My Friend Maigret (4 page)

 

In his bedroom he did nothing except take off his coat, wash his hands, teeth, and face, stretch in front of the window and lie on his bed for a few minutes as if to try out the springs. The furnishing was antiquated, agreeable, with always the good smell of southern cooking which pervaded every corner of the house. He hesitated about whether to go down in shirtsleeves, for it was hot, but decided that it would look too much like a holiday and put on his coat again.

When he arrived downstairs there were several people at the bar, mostly men in fishermen's clothes. Lechat was waiting for him in the doorway.

“Would you like a stroll, chief?”

“We'd better wait for Mr. Pyke.”

“He's already gone out.”

“Where?”

“Into the water. Paul lent him a bathing suit.”

They headed unconsciously for the harbor. The slope of the ground led them there of its own accord. One felt that everyone was bound inevitably to take the same path.

“I think you'd better be very careful, chief. Whoever killed Marcellin has a grudge against you and will try to get you.”

“We'd better wait until Mr. Pyke is out of the water.”

Lechat pointed to a head which emerged on the far side of the boats.

“Is he on the case?”

“He's following it. We mustn't give the impression of plotting behind his back.”

“We would have been quieter at the Grand Hôtel. It's closed in the winter. It has only just opened and there's no one there. Only it's at Paul's that everyone meets. It's there that it all began, because it was there that Marcellin mentioned you and claimed you were a friend of his.”

“Let's wait for Mr. Pyke.”

“Do you want to question people in his presence?”

“I shall have to.”

Lechat made a wry face, but did not dare to protest.

“Where are you thinking of summoning them? There's hardly anywhere except the town hall. A single room with benches, a table, flags for July 14 and a bust of the Republic. The mayor keeps the grocer's shop, next to the Arche de Noé. That's him you can see over there, pushing a wheelbarrow.”

Mr. Pyke was now coming back into his depth once more near a boat attached to a chain, was treading water, peacefully splashing in the sun.

“The water's marvelous,” he said.

“If you like, we'll wait here while you go and get dressed.”

“I'm very comfortable as I am.”

This time it was a point to him. He was in fact just as much at his ease in bathing trunks, with drops of salt water trickling down his long, thin body, as in his gray suit.

He pointed to a black yacht, not in the harbor, but at anchor, several cables out. The English flag was discernible.

“Who's that?”

Lechat explained:

“The boat is called the
North Star
. It comes here almost every year. It belongs to a Mrs. Ellen Wilcox: that's also the name of a whisky, I believe. She's the owner of Wilcox whisky.”

“Is she young?”

“She's fairly well preserved. She lives on board with her secretary, Philippe de Moricourt, and a crew of two. There's another Englishman on the island, who lives here all the year round. You can see his house from here. It's the one with the minaret beside it.”

Mr. Pyke didn't look particularly enthusiastic at coming across fellow countrymen.

“It's Major Bellam, but the locals simply call him the major, and sometimes Teddy.”

“I suppose he's an Indian Army major?”

“I don't know.”

“Does he drink a lot?”

“Yes, a lot. You'll see him tonight at the Arche. You'll see everyone at the Arche, including Mrs. Wilcox and her secretary.”

“Were they present when Marcellin spoke?” asked Maigret, for the sake of something to say, for in actual fact he was no longer interested in anything.

“They were. Practically everyone was at the Arche, as they are every evening. In a week or two the tourists begin to pour in and life will be different. For the moment it's not entirely the life of the winter, when the inhabitants are alone on the island, and it's not quite what is called the season. Only the regulars have arrived. I don't know if you follow me. Most of them have been coming here for years, and know everybody. The major has been living at the Minaret for eight years. The villa next to it belongs to Monsieur Émile.”

Lechat looked at Maigret with a hesitant air. Perhaps, in the presence of the Englishman, he, too, was overcome with a sort of patriotic shame.

“Monsieur Émile?”

“You know him. At any rate, he knows you. He lives with his mother, old Justine, who is one of the most widely known women on the Riviera. She's the proprietor of the Fleurs, at Marseilles, the Sirènes at Nice, two or three houses at Toulon, Béziers, Avignon…”

Had Mr. Pyke realized what sort of houses they were?

“Justine's seventy-nine years old. I thought she was older, for Monsieur Émile admits to being sixty-five. It appears she had him when she was fourteen. She told me so yesterday. They're very quiet, the two of them, and don't see anyone. Look. That's Monsieur Émile you can see in his garden, in the white suit, with the topee. He looks like a white mouse. He has a little boat, like everyone else, but he hardly ever ventures beyond the end of the jetty, where he spends hours happily fishing for
girelle
.”

“What's that?” asked Mr. Pyke, whose skin was beginning to dry.

“
Girelle?
An extremely attractive little fish, with red and blue on its back. It's not bad fried, but it's not a serious fish, if you see what I mean.”

“I see.”

The three of them walked on the sand, along the backs of the houses which faced on to the square.

“There is another local character. We shall probably eat at the next table to him. It's Charlot. Just now, when we landed, he said hello to you, chief. I asked him to stay, and he didn't object. It's curious, actually, that nobody asked to leave. They are all being very calm, very sensible.”

“And the big yacht?”

There was indeed an enormous white yacht, not very beautiful, made entirely of metal, which almost filled the harbor.

“The
Alcyon
? It's there all the year round. It belongs to a Lyon businessman, Monsieur Jaureguy, who only uses it for one week in the year, and then it's to go and bathe, all by himself, a stone's throw from the island. There are two sailors on board, two Bretons, who have a pretty easy life.”

Was the Englishman expecting to see Maigret taking notes? He watched him smoking his pipe, looking lazily around him, and listening absently to Lechat.

“You see the small green boat, to one side, which has such an odd shape? The cabin is minute, yet there are two people, a man and a girl, living there. They have fixed up a tent by means of the sail, over the deck, and most of the time that's where they sleep. They do their cooking and washing there. Those two aren't regulars. They were found one morning, tied up where you see them now. The man is called Jef de Greef and is Dutch. He's a painter. He's only twenty-four. You'll see him. The girl is called Anna and isn't his wife. I had their papers in my hands. She's eighteen. She was born at Ostend. She's always half-naked and sometimes more than half. As soon as night falls, you can see both of them bathing at the end of the jetty without a stitch of clothing.”

Lechat was careful to add for Mr. Pyke's benefit:

“It's true that Mrs. Wilcox, if you can believe the fishermen, does the same round her yacht.”

They were being watched, from a distance. Always little knots of people who gave the impression of having nothing else to do all day.

“Another fifty yards further on you can see Marcellin's boat.”

From this point the harbor was no longer flanked with the backs of the houses in the square, but with villas, most of them surrounded by vegetation.

“They are empty, all except two,” Lechat was explaining. “I'll tell you who they belong to. This one belongs to Monsieur Émile and his mother. I've already told you about the Minaret.”

A supporting wall divided the gardens from the sea. Each villa had its little landing stage. At one of these, a local craft, pointed at both ends, about eighteen feet long, was tied up.

“That's Marcellin's boat.”

It was dirty, its deck in disorder. Against the wall was a sort of hearth composed of large stones, a saucepan, some pots blackened by smoke, empty wine bottles.

“Is it true that you knew him, chief? In Paris?”

“In Paris, yes.”

“What the local people refuse to believe is that he was born in Le Havre. Everyone is convinced he was a real Southerner. He had the accent. He was a queer fish. He lived in his boat. Now and then he would go for a trip to the continent, as he would call it, which means that he would go and tie his boat up to the jetty at Giens, Saint-Tropez, or Le Lavandou. When the weather was too bad, he would sleep in the hut you can see just above the harbor. That's where the fishermen boil their nets. He had no wants. The butcher would give him a bit of meat occasionally. He didn't fish much, and then only in summer, when he took tourists out. There are a few others like him along the coast.”

“Do you have types like that in England, too?” Maigret asked Mr. Pyke.

“It's too cold. We only have the dockside loafers, at the ports.”

“Did he drink?”

“White wine. When people needed him to give a hand, they paid him with a bottle of white wine. He used to win it at boules, too, for he was an expert boules player. It was in the boat that I found the letter. I'll give it back to you presently. I've left it at the town hall.”

“No other papers?”

“His army book, a photograph of a woman, that's all. It's strange that he should have kept your letter, don't you think?”

Maigret didn't find it so very surprising. He would have liked to talk about it with Mr. Pyke, whose bathing trunks were drying in patches. But that could wait.

“Do you want to see the hut? I've shut it, but I've got the key in my pocket; I shall have to give it back to the fishermen, as they need it.”

No huts for the moment. Maigret was hungry. And he was also anxious to see his English colleague in less informal attire. It made him feel awkward, for no very definite reason. He was not accustomed to conducting a case in the company of a man in swimming costume.

He needed another drink of white wine. It was decidedly a tradition on the island. Mr. Pyke went upstairs to dress and returned without a tie, with open collar, like Lechat, and he had found time to procure, probably at the mayor's grocery, a pair of blue canvas espadrilles.

The fishermen, who would have liked to speak to him, still didn't dare. The Arche had two rooms: the room where the bar was, and a smaller one with tables covered with red check tablecloths. These were laid. Two tables away Charlot was busy sampling sea urchins.

Once again he raised a hand in salute as he looked at Maigret. Then he added, idly:

“How goes?”

They had spent several hours, perhaps an entire night, alone together in Maigret's office, five or six years before. The chief inspector had forgotten his real name. Everyone knew him as Charlot.

He did a little bit of everything, procuring girls for licensed brothels in the Midi, smuggling cocaine and certain other goods; he dabbled in racing too, and at election time became one of the most active electioneering agents on the coast.

He was meticulous in his personal appearance, with measured gestures, an imperturbable calm, an ironical little twinkle in his eye.

“Do you like Mediterranean cooking, Mr. Pyke?”

“I don't know it.”

“Do you want to try it?”

“With pleasure.”

And Paul, the proprietor, suggested:

“Some small birds, to start with? I've a few cooked on the spit, brought in this morning.”

They were robins, Paul unfortunately announced as he served the Englishman, who could not help gazing tenderly at his plate.

“As you see, inspector, I've been a good boy.”

From where he sat Charlot, without stopping eating, was addressing them in an undertone.

“I've waited for you without being impatient. I haven't even asked the inspector's permission to leave.”

A lengthy silence.

“I'm at your service, whenever you like. Paul will tell you that I didn't leave the Arche that evening.”

“Are you in such a hurry?”

“What about?”

“To clear yourself.”

“I'm just clearing the ground a little, that's all. I'm doing my best to stop you swimming too far out to sea. Because you soon will be swimming. I swim well, but I come from these parts.”