“Telegrams aren’t delivered on Sunday after eleven. That is, unless you go to the post office and fetch them yourself… What will you have, Inspector?… Do you know, people have been talking a lot about you in the town?…”

  “Very nice of them!”

  “No, I’m afraid they haven’t been saying anything very nice about you. Your attitude has been interpreted as…”

  “Garçon! Un demi!” called out Maigret. “And mind it’s cold.”

  “You drink beer at this time of the day?…”

  Marguerite passed along the street, and you could see from her walk that she was quite conscious of her reputation of being the best-dressed young lady in the town.

  “They’re a nuisance, these family scandals… We haven’t had a case of this kind in Givet for ten years. The last was a Polish workman who…”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen…”

  Maigret dashed out into the street, just in time to catch Anna Peeters and her brother, who walked along with their heads high, as though to defy all the suspicion and animosity directed against them.

  “Is it all right for me to come this afternoon, as I suggested yesterday?”

  “Of course. At what time?”

  “About half-past three, if that suits you.”

  With a sulky look on his face, he returned to his hotel, chose the most isolated table, and sat down to lunch..

  “Put a call through to Paris, will you?”

  “The telephone doesn’t work after eleven on Sundays.”

  “All right. Never mind.”

  During the meal he scanned a little local paper. One of the headlines amused him!

  The Givet Mystery Thickens.

  If it had thickened for him, it had solidified altogether! In fact, there was no longer any mystery at all.

  “Give me some more of those French beans,” he called out to the waiter.

  * * *

  Chapter IX

  ROUND THE WICKER CHAIR

  « ^ »

  OF all the little family rites that distinguished a Sunday in the Peeters’ household, what most struck Maigret was the shifting of the wicker arm-chair.

  During the week its place, and therefore the old man’s, was by the kitchen stove. Even when visitors were received in the sitting-room, it made no difference.

  But on Sundays, ritual demanded the old man’s inclusion, and a place was set aside for the wicker chair by the window looking out on to the yard. The meerschaum pipe with the long wild-cherry stem lay on the window-sill by a jar of tobacco. In a small leather-upholstered easy-chair Dr. Van de Weert sat with his legs crossed, facing the stove. He was reading the report of the Belgian pathologist, and as he read he nodded, shook his head, raised his eyebrows, or otherwise expressed whatever thoughts went through his mind.

  Finally he handed the document back to Maigret. Marguerite, who was between them, wanted to take it, but her father objected:

  “No, my dear. It’s not for you.”

  Maigret handed it to Joseph Peeters.

  “I dare say you’ll be interested…”

  They were sitting round the table: Joseph and Marguerite, Anna and her mother, the latter getting up every few minutes to see to the coffee. Like a true Belgian, the doctor was drinking Burgundy with his cigar, whose lighted end he waved constantly from side to side beneath his chin.

  As he passed through the kitchen, Maigret had seen half a dozen tarts all ready.

  “It’s certainly a very thorough report,” said the doctor, “though it doesn’t say whether… whether…”

  He glanced at his daughter with embarrassment.

  “Whether she was raped,” said Maigret bluntly.

  And he nearly laughed aloud at the shocked expression on the little man’s face. Not that he wasn’t quite prepared to discuss the subject, but it had to be done in a suitably roundabout way.

  “It would have been interesting to know,” he went on. “For in cases such as these… there was one in 1911, for instance…”

  And in duly veiled phraseology he described a very uninteresting case, to which Maigret did not bother to listen. Instead, he watched Joseph reading the pathologist’s report.

  It wasn’t pretty reading either. A minute description of Germaine Piedbœuf’s body in the state in which it had been found after long immersion in the water.

  Joseph was pale. Like his sister Maria, he had rather pinched nostrils.

  Would he stick it? Or would he give it a cursory glance and hand it back?

  There was no doubt about the answer. He was reading it carefully line by line, and Anna, leaning over his shoulder, was reading too. He was about to turn over the page, when she stopped him.

  “Just a moment.”

  She had still three lines to read. Then together they began the following page, which started with:

  The hole in the cranium is of considerable dimensions, and no vestige of brain can be found within, it having been either washed out or eaten by fish.

  “If you wouldn’t mind taking your glass, Monsieur le commissaire, so that I can lay the table…”

  Madame Peeters removed the ash-tray, the box of cigars, and the decanter of schnapps, leaving them on the mantelpiece while she spread a hand-embroidered cloth over the table.

  Anna and Joseph were still reading, while Marguerite eyed them enviously. The doctor, realizing that nobody was listening, returned to his cigar.

  By the end of the second page, Joseph was white as a sheet, with dark shadows on either side of his nose, and beads of perspiration on his forehead. He had had enough, and it was Anna who turned over the page, and she alone who read to the end.

  Marguerite left her seat and touched the young man on the shoulder.

  “Poor dear! You shouldn’t have read it… Why don’t you go outside for a breath of fresh air?”

  Maigret pounced on the suggestion.

  “That’s a good idea. And I’d like to stretch my legs too.”

  A moment later they were both standing bare-headed on the quay. The rain had stopped. There was no space between the barges that was not exploited by some fishing enthusiast. A continuous electric bell, sounding somewhere beyond the bridge, signalled the opening of a cinema.

  Joseph nervously ht a cigarette, then gazed out over the river.

  “It’s upset you, hasn’t it?… Excuse my asking, but are you still thinking of marrying Marguerite?”

  A long silence followed. Joseph avoided turning towards Maigret, who looked steadily at his profile. At last the young man turned his head, but it was towards the shop, then towards the bridge, and lastly back to the Meuse.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you ever been in love with her?”

  “Why did you make me read that report?”

  He passed his hand across his forehead, and in spite of the cold air his fingers were wet from the contact.

  “Was Germaine much less pretty?”

  “Oh, stop!… I don’t know… I’ve had it dinned into me all my life that Marguerite was beautiful, and intelligent, and cultured, and everything else…”

  “And now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He didn’t want to talk about it. The few words he spoke seemed to be dragged out of him against his will. He squeezed his cigarette so tight between his fingers that he tore the paper.

  “She’s prepared to go through with it, in spite of your son?”

  “She wants to adopt it.”

  His features sagged. He looked ill with lassitude, or perhaps disgust. He shot a glance at Maigret to sec if anymore questions were coming.

  “In your family everybody seems to think you’ll be married soon… Is Marguerite your mistress?”

  The answer was a low growl:

  “No.”

  “She wouldn’t have it?”

  “There was never any question of it… I never dreamt of such a thing… You don’t understand.”

  And in sudden outburst:

  “I’ve got to marry her. I’ve got to. And that’s all about it.”

  The two men stared in front of them. Maigret began to feel cold without an overcoat. At that moment the shop door opened, and he once more heard the bell he knew so well. Then Marguerite’s voice, too sweet, too caressing:

  “What are you doing, Joseph?”

  The young man’s eyes met Maigret’s for a second, and the look in them said yet more clearly:

  “I’ve got to, and that’s all about it.”

  And Marguerite went on:

  “You’ll catch cold if you stand out there much longer. Besides, the coffee’s ready… What’s the matter? You’re still as pale as a ghost…”

  Joseph turned towards the house, but not without a fleeting, wistful look towards the corner of the little street in which, invisible from where they stood, was the humble house where Germaine had lived.

  Anna was already cutting the tarts into lavish slices.

  Madame Peeters said little, as though conscious of the superiority of her children. But as soon as one of them spoke she smiled and nodded her approval.

  All the same, she seemed to have made up her mind to say her little piece on this occasion.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Monsieur le commissaire … I hope I’m not going to. say anything stupid…”

  To help herself out, she put another large slice of tart on the inspector’s plate.

  “I heard that certain things were found on board the Etoile Polaire, and also that Cassin had run away… He’s been here several times, but in the end I had to turn him away. First of all because he was always asking for credit, and then because he was never sober… But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about… The thing is, that if he’s run away he must be guilty. And if he’s guilty, that settles everything, doesn’t it?”

  Anna was placidly eating. She didn’t look at Maigret or show any interest in her mother’s theories. Marguerite was trying to coax Joseph to eat something.

  “A small piece… Just to please me…”

  With his mouth full, Maigret replied to Madame Peeters:

  “I could answer your question if I was in charge of the case. But I’m not… Don’t forget: it was your daughter who asked me to come here to clear the family of suspicion.”

  Van de Weert fidgeted on his chair like a man who’s dying to speak but can’t get a word in.

  “But really…” he began.

  “Machère’s in charge here, and…”

  “But really, Inspector, there’s such a thing as rank,” said the doctor at last. “I don’t know much about the police, but you must be a great deal higher up than he is.”

  “When I’m acting officially. But here I’ve no status at all. If I want to ask questions, people can refuse to answer. If I want to enter a house, they can refuse me admittance… I went on board the Etoile Polaire at the risk of being turned away. By a stroke of luck I found the hammer Germaine was killed with, and the little coat she had been wearing…”

  “In that case…”

  “In that case nothing! They’re trying to arrest the man. Perhaps they’ve already done so by this time. Only, he may have quite a lot to say for himself. For instance, he might say that he picked the things up and kept them without realizing their importance… Or he might say he was afraid to come forward. Having had a previous conviction, he thought nobody would believe him…”

  “That won’t hold water.”

  “There’s many a defence that won’t hold water. But there’s many a prosecution that’s in exactly the same plight… And as for prosecuting, there are others who might be accused… Do you know what I was told today?… That Gérard Piedbœuf is in the devil of a mess and doesn’t know how to get out of it. He’s up to his ears in debt. Worse still, he was found pinching money from the till. They were ready to overlook it, but they’re withholding half his pay till it’s all paid back.”

  “Really?”

  “So why shouldn’t he have got rid of his sister to claim damages from you?”

  “What a dreadful idea!” exclaimed Madame Peeters, who was so horrified as to be unable to go on eating.

  “You knew him pretty well, didn’t you?” said Maigret, turning to Joseph.

  “I saw a certain amount of him at one time. But it’s a long time ago.”

  “Before the child was born, wasn’t it?… You used to go on outings together, if I’m not mistaken. In fact, I think your sister went with you once, when you went to the Rochefort Caves…”

  “Did you really?” asked Madame Peeters, turning to Anna. “I never heard about that.”

  “If I did, I’ve forgotten all about it,” said Anna, whose eyes were fixed on the inspector as she went on eating.

  “Still, all that’s of no importance,” said Maigret. “As a matter of fact, I’m not sure what I wanted to say… Anyhow, I’d like another piece of tart, Mademoiselle Anna. No, not the fruit one. I’ll stick to your magnificent tarte au riz. You made it, I suppose?”

  “She always does,” Madame Peeters made haste to answer.

  And suddenly a dead silence reigned in the room. Maigret said no more, and nobody else was disposed to undertake the burden of conversation. Nothing but the sound of munching all round the table. The inspector dropped his fork, and quickly stooping to pick it up, he caught sight of Marguerite’s elegantly shod foot pressing on Joseph’s.

  “Machère seems to be a capable fellow,” he said at last.

  “He doesn’t look very intelligent,” said Anna slowly and deliberately.

  And Maigret smiled at her. It was a smile of complicity.

  “How many people do look intelligent? And when it comes to that, it’s often just as well not to. As a rule, as soon as I’ve found a likely suspect, I take care to look as foolish as I can.”

  It was the first time Maigret had spoken to them like that. He seemed almost to be taking them into his confidence.

  “But one can’t really change one’s features,” said the doctor. “Take your forehead, for instance. To anyone with the least smattering of phrenology… Well, I wouldn’t mind betting you’re very headstrong.”

  The meal came to an end at last. The inspector was the first to push back his chair and cross his legs. He took his pipe from his pocket and started filling it.

  “Do you know what I’d like you to do, Mademoiselle Marguerite? Go to the piano and give us the Song Of Solveig.”

  She hesitated and looked enquiringly at Joseph, while Madame Peeters murmured:.

  “She plays so well… And such a voice!”

  “There’s one thing I regret, and that’s that Mademoiselle Maria isn’t with us… And my last day too…”

  Anna looked sharply at him.

  “Are you going?”

  “This evening… I have to work for my living, you know. Besides, my wife’s getting impatient.”

  “And Monsieur Machère?”

  “I don’t know what he intends doing. But I suppose…”

  The shop bell rang. There were hurried steps and then a knock on the door.

  It was Machère in a state of great excitement.

  “Is the inspector here?”

  He hadn’t seen him at once, taken aback as he was to find himself barging in on a family party.

  “What is it?”

  “I’d like a word with you.”

  “Excuse me, will you?”

  And Maigret led the way into the shop, where he stood leaning on the counter.

  “Those people make me sick.”

  Machère irritably jerked his chin in the direction of the sitting-room.

  “The smell of their coffee and tarts is enough to turn me up, to start with.”

  “Is that what you came to tell me?”

  “No. I’ve heard from Brussels. The train came in punctually…”

  “But our bargee wasn’t there!”

  “You knew it already?”

  “No, but I’m not surprised. Did you take the man for a fool? I certainly didn’t. He must have got out at some little junction, taken another train, and then still another… This evening he may be in Germany, or in Amsterdam, or he may even have doubled back to Paris.”

  “And where’s he going to get the money from?” asked Machère sarcastically.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That I’ve been making enquiries. Yesterday Cassin couldn’t pay for what was down on the slate in the bistro, so they refused to give him any more drinks… And it’s worse than that. It seems he owes money all round, and the tradesmen wanted to stop him sailing.”

  Maigret looked at his companion with an air of complete indifference.

  “What else?”

  “I didn’t stop at that. And it’s been the hell of a sweat on a Sunday, with half the people out. I even had to go to the cinema to question one or two.”

  While he smoked his pipe, Maigret amused himself putting weights in the two scale-pans to see if he could obtain a perfect balance.

  “I found out that yesterday Gérard Piedbœuf borrowed two thousand francs. He got his father to sign an I.O.U., as no one would trust him that far.”

  “Did they meet?”

  “Exactly! They did. It was a customs officer who saw Gérard Piedbœuf walking along the quay with Cassin, near the Belgian Customs House.”

  “At what time?”

  “About two.”

  “Excellent!”

  “What’s excellent about it? If Gérard gave him the money, it was to…”

  “Steady now! Don’t jump to conclusions, Machère. It’s a very risky business.”

  “The fact remains that Cassin, who hadn’t a bean in the morning, could buy a railway ticket in the afternoon. I’ve been to the station. He paid for the ticket with a thousand-franc note. And it seems he had others.”

  “Others or one other?”

  “I think he said others, though I’m not quite sure… But tell me, what would you do in my place?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  Maigret sighed, knocked his pipe out against his heel, and pointed to the sitting-room.

  “I’d go in and have a nice glass of schnapps… Particularly as there’s some music to go with it.”

 

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