Maigret's Holiday (12 page)

This greyness was so typical of the squalid
surroundings in which women like Madame Duffieux, thin and sickly, spent their lives
counting out every single sou.

‘What time is it?' he asked,
without thinking to take his watch out of his pocket.

‘Five to nine.'

‘The funeral is due to take place at
ten thirty, isn't it?'

It took Mansuy a second to understand, the
idea of a funeral becoming confused in his mind with the small body they had just seen.
Then he remembered the other dead girl, and looked at Maigret more attentively.

‘Are you going?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you think there's a
connection?'

Had Maigret heard? He did not appear to
have. He returned slowly to the kitchen. The old woman, sighing deeply and continually
wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron, was telling the newcomers about the tragedy,
a brother of Duffieux's and his wife, who had been informed by neighbours. It was
odd, these people spoke loudly, with coarse language which was very graphic, without
giving any thought to the mother lying in the next room whose door was open, so that her
moans accompanied the old woman's account like a monotonous chant:

‘I said to Gérard: “It can
only be a madman …”

‘Because I knew the
girl, better than anyone perhaps − she used to come and play at my house when she
was little and I gave her the doll that belonged to my daughter who passed away
…'

‘Excuse me one moment
…'

Maigret touched her on the shoulder. She
suddenly became respectful. For her, all those she saw that day in the house were
gentlemen, official figures.

‘Has the son been informed?'

‘Émile?'

She darted a look at one of the portraits on
the wall, that of a young man of seventeen or eighteen, with delicate features, sharp
eyes, dressed with a certain elegance.

‘You don't know that
Émile's left? That's what's so dreadful for this poor woman, your
honour … Her son who went off last week … Her daughter who—'

‘Is he in the army?'

Wasn't that the tragedy of this sort
of people?

‘No, no, my good sir … He
isn't old enough for the army yet … Hold on … He must be nineteen and
a half now … He earned a good living here … His employers thought very
highly of him … Then, would you believe, he gets it into his head to go and live
in Paris! … Without warning, just like that! … Without telling anyone!
… He didn't even leave a note … He simply said he had to work all
night … Marthe believed him … She believes everything people tell her
…

‘In the morning, seeing that he
hadn't come home, curiosity made her look in her son's wardrobe, and she saw
that all his things had gone …

‘Then, when the
postman came by, he brought a letter in which Émile asked her forgiveness, telling
her that he was going to Paris, that it was his life, his future, and I don't know
what else … She read it to me … It must be in the drawer of the dresser
…'

She made to go and fetch it; Maigret put up
his hand to stop her.

‘You don't know what day that
was?'

‘Just a moment … I can tell you
…'

She went into the bedroom and spoke in a low
voice to Duffieux, who stared at her uncomprehending, and then glanced over at Maigret.
He wondered why he was being asked this question, cast his mind back and replied:

‘It must have been Tuesday …
Tuesday night.'

‘Do you know if they have heard from
him since?'

‘The day before yesterday Marthe
showed me a picture postcard she received from Paris.'

Chief Inspector Mansuy did not attempt to
understand. He still watched Maigret uncomfortably, as if he suspected him of having
some sort of fiendish power. He half expected to learn, during the course of the day,
that the son too was dead.

As they came out of the house, a tall, young
man in a gabardine raincoat was elbowing his way through the curious onlookers.

‘A journalist,' announced
Mansuy.

Maigret preferred to make a quick getaway.
The contemptible game was beginning, the journalists, the photographers, the prosecutor,
then the gentlemen from Poitiers and their interrogations, the forensics experts
cluttering up the little rooms with their equipment and photographing
the girl's body from all angles.

‘Were you expecting it?' Mansuy
finally dared ask in the car on the way back to the police station.

And Maigret, who seemed far away:

‘I was expecting something
…'

‘Will you come up to my office for a
moment?'

The police station was beginning to return
to normal, filled with people who needed a certificate, a signature, some document or
other, full of poor wretches waiting on benches until it suited these gentlemen to see
them. Every officer was asking for Mansuy, but he went straight up to the first
floor.

‘Poitiers telephoned,' an
inspector informed him. ‘They're sending you Piéchaud and Boivert. They
left over an hour ago by car and will be here at around ten. Forensics are with them.
They asked us to put a cordon around the town and to arrest all the suspects.'

Mansuy replied:

‘That's already been
done.'

As he said this, he darted Maigret a
sheepish look as if to say:

‘What else can I do? It's
pointless, but that's standard procedure and I have to follow it.'

‘Has Doctor Jamar not
telephoned?'

‘Not yet.'

‘Get him on the phone … At this
hour he's probably at the hospital.'

He was the coroner, who was also a
consultant at the municipal hospital.

‘Doctor Jamar?
Mansuy here … Yes … Yes … I understand … The prosecutor will be
here at around eleven … I think it's best you don't trouble yourself
to come again until I call you, because these gentlemen are very likely to be late
… I'll telephone you and it will only take you a minute to drive over
… Of course … Between eleven p.m. and two a.m.? … Thank you …
No, I'm not in charge of the investigation … I'm waiting for Poitiers
… What? …'

A glance at Maigret. Hesitation.

‘I don't think he's
handling it … In any case, not officially.'

‘Very good.' Maigret gave an
approving nod.

He had understood. He could have repeated
verbatim the coroner's words even though he hadn't heard them. A superficial
examination was not sufficient to establish the time of death other than very
approximately.

Between eleven p.m. and two a.m.

‘Are you leaving?'

‘I'm going to the
funeral.'

‘I'll try to drop by for a
moment, either at the Bellamys' house or at the church, but I wonder if I'll
have the time. Give Bellamy my apologies …'

Another anxious glance in Maigret's
direction, especially as he uttered the word ‘apologies', but Maigret
remained impassive.

‘See you later …'

‘If the gentlemen from Poitiers
mention you …'

‘Tell them I'm here on
holiday.'

It was still too early to go to the
Bellamys', but he was keen to head towards the quayside first. Not to drink.
True, he went into one of his usual cafés and downed a glass,
but it was La Popine he wanted to see. Her shop was full of people. Her sleeves rolled
up, Francis's mistress plunged her plump rosy arms into the baskets of fish and
shellfish and weighed them, ringing up the totals on her cash register.

‘And for you, darling?'

She spoke to all her customers in a familiar
tone, her eyes so bright, her complexion so fresh, that on this grey morning she made
everything around her look enticing.

‘You're telling me, girl!
… The animal who did a thing like that … If ever I get my hands on him,
I'll … scratch his eyes out. What's more,
I
think
…'

She spotted Maigret, finished weighing,
wiped her hands on her apron and called the maid:

‘Take over for a minute, Mélanie
… Come through here, Monsieur Maigret …'

And once in the little dining room redolent
of cooking aromas:

‘Do you think he's the one who
killed her? … Who would have thought it last night, while the three of us were
sitting there chatting? … If only you'd told me it was Marthe's
daughter … We went to school together … Though not for long
…'

‘Do you know Madame Bellamy's
maid?'

‘Jeanne? I do believe I know her, even
though she doesn't want to know me any more. I used to see her hanging around
barefoot in the streets. Her mother works in the sardine cannery. They put her there
too, at the age of thirteen, then she started working as a lady's maid. Since
she's been working at the doctor's, she thinks
she's too good to talk to anyone. Ask Francis—'

‘You don't know where I could
have a word with her?'

‘It won't be easy anywhere other
than in the house. She hasn't had anything to do with her mother since she
remarried. She doesn't go dancing. She's besotted with her employer. She
pampers and cossets her, she'd sleep on her floor if she was allowed. She barely
deigns to answer when Francis speaks to her … So tell me! … Are you going to
arrest the doctor?'

‘I think that's out of the
question … Thank you very much.'

‘You'll be back, won't
you? … This isn't the best time to talk … If you want to drop by for a
drink this evening … I'm dying to know what's going to happen
…'

But she was soft-hearted and would probably
have inflicted the punishment she had threatened in the shop if she were to come face to
face with the murderer.

The holidaymakers on the beach were
oblivious of what had happened, and it was the usual scene with mothers and children in
bathing costumes, sunshades and red and blue beach balls, and swimmers plunging into the
water on the fringes of the waves.

By contrast, on the promenade, people
dressed in black could be seen heading towards Doctor Bellamy's house. They were
the local people of Les Sables d'Olonne. They greeted each other on the pavement
with handshakes, formed little huddles, checked their watches, and went through the
doorway draped with black curtains with silver tears.

Maigret recognized Monsieur Lourceau, a man
called
Perrette, other regulars from the café who had already
presented their condolences and were chatting quietly.

He too went inside. They had not needed to
convert one of the reception rooms into a chapel of rest, since the entrance hall was
spacious enough. You could no longer see the staircase, or the doors, the hall was in
darkness with candles burning around a sumptuous coffin surrounded by an abundance of
white flowers.

Philippe Bellamy, alone in leading the
mourning, stood motionless, and one by one the visitors filed past and bowed their heads
before him, having dipped a boxwood sprig in the holy water.

He was even more imposing thus, with only
the white of his shirt front, collar and cuffs showing. His features seemed more
delicate, more chiselled. He acknowledged each person's condolences with the same
inclination of his head and neck, then he straightened up and looked each new arrival in
the eye.

Maigret filed past like the others and also
bowed, to find the same gaze directed at him. He did not discern any discomfort in it.
Nothing indicated that for Bellamy he was anything other than one entity among so many
other entities.

The sub-prefect arrived in his car and
parked a few houses further along; the mayor and his deputy were also there, and all the
town's bigwigs; no doubt they were discussing the girl's death.

The hearse arrived. Then it was the
procession, which took a while to form, the slow march to the church with its doors
draped in black.

The men took their seats
to the right and, here again, Doctor Bellamy was alone in the front pew. In the second,
among his friends, Maigret recognized the man of a certain age who, the previous
evening, had been accompanying Madame Godreau.

She sat on the left, veiled and in full
mourning. She constantly dabbed her face with a fine handkerchief whose perfume wafted
over Maigret above that of the incense.

An organist had come all the way from La
Roche-sur-Yon. There was also a baritone, and a children's choir. The church had
gradually filled and the offering procession went on for around fifteen minutes.

The catafalque blocked Maigret's view
of Madame Bellamy, the doctor's mother, who sat beside Madame Godreau and whose
walking stick could occasionally be heard scraping the flagstones.

Odette Bellamy wasn't there. Francis
filed past at the same time as the cook. Jeanne, the maid, had probably stayed back at
the house with her mistress.

By the time they emerged from the church,
the sun had come out, giving the street such a familiar look that it took a few moments
to tune back into the mood of the town.

Then it was the long walk to the cemetery
where Maigret, from a distance, glimpsed his colleague Mansuy, sweating, his cheeks
still unshaven. He had managed, not without difficulty, to put in a brief
appearance.

A few close friends accompanied Bellamy back
to the gates. He got into Doctor Bourgeois' car, which would probably drive him
back to his house.

Was there a family gathering? Were Madame
Godreau
and her companion invited into the white house on Le
Remblai?

Maigret couldn't find Mansuy and had
to make his way back to the centre of town on foot. When he glanced at his watch, it was
ten past midday. He realized he had forgotten something, that he had forgotten a sacred
ritual. And he had no idea that this omission was causing quite a drama.