed.

When Maigret arrived at the Norman
villa, after sending Lucas to keep his eye on the dredger, he saw through the
picture window a form sitting in the classic pose of the patient who must stay home
to convalesce.

Although the inspector could not see his
features, it was obviously the mayor.

Further from the window stood another
man, but that was all Maigret could determine.

After ringing the bell, he heard more
comings and goings inside than were necessary to open a front door. The maid arrived
at last, a middle-aged, rather pinch-faced creature who must have felt infinite
contempt for all visitors, for she never bothered to unclench her teeth.

Having opened the door, she went back up
the few steps leading to the front hall and left Maigret to shut the door himself.
Then she knocked on a double door and stood aside as the inspector entered the
mayor's study.

There had been something peculiar about
that whole performance. Nothing blatantly bizarre, but jarring little things and a
slightly uneasy atmosphere.

The house was a large one, almost new,
in the prevailing
style of the French
seaside, but given the wealth of the Grandmaison family, chief stockholders in the
Compagnie Anglo-Normande, a touch more luxury might have been expected. Perhaps they
had saved such embellishment for their residence in Caen?

Maigret had hardly entered the room when
he heard: ‘Here you are, inspector!'

The voice came from over by the window.
Monsieur Grandmaison was ensconced in a massive club chair with his legs propped up
on another chair. It was difficult to see him, because of the backlighting, but he
was clearly wearing a scarf loosely knotted around his throat instead of a stiff
collar, and covering the left half of his face with one hand.

‘Do sit down.'

Maigret took a tour of the room, then
finally went to sit facing the ship-owner. He struggled to repress a smile, for the
mayor was quite a sight.

His left cheek, which his hand could not
entirely conceal, was puffy, and his upper lip swollen, but what he was most intent
on hiding was a stunning black eye.

The man's face wouldn't have
seemed that funny if he hadn't been trying so hard to be as dignified as usual
in spite of it! He was undaunted and stared at Maigret with frank suspicion.

‘You've come to report the
results of your inquiry?'

‘No. You received me so graciously
the other day, with the gentlemen from the public prosecutor's office, that I
wished to thank you for your hospitality.'

There was never a hint of irony in
Maigret's smiles. On
the contrary!
The more mocking he was, the more studiously solemn his face.

He looked around the study again. The
walls were full of technical drawings of freighters and photographs of the ships of
the Compagnie Anglo-Normande. The furniture was nondescript, good-quality mahogany,
but nothing more. On the desk, a few files, some letters, telegrams.

And the inspector seemed to gaze with
particular pleasure at the beautifully waxed floor.

‘It seems you've had an
accident?'

Sighing, the mayor shifted his legs and
grumbled, ‘A misstep, coming down the stairs.'

‘This morning? Madame Grandmaison
must have been terrified!'

‘My wife had already
left.'

‘The weather is hardly suitable
for a seaside vacation, true! Unless one is an avid duck hunter … I
suppose that Madame Grandmaison is at Caen with your daughter?'

‘Paris, actually.'

The ship-owner was carelessly dressed.
Dark trousers, a dressing gown over a grey flannel shirt, felt slippers.

‘What was there at the foot of the
stairs?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘What did you land on?'

A venomous look. A strained reply.

‘The floor, obviously.'

A lie, a whopper! Falling on the floor
never gave anyone a black eye. Still less the marks of fingers tightly wrapped
around one's throat!

As it happened, whenever the scarf moved
the tiniest
bit, Maigret could easily see
the bruises it was intended to conceal from him.

‘You were alone in the house,
naturally.'

‘Why
“naturally”?'

‘Because such accidents always
happen when there's no one around to come and help!'

‘The maid was doing her
shopping.'

‘She's the only servant
here?'

‘I also have a gardener, but he
has gone to Caen. He had some errands there.'

‘You must have been in real
pain.'

What worried the mayor the most was
precisely this solemnity on Maigret's part. He sounded sincerely
sympathetic!

Although it was only 3.30, evening was
already coming on, and the room was growing dark.

‘May I?'

The inspector pulled his pipe from his
pocket.

‘If you'd like a cigar,
there are some on the mantelpiece.'

There was a whole pile of packing-cases
in a corner. A bottle of aged Armagnac, on a tray. The tall doors were of varnished
pitch pine.

‘And what about your
investigation?'

Maigret gestured vaguely, making an
effort not to look over at the door to the drawing room, a door that was vibrating
for some mysterious reason …

‘Nothing to report?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Would you like my opinion? It was
a mistake to let people think that this was a complicated matter.'

‘Evidently!' grunted
Maigret. ‘As if there were anything
complicated about what happened! One evening, a man
disappears and gives no sign of life for well over a month. He's found in
Paris six weeks later, with a skilfully repaired bullet wound in his skull, having
lost his memory. Brought home, he is poisoned that same night. Meanwhile, three
hundred thousand francs have been deposited, from Hamburg, into his bank account.
It's simple! Clear as day!'

This time, there was no mistaking the
inspector's meaning, despite his genial tone.

‘Well, perhaps the matter is less
complicated than you think, in any case,' insisted the mayor. ‘And
supposing that this death truly is mysterious, it would be better, I believe, not to
wantonly create an atmosphere of anxiety. By speaking of such things in certain
cafés, one ends by unsettling minds that alcohol has already made only too
unstable.'

Directing his stern, authoritative gaze
at Maigret, he spoke slowly, carefully, as if delivering an indictment.

‘And on the other hand, the police
have made no effort to obtain information from the proper authorities! Even I, the
local mayor, know nothing of what's happening down in the harbour.'

‘Does your gardener wear
espadrilles?'

The mayor looked immediately at the
shining parquet, where footprints were clearly visible on the waxy surface. The
pattern of rope-soled shoes was unmistakable.

‘I have no idea!'

‘Pardon me for interrupting you! A
thought that occurred to me … You were saying?'

But Monsieur Grandmaison had lost the
thread of his speech.

‘Would you
reach me down that box of cigars? … That's it, thank you.'

He lit one, moaning faintly because he
was opening his jaws too wide.

‘In short, how far have you got?
Surely you've come up with
some
interesting leads by now.'

‘Not really!'

‘That's curious, because
those people down in the harbour aren't lacking in imagination, in general,
and certainly not after a few aperitifs.'

‘I suppose you've sent
Madame Grandmaison off to Paris to spare her the distress of all this drama? And any
unpleasantness that might be still to come?'

They were not fighting out in the open.
Yet they were sparring with a certain covert hostility fuelled simply, perhaps, by
the social divide between them.

Maigret drank down at the Buvette de la
Marine with fishermen and lock workers.

The mayor entertained guests from the
public prosecutor's office with tea, liqueurs and petits fours.

Maigret was simply a man, impossible to
categorize.

Monsieur Grandmaison belonged to a very
definite social milieu. He was the most important man in a small town, the scion of
an old bourgeois family, a prosperous and respectable ship-owner.

True, he put on democratic airs and
cheerfully greeted the members of his constituency in the streets of Ouistreham. But
this was a condescending, electoral democracy! He was patronizing them.

Maigret looked so rock-solid it was
almost frighteningly
impressive. Monsieur
Grandmaison, with his pink face and rolls of fat, was fast losing a grip on his
authority and sang-froid.

So he went waxed indignant to regain the
upper hand.

‘
Monsieur Maigret
,'
he began.

And it was a thing of beauty, the way he
said those first two words!

‘
Monsieur
Maigret
 … I take the liberty of reminding you that, as mayor of this
town—'

So placidly that the mayor could only
stare at him, the inspector rose and walked to a door that he opened as casually as
you please.

‘Do come in, Louis! It's
irritating to watch a door that can't stop shaking and to hear you breathing
behind it.'

Maigret must have been disappointed if
he had hoped to create a dramatic scene: Big Louis did as he was told. He came into
the study with his head and shoulders awry, as usual, and stood looking at the floor
like both a simple sailor overawed by the villa of a local magnate and a man
suddenly finding himself in a difficult stuation.

As for the mayor, he was puffing heavily
on his cigar and staring straight ahead.

Daylight was almost gone from the study.
A gas lamp outside was already lit.

‘May I turn on the light?'
asked Maigret.

‘Just a minute … Close
the curtains, first. There's no need for people going by
to … That's it, the cord on the left, pull it slowly.'

Big Louis remained standing motionless
in the middle
of the study. Maigret
switched the light on, walked over to the slow-combustion stove and automatically
began to poke the fire.

It was a great habit of his. As was the
way he would stand in front of a fire with his hands clasped behind him, toasting
his back, when he was absorbed in reflection.

Had the situation changed? Be that as it
may, there was a glint of mockery in the look Monsieur Grandmaison gave the
inspector, who was thinking hard.

‘Was Big Louis here when
you … had your accident?'

‘No!'

‘Too bad! That's how you
might have, for example, in tumbling down the stairs, landed on his bare
fist …'

‘And it would have allowed you to
stir up anxiety in the little harbour cafés, by telling fanciful tales. Best wrap
this business up, don't you think, inspector? There are two of
us … We are both working on this case. You come here from
Paris … You've brought with you Captain Joris, in a pitiful state,
and all the evidence indicates that it was not in Ouistreham that he met with such
injury … You were here when he was killed …You go about your inquiry
in your own way.'

The man's voice was positively
cutting.

‘As for me, I have been the mayor
here for ten years. I know my constituents. I consider myself responsible for their
well-being. As mayor I am also the local chief of police. Well …'

When he paused to take a long puff on
his cigar, the ash dropped off and crumbled over his dressing gown.

‘While you've been
patronizing the harbour bistros, I, too, have been busy with this case, if you
please!'

‘And you
summoned Big Louis.'

‘As I will summon others if I see
fit. And now, I suppose that you have nothing more of importance to tell
me?'

He rose, a trifle stiffly, to see his
visitor to the door.

‘I trust,' murmured Maigret,
‘that you will have no objection if Louis comes with me? I already questioned
him last night, but there are a few more things I'd like to ask
him.'

Monsieur Grandmaison gestured
dismissively by way of reply. It was Big Louis who stayed right where he was,
staring at the floor as if nailed to it.

‘Are you coming?'

‘Nah! Not right now.'

It was more grunting than speaking, like
everything Julie's brother said.

‘Let me point out,' observed
the mayor, ‘that I have no objection at all to his going with you! I insist
that you take note of this, so that you will not accuse me of trying to stymie your
investigation. I sent for Big Louis to inquire about certain matters. If he prefers
to stay, it's probably because he has something else to tell me.'