14 - (Maigret) The Flemish Shop, page 7
Maigret thrust one leg out of the bed, then the other. He stared at himself in the glass for a moment before starting to lather his face. While he shaved, Machère went on reading from the typewritten document in his hands.
“Don’t you think it’s extraordinary?… I don’t mean about the hammer, but the fact that the body was only thrown into the water two or three days after the crime. I shall have to go and have another look over the house.”
“Do they give a list of the clothing found on the body?”
“Yes… One moment… Here it is… Black shoes with a strap across the instep, soles and heels fairly worn. Black stockings. Pink underclothes of poor quality. Black serge dress (no maker’s name).”
“Is that all?… No overcoat?”
“No… That’s funny.”
“It was the 3rd of January, cold and raining.”
Machère’s face clouded.
“Admittedly…”
“Admittedly what?”
“She wasn’t on such friendly terms with the Peeters that she’d be invited to take off her coat… On the other hand, if they’d removed it, why didn’t they strip her completely, so as to make identification harder?”
Maigret washed so vigorously that he even splashed Machère in the middle of the room.
“Do the Piedbœufs know?”
“Not yet. I thought perhaps you’d like to…”
“To do nothing of the sort! Don’t forget I’m not here officially. You carry on just as if I’d never come.”
He hunted for his collar-stud, and at last finished dressing.
“I must be off now,” he said, pushing Machère out of the door. “I’ll see you again later.”
He walked along aimlessly. He had come out just to be out of doors, or, more precisely, to plunge once more into the atmosphere of the town, and he didn’t care where his legs carried him. It was just a matter of luck that he suddenly found himself staring at a brass plate on which was engraved:
Docteur VAN DE WEERT
Consultations de dix heures à midi
A few minutes later, in spite of the three patients who sat waiting their turn, he was ushered into the presence of a little man, whose complexion was childishly pink, and whose hair was as beautifully white as Madame Peeters’.
“I’m glad to see you, Inspector. But I hope it’s nothing disagreeable…”
He rubbed his hands together as he spoke. A buoyant optimism radiated from his whole person.
“My daughter told me about you. It’s very kind of you to…”
“I’d like first of all to ask you a question: Does it require much force to smash a woman’s skull with a hammer?”
The little man’s consternation was a sight to see. He wore a morning-coat of a cut that had long been out of fashion. A massive watch-chain was stretched across his stomach.
“A woman’s skull? … How should I know? At Givet, I’ve never had occasion to consider such a question.”
“Do you think, for instance, that a woman would be strong enough?”
It was altogether too much for the doctor, who gesticulated excitedly.
“A woman?… My dear sir!… You’re surely not suggesting that a woman would think of…?”
“Are you a widower, Dr. Van de Weert?”
“I have been for twenty years. Fortunately my daughter…”
“What do you think of Joseph Peeters?”
“What could I think? He’s an excellent fellow… I would certainly have preferred him to take up medicine, as he could have taken over my practice… But there you are. He seems to be gifted for law. And it’s a fine profession.”
“What about his health?”
“Quite all right. Of course he’s been working very hard, and he may be a bit run down. And then being so tall… He shot up a bit too quickly, perhaps…”
“There’s no taint in the Peeters family?”
“A taint?”
He pronounced the word with such alarm that one might have thought he’d never heard of hereditary diseases.
“Really, Inspector! Your questions take me rather by surprise. You’ve seen my cousin, Madame Peeters. If you ask me, she’ll live to a hundred.”
“And your daughter?”
“She’s more delicate. She takes after her mother… May I offer you a cigar?”
A real Flemish type. He could have stepped straight out of a picture or an advertisement for some brand of schnapps. Full, bright red lips, and clear blue eyes that revealed all the simplicity of his soul.
“And Mademoiselle Marguerite was due to marry Joseph?”
The doctor’s face clouded ever so slightly.
“Yes. We were expecting them to marry one day or another, if it hadn’t been for this… this unfortunate…”
He couldn’t find the right word for it. But for him it was just something unfortunate.
“Strange, isn’t it?” he went on. “They couldn’t see how much better it would be for everybody for the girl to accept a little pension for herself and the child, and if possible to go and live in some other town… As a matter of fact, I think it was her brother who was at the bottom of it all.”
Maigret hadn’t the heart to condemn him. He was so obviously sincere, so obviously well-meaning. His very innocence blinded him to all the harsher realities of life.
“To say nothing of the fact that the child was never proved to be Joseph’s… If we’d found a good home for her and the child…”
“So your daughter was waiting till it had all blown over?”
Van de Weert smiled.
“She’s been in love with him from the age of fourteen. Beautiful, isn’t it?… And it wasn’t for me to raise objections… Have you got a match?… If you want my candid opinion, there hasn’t been any crime at all. That girl has always been running after men, and now she’s suddenly gone off with one. And her brother’s making the most of her disappearance, hoping to make a good thing out of it…”
It didn’t occur to him to ask Maigret’s opinion. He was quite convinced his version was the right one. He pricked his ears as sounds reached them from the waiting-room. No doubt the patients were getting restive.
And with an eye as innocent as the doctor’s, the inspector calmly asked his final question:
“Do you think Mademoiselle Marguerite is Joseph’s mistress?”
Van de Weert came very near to being indignant. The blood mounted to his forehead. But the feeling that gained the upper hand was one of sadness that anyone could be so uncomprehending.
“Marguerite?… Are you mad?… Who could ever have invented such a thing?… That Marguerite should be the… the…”
Maigret’s hand was already on the handle of the door, and without so much as a smile he took his leave and went out. In the house was a mixed smell of cooking and pharmaceutics. The maid who hastened to open the front door was as fresh as if she’d just stepped out of a hot bath.
Outside, he was once more in the rain and the mud. Passing lorries splashed the pedestrians.
It was Saturday. Joseph Peeters was due that afternoon, and he’d be staying till the following evening. In the Café des Mariniers a lively discussion was going on, for news had just come through from the Ponts-et-Chaussées that the river was now open to navigation from the frontier right down to Maestricht.
Only, on account of the strength of the current, the tugs were asking fifteen francs a ton per kilometre instead of ten.
They were also eagerly discussing a barge loaded with stones which had broken away from its moorings and fallen foul of the bridge at Namur and sunk, obstructing one of the arches.
“Any casualties?” asked Maigret.
“The bargee was ashore, but his wife and son were drowned. He was having a drink when they hauled him out of the bar. He ran down to the quay, but it was too late to do anything, as she was already out in the stream…”
Gérard Piedbœuf passed on his way home to lunch. This time he was cycling. A minute or two later, Machère appeared, coming back from the Flemish shop, where he had no doubt broken the news. Turning the corner, he went and rang the Piedbœufs’ door bell. The door was opened by the midwife, who received him coldly.
“So you’ve been had up for assaulting girls?… Tell me all about it.”
On board most barges, the living-quarters are kept in a state of cleanliness rarely equalled in private houses. But that was not the case with the Etoile Polaire.
Gustave Cassin was unmarried, and what little domestic work was done, was done by a lad of twenty who was epileptic and not quite all there.
The cabin smelt rather like a barracks. Cassin was busy on a hunk of bread and cold sausage, which he was washing down with a bottle of red wine.
More sober than usual, he looked guardedly at Maigret and was some little time making up his mind to speak.
“It wasn’t really an assault at all. I’d already been to bed with the girl two or three times… One evening I met her on my way and she refused to have anything to do with me, saying that I was drunk. All I did was to catch hold of her wrist, but she yelled out as though I was murdering her. Some gendarmes happened to be passing, and as luck would have it I caught one of them on the chin with my fist and bowled him clean over.”
“Did you get five years?”
“I thought I was going to. The little bitch swore she’d never had anything to do with me. Fortunately I had some witnesses, though the judge didn’t seem to believe all they said, but it helped me out a lot. In fact, I’d have got off with a year if it hadn’t been for the gendarme, who was in hospital for a fortnight…”
He cut off a bit of bread with his sailor’s knife.
“Would you like a drink?… We may be off tomorrow… But I want to know more about this lighter that’s obstructing the bridge at Namur…”
“And now tell me why you invented that story about the woman standing on the quay.”
“What story?” asked Cassia, trying to gain time.
“Come on! Admit that you never saw anything at all.”
Maigret did not fail to observe the flicker of glee that came into the bargee’s eye.
“Do you think so? Well, perhaps you’re right.”
“Who asked you to do it?”
“Who asked me?”
The little flame still danced in his eye. He spat out a bit of sausage-skin without even bothering to turn his head.
“Where did you come across Gérard Piedbœuf?”
“Ah, I wonder!”
The two men were as placid the one as the other.
“Did he give you anything?”
“He stood me a few drinks..”
Then, suddenly changing his tone, he went on, with a chuckle:
“Only, it isn’t true. I was only saying it to please you… And if you’d like me to say the same to a judge and jury, you’ve only to say the word.”
“What did you see, really?”
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Go on, all the same.”
“All right… I saw a woman waiting. Then a man came and she threw herself into his arms.”
“Who were they?”
“How could I tell, in the dark?”
“Where were you?”
“Coming back from a bistro.”
“Where did the couple go? To the Flemish shop?”
“No, they went behind.”
“Behind what?”
“Behind the house… On the other hand, if you’d rather that it wasn’t true… You see, I know the ropes. There were any amount of lies told at my trial, and my lawyer told more than anyone.”
“Do you go sometimes to have a drink in the Flemish shop?”
“Never. They refuse to serve me. All because I brought my fist down once, and they say I broke their scales. They want people to stand there and get drunk without ever moving or saying a word.”
“Did Gérard Piedbœuf talk to you?”
“What did I tell you just now?”
“That he’d asked you to say…”
“Would you really like to know the truth?… Well, here it is, and this time it’s God’s own truth, and that is, that I can’t stand the sight of a policeman, and you no more than any other. You can repeat that to the magistrate, and I’ll swear you beat me up, and what’s more, I’ll show the marks… Not but what I wouldn’t give you a glass of red if you’ve a mind for one.”
Maigret looked hard into his eyes, then suddenly stood up.
“Show me round,” he said curtly.
Was he surprised? Was he alarmed? Or merely disagreeable? Whichever it was, Cassin, with his mouth full, made a face.
“What is it you want to see?” he growled.
“Just a moment!”
Maigret went up on deck, returning a moment later with a customs officer whose oilskin shone with rain.
“I’ve already been cleared by the customs,” said Cassin scornfully.
Maigret turned to the officer.
“I suppose all the bargees do a certain amount of smuggling?”
“Except that I wouldn’t call it ‘a certain amount’!”
“Where do they generally hide the stuff?”
“At one time they had a way of keeping it in watertight cases right under their boats. But nowadays we run a chain under the hull to make sure there’s nothing there… Then there’s the space between the cabin flooring and the bottom. For that we drill a few holes in the flooring with that huge brace you may have seen on the quay.”
“Anywhere else?”
“What’s your cargo?” asked the officer.,
“Scrap iron,” answered Cassin.
“That’s awkward…”
Maigret’s eyes never left Gustave Cassin, hoping he’d give himself away by an instinctive glance towards a hiding-place.
But the man went on eating ostentatiously, sitting obstinately in his chair.
“Stand up.”
The order was obeyed, but with obvious reluctance.
“So I haven’t the right to sit down in my own cabin!”
On the chair was a filthy cushion, which Maigret promptly seized. Three sides of it were neatly sewn, but the fourth was done with big clumsy stitches, which betrayed an unpractised hand.
“Thank you, that’s all,” said Maigret to the customs officer..
“You think there’s some contraband here?”
“No. I don’t think so after all. Many thanks.”
The customs officer regretfully left them. As soon as he was gone, Maigret asked:
“What have we here?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you generally keep such hard objects in your cushions?”
He ripped open the seam, disclosing something dark inside. A moment later he was unfolding a small coat, creased and crumpled, made of black serge.
There was no doubt in the inspector’s mind that it was the same serge as that of the dress described in the report which Machère had read to him that morning. Like the dress, the coat had no maker’s name. Germaine Piedbœuf had made them both herself.
But it wasn’t the coat that was the most interesting thing. Unrolling it, Maigret had come to a hammer, whose shaft was smooth with long use.
“The funny thing about it,” muttered Cassin, “is that it’s going to lead you properly up the garden!… I haven’t done a thing. Nothing, that is, except pull those two things out of the Meuse on the 4th of January early in the morning.”
“And you thought you’d like to keep them to yourself?”
“It’s a habit of mine,” answered Cassin, with an air of self-satisfaction. “Are you going to arrest me?”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“Yes. Except that you’re going to be led right up the garden.”
“And you’ll soon be sailing?”
“Not if I’m arrested!”
To the man’s astonishment, Maigret carefully stuffed the things back in the cushion, slipped it under his overcoat, and went ashore without another word.
Cassin watched the inspector walking along the quay past the customs officer, who saluted respectfully, then he went below again, scratched his head, and poured himself out another drink
* * *
Chapter VII
A JACKET ON THE QUAY
« ^ »
RETURNING to his hotel for lunch, Maigret was told that the postman had brought a registered letter for him, but had refused to leave it in his absence.
That meant he’d have to go to the post office to fetch it. Not a very serious matter. But it was one of a series of incidents that were calculated to try his temper.
During lunch he enquired after Machère. No one had seen him, and a telephone call put through to his hotel elicited the fact that he had left half an hour before. Maigret had, of course, no right whatever to give orders to the local police, but he had wanted, all the same, to give Machère the tip to keep an eye on Gustave Cassin.
At two he was at the post office, where they handed him his letter. A stupid business. Some furniture he had bought, but had then refused to pay for, as they hadn’t sent the things he’d ordered. And now the dealer was threatening to sue him.
It took a good half-hour to compose an answer, and then he had to write to his wife about it, telling her just what to do.
Before he had finished he was rung up by the director of the Police Judiciaire, who enquired how long he was staying, and asked him a number of questions about some other cases that were in hand.
Out of doors it was still raining. He was sitting in the salle de café of his hotel, the floor of which was strewn with sawdust. There was no one else there except the waiter, who was taking advantage of a quiet moment to do some writing himself.
It was only an absurd little fad, but Maigret loathed writing on marble-topped tables.
“Ring up the Hôtel de la Gare again, will you? Ask if the detective’s back yet.”
Maigret was in a vague state of ill-humour, which was perhaps all the worse for having no serious reason. Two or three times he got up and stared out through the misty window. The sky was a shade brighter, and the rain less heavy, but the quay was still deserted.
