The Misty Harbour (11 page)

Louis was too tall, too strong, too
rough, with his lopsided head and shoulder, for that tidy little cottage kitchen. He
didn't know what to do with his big callused hands. His shifty eyes could find
no place to rest.

‘You must speak!'

‘I got nothing to say.'

He tried to pour himself another drink,
but she pounced on the carafe.

‘That's enough! There's no point in you
getting any drunker.'

She was painfully anxious. She had the
confused feeling that real tragedy was at stake, at that very moment. She clung to
her hope that one word might make everything clear.

‘Louis, that man, that
Norwegian … He's the one who was supposed to buy the
Saint-Michel
and become your boss, isn't he?'

‘No!' barked Louis.

‘Then who is he? We've never
seen him around here. And foreigners don't come here
off-season …'

‘I don't know.'

Julie kept at him, with a subtle
feminine instinct.

‘The mayor always hated you. Did
you really eat supper at his house tonight?'

‘That's true.'

She was almost dancing with
impatience.

‘But then, tell me something! You
must! Or I swear I'll start believing that …'

She couldn't go on. She was
wretched. She looked around at the wicker armchair, the familiar stove, the clock,
the carafe with its painted flowers.

‘You were fond of the captain, I
know it! You said so a hundred times, and if you two fell out it's
because …'

But now she had to explain all that.

‘Don't go thinking the wrong
thing here, inspector! My brother was fond of Captain Joris, and the captain liked
him as well, it's just that there was … But nothing serious! Louis
goes a little wild when he's got money in his pocket and then he spends it
all, any old which way … The
captain knew that he used to come here to wheedle my
savings out of me. So he lectured him … That's all! If he ended by
forbidding him to come here, it was for that, so that he wouldn't go off with
any more of my money! But he'd tell me that Louis was really a good fellow at
heart, whose only fault was that he was weak.'

‘And Louis,' said Maigret
slowly, ‘might have known that, with Joris dead, you would inherit three
hundred thousand francs!'

It happened so quickly that the
inspector almost got the worst of it. As Julie uttered a piercing scream, Big Louis
leaped with all his strength at Maigret, trying to get his hands around his
throat.

The inspector managed to grab one of his
wrists on the fly, and with slow but steady pressure, he twisted the sailor's
arm behind his back, growling, ‘Hands off!'

Julie wept even more piteously, her
elbows up against the wall, her head buried in her crossed arms.

‘My God,' she moaned
faintly, ‘my God …'

‘Don't you want to talk,
Louis?' said Maigret sternly, releasing his grip on him.

‘I have nothing to say.'

‘And if I arrest you?'

‘So what!'

‘Follow me.'

Julie cried out:

‘Inspector! I'm begging you!
For the love of God, Louis, talk to him!'

They were already at the kitchen door.
Big Louis turned around, his face red, his eyes glittering. His expression was
beyond words. He reached with one hand
for his sister's shoulder.

‘My Lilie, I swear to
you …'

‘Don't touch me!'

He hesitated, took a step towards the
front hall, then turned again.

‘Listen …'

‘No! No, get out!'

So he followed Maigret, dragging his
feet. Stopping at the threshold, he was tempted to look back … but did
not. The front door closed behind them. They had not taken five steps into the storm
when the door flew open on the young woman's pale form.

‘Louis!'

Too late. The two men walked straight
ahead, into the night.

A gust of rain soaked them in a matter
of seconds. They couldn't see a thing, not even the edges of the lock. A voice
hailed them, though, rising up through the darkness.

‘That you, Louis?'

It was Lannec, aboard the
Saint-Michel
. He had heard their footsteps and stuck his head up
through the hatchway. He must have known that his first mate was not alone, for he
then spoke rapidly in Low Breton, saying, ‘Jump on to the fo'c'sle
and we'll head out.'

Maigret, who had understood, now waited,
unable to find the true outline of the
Saint-Michel
in the pitch dark. All
he could see of his companion was a wavering mass of a man, his shoulders gleaming
in the rain.

A glance at the black hole of the ocean;
a more furtive one at Maigret. With a shrug, Big Louis grunted to the inspector,
‘You coming aboard?'

Maigret now saw that Lannec held
something in his hand: the end of a mooring line. Tracing it with his eyes, he saw
that it passed once around a bollard and went back aboard. In other words, the
Saint-Michel
had been made fast in a way that allowed the skipper to
cast off without putting a man ashore.

The inspector said nothing. He knew the
harbour was deserted. Julie was doubtless sobbing in her kitchen 300 metres away,
and there was no one else nearby but the people sheltering in the warmth of the
Buvette de la Marine.

He stepped on to the bulwarks handrail
and jumped down to the deck, followed by Louis. Even protected by the jetties, there
was rough water in the outer harbour, and the
Saint-Michel
rose on each
wave as if on a man's heaving chest.

Nothing in the darkness but yellow
glints on wet things. On the fo'c'sle, a vague form: the captain,
looking at Louis in astonishment. He wore tall rubber boots, an oilskin slicker, a
sou'wester, and he was still clutching the mooring line.

No one did anything. They all
waited … The three men of the
Saint-Michel
must have been
studying Maigret, who
cut such a strange
figure with his velvet-collared overcoat and bowler hat, held clamped to his head to
preserve it from the gale.

‘You will not leave
tonight!' he announced.

No protest. But a look passed between
Lannec and Louis that meant, ‘We sail anyway?' … ‘Better
not.'

The wind was now so violent that they
could barely stand upright, and again it was Maigret who took the lead by going to
the hatchway, which he remembered from his first visit.

‘We'll talk – and bring that
other sailor down too!'

He did not want anyone left up on deck,
out of his sight. The four men went down the hatch.

Off came boots and oilskins. The
gimballed lamp was lit, and there were glasses on the table next to a greasy
sea-chart heavily marked with pencil lines.

Lannec put two coal briquettes into the
small stove but looked askance at Maigret and seemed hesitant to offer him a drink.
As for old Célestin, he went to huddle in a corner, peevish and uneasy, wondering
why he had been brought down to the cabin.

Everyone's attitude clearly meant
the same thing: no one wanted to speak up, because no one knew how matters stood.
The puzzled skipper stared at Louis, who looked back at him helplessly.

What he had to say would require such
long, complicated explanations!

‘You've thought it
over?' muttered Lannec hoarsely, after coughing to clear his throat a
little.

Maigret was sitting on a bench, elbows
on the table,
playing absently with an
empty glass so smudged that it was now opaque.

Standing there, Big Louis had to bow his
head to avoid touching the roof.

Lannec fiddled around in the cupboard to
give himself something to do.

‘Thought what over?'

‘I don't know which legal
powers you have. What I do know is, I answer only to the maritime authorities. They
alone can stop a vessel from entering or leaving a port.'

‘Meaning?'

‘You're keeping me from
leaving Ouistreham. I've got cargo to take on in La Rochelle, plus
there's penalties to pay for every day I'm late.'

They were getting off on the wrong foot,
with this serious, semi-official approach. Maigret knew that game by heart!
Hadn't the mayor threatened him almost in the same way? And hadn't
Martineau then talked of appealing, not to the maritime authorities, but to his
consul?

He paused a moment to take a deep breath
and give them all a rapid – and now strangely cheerful – glance.

‘Why don't you give all that
a rest!' he said in Breton. ‘And pour us a drink instead.'

It was a long shot. The old sailor was
the first one to turn towards Maigret in amazement. Big Louis' face
relaxed.

‘You're a Breton?'
asked Lannec, still wary.

‘Not quite. I'm from the
Loire, but I studied for some time in Nantes.'

What a look! The face coastal Bretons
make at the
mention of inland Bretons,
and especially the halfway Bretons around Nantes.

‘Any of that Dutch gin left from
the other day?'

Lannec brought the bottle and slowly
filled the glasses, happy to have something to do. Because he still didn't
know what to do about Maigret. There he was: big, affable, pipe between his teeth,
his bowler pushed back on his head, settling in nicely.

‘You can sit down, Big
Louis.'

The first mate obeyed. The uneasy
atmosphere still lingered some, but in another way. The sailors felt awkward, not
being able to return the inspector's cordiality, but they had to remain on
their guard.

‘Your health, boys! And admit it:
by keeping you here tonight I'm saving you from a nasty run.'

‘It's the harbour channel,
mostly,' murmured Lannec. A swallow of gin, and then, ‘Once we're
out of the gat, we're clear … But with that current from the Orne,
and all those sandbanks, the channel's tough. Every year she grounds some
ships.'

‘The
Saint-Michel
's
never had real trouble?'

The captain quickly touched wood.
Célestin growled angrily at the mere mention of bad luck.

‘The
Saint-Michel
?'
exclaimed Lannec. ‘She's maybe the best schooner on the coast. Listen!
Two years ago, in dense fog, she fetched up on the rocky English coast in a hell of
a surf. Any ship but her would have left her bones there. Well! She floats away on
the next tide, didn't even need to lie up in dry dock.'

Maigret felt they could get along fine
in this vein, but
he wasn't in the
mood to talk ships all night. Their wet clothes were beginning to steam. Water was
snaking down the ladder. And the ever-increasing heaving of the ship, which slammed
now and then into the pilings, was beginning to tell on the inspector.

‘She'll make a fine
yacht!' he exclaimed, looking off into the distance.

So that was it! Lannec flinched.

‘Yes, she'd make a fine
one,' he countered. ‘With only the deck to change. And a little less
canvas, especially aloft.'

‘Has the Norwegian signed the
contract?'

Lannec looked sharply at Louis, who
sighed. They would have given a great deal, those two, to talk privately for even a
few seconds. What had Louis already revealed? What could the captain safely say?

Big Louis was wearing his stubborn look.
He knew the fix they were in but had no way of explaining what was going on to the
skipper. It was too complicated!

And would all end badly, of course. He
had best have a drink. He poured himself one, drank it straight off and faced the
inspector. He wasn't even really feeling up for a fight, but simply
resigned.

‘What Norwegian?'

‘Well, the Norwegian who
isn't exactly a Norwegian. Martineau. Anyway, it certainly wasn't in
Tromsø that he saw the
Saint-Michel
, since she never went that far
north.'

‘Mind you, she could! Could handle
all the way to Archangel, right enough.'

‘When's he taking
delivery?'

The old sailor
snorted derisively, off in his corner. His contempt was not directed at Maigret, but
at the three men of the
Saint-Michel
, himself included.

‘I don't know what you
mean,' replied Lannec lamely.

Maigret elbowed him gaily in the
ribs.

‘Come off it! Really, boys. Stop
looking as if you were all at a funeral! And wipe those grumpy looks off your
pig-headed Breton faces … Martineau promised to buy the schooner, but has
he actually purchased it?'

Inspiration struck.

‘Show me the muster
roll.'

He felt that shot strike home.

‘I've no idea where
it …'

‘I told you to give that stuff a
rest, Lannec! Show me the crew list, damn it all!'

He was playing the pretend bully, the
good-hearted brute. The skipper went to the cupboard for a well-worn briefcase, grey
with age. It was full of official documents and business letters from
ship-brokers' firms. One thing was new, a big yellow folder containing some
impressively large pages: it was the muster roll. It had been drawn up and dated
only a month and a half before, on 11 September. Five days before Captain Joris
disappeared.

Schooner
Saint-Michel
, 270
gross tons, licensed for the coastal trade. Owner of record: Louis Legrand,
Port-en-Bessin. Captain: Yves Lannec. Seaman: Célestin Grolet.

Big Louis poured himself another. Lannec
hung his head in embarrassment.

‘Look at
this! You're the present owner of this boat, Big Louis?'

No reply. Off in his corner, old
Célestin bit off a great chunk of his chewing tobacco.

‘Listen, boys. There's no
point in wasting time over this. I'm not a complete fool, eh? Granted,
I'm no expert on life at sea, but Big Louis is flat broke. A boat like this
one is worth at least a hundred and fifty thousand francs.'

‘I'd never have sold her for
that!' Lannec shot back.

‘Let's say two hundred
thousand. So Big Louis bought the
Saint-Michel
on someone else's
behalf! And let's say … on behalf of Jean Martineau. For some reason
or other, the Norwegian doesn't want anyone to know he owns the
schooner … cheers!'

Célestin shrugged, as if deeply
disgusted by the entire business.

‘Was Martineau in Fécamp on the
11th of September, when the sale took place?'

The others just frowned. Louis picked
Célestin's quid up from the table and bit off his own chunk of tobacco while
the deck-hand spattered the cabin floor with great spurts of brown spittle.

There was a lull in the conversation
because the wick of the lamp was charring for lack of fuel. Lannec had to fetch more
from the can on deck and returned soaked through. The others sat for a minute in
darkness, and when the lamp was relit none of them had moved.

‘Martineau was there, I'm
sure of it! The boat was purchased in Big Louis' name, and Lannec was to stay
aboard, perhaps permanently, perhaps only for a while.'

‘For a
while …'

‘Right! I thought so. Long enough
to captain the
Saint-Michel
on a most unusual voyage.'

Lannec got to his feet in such agitation
that he chewed through his cigarette.

‘You came to Ouistreham. On the
night of the 16th, the schooner was moored in the outer harbour, ready to head out
to sea. Where was Martineau?'

The captain sat down again, still
distressed but determined to keep silent.

‘On the morning of the 17th, the
Saint-Michel
sails. Who is aboard? Is Martineau still there? Is Joris
there too?'

Maigret did not seem like a judge or
even a police officer. His voice was still pleasant; there was a glint of mischief
in his eyes. It was as if he were playing a game of riddles with his companions.

‘You sail to England. Then you set
a course for Holland. Is that where Joris and Martineau leave you? Because they have
further to go. I have good reasons to believe they go all the way up to
Norway.'

Big Louis grunted at that.

‘What did you say?'

‘That you'll never get
anywhere.'

‘Was Joris already wounded when he
came aboard? Was he injured during your voyage, or only up in
Scandinavia?'

He no longer waited for replies.

‘All three of you continue your
business as usual. You stick close to the northern coast. You're waiting for a
letter or telegram informing you of a rendezvous. Last week, you were in Fécamp, the
port where Martineau met you
the first
time. Big Louis learns that Captain Joris has been found in Paris, in a bad way, and
will be brought home to Ouistreham. He travels here by train. There is no one in the
captain's cottage. He leaves a note for his sister. He returns to
Fécamp.'

Maigret sighed, took his time lighting
his pipe.

‘And here we are! Getting close to
the end. You return with Martineau and set him ashore at the entrance to the
harbour, which proves he did not want to be seen. Big Louis joins him on the
dredger … cheers!'

He poured his own drink and drained his
glass under the mournful gaze of the three men.

‘In a nutshell, the only thing
left in order to make sense of everything is to discover why Big Louis went to the
mayor's house while Martineau was speeding off to Paris. A bizarre mission:
thumping silly a man with the reputation of not suffering common folk
lightly.'