Inspector Cadaver (11 page)

Maigret felt remorse. What was stopping him
from getting to his feet and saying, ‘I think your brother made a mistake asking
me to come here. There's nothing I can do. This affair is none of my concern and,
if you don't mind, I'll take the first train to Paris. I am very grateful
for all your hospitality.'

He saw Pockmarks' pale face again, his
fiery eyes, his sardonic mouth.

Most of all, though, he saw Cavre's
silhouette, with his briefcase under his arm; Cavre, who finally, after so
many years, happened by pure chance to have been granted the
opportunity to triumph over his hated former boss.

Because Cavre loathed him. He loathed
everybody, naturally, but he loathed Maigret in particular. Maigret, whom he considered
as his alter ego, a successful version of himself.

He had outmanoeuvred him at every turn, it
seemed, since the moment they had stepped off the train, and Naud had almost got them
mixed up.

Where was that clock he could hear ticking?

Maigret looked round the room for it. He was
gripped by a deep sense of unease. He thought to himself, ‘Another five minutes
and this poor woman is going to throw a fit. She'll blurt out the truth. She
can't take it any more. She's at the end of her tether …'

He only needed to ask her a direct question.
Or not even that. He could just go and stand in front of her and look searchingly into
her eyes. Would she be able to resist?

Instead of which, he not only kept silent
but even, to put her at ease, discreetly reached for a periodical lying on a side table.
It was a women's magazine devoted to embroidery patterns.

As in a dentist's waiting room, where
you read things you wouldn't think of reading anywhere else, Maigret slowly turned
the pages, attentively studying the pink and blue illustrations, without the invisible
bond between him and his hostess slackening for a moment.

It was the maid who saved them. She was a
young, rough-and-ready country girl, whose black dress and
white apron
brought out her strong, irregular features.

‘Oh, sorry! … I didn't
know there was anyone …'

‘What is it, Marthe?'

‘I was wondering if I should lay the
table or if I should wait for monsieur …'

‘Lay the table!'

‘Is Monsieur Alban coming to
dinner?'

‘I don't know. Lay his place
anyway …'

What a relief to utter everyday words, to
talk about simple, reassuring things! She clutched at the subject of Alban.

‘He came for lunch today. That's
right, when you rang, he picked up the telephone. He leads such a lonely life!
We've come to think of him as one of the family …'

Now that an opportunity to escape had
finally presented itself, she seized it.

‘Will you excuse me for a moment? A
mistress of the house, you know … Always something to keep an eye on in the
kitchen … I'll ask the maid to tell my daughter to come and keep you company
…'

‘Don't trouble yourself, please
…'

‘In any case …' She
listened intently. ‘Yes … There's my husband …'

A car stopped at the base of the steps, its
engine still running. Voices could be heard. Maigret wondered if his host had brought
someone, but he was merely giving some instructions to a servant who had rushed out to
the car.

Naud pushed open the door of the drawing
room before he had taken off his leather coat. Astonished to find them in a
tête-à-tête, he gave them an anxious look.

‘Oh! You're …'

‘I was just telling
the inspector, Étienne, that I had to leave him for a moment to go and check in the
kitchen …'

‘My apologies, inspector. I am on the
General Council's Agricultural Board and I had forgotten we had an important
meeting today …'

He sneezed and poured himself a glass of
port, trying as he did to work out what might have happened in his absence.

‘Well, has your day been a success? I
was told on the telephone that you didn't have time to come back for
lunch.'

He was afraid of a
tête-à-tête too. He looked at the armchairs in the drawing room as if
reproaching them for being unoccupied.

‘Alban hasn't put in an
appearance?' he asked with feigned bonhomie, turning towards the dining-room door,
which was still open.

His wife's voice answered from the
kitchen:

‘He had lunch with us. He didn't
say if he'd be coming back.'

‘Geneviève?'

‘She went up to her room.'

He didn't dare take a seat or settle
down anywhere. Maigret understood, and almost shared, his anguish. In order to feel
strong, or simply not start trembling, they had to be together, shoulder to shoulder;
the family circle had to be unbroken.

Only then could they recreate the usual
atmosphere of the house for the inspector's benefit. They supported each other,
making trivial remarks that blended into one another to form a sort of reassuring
purr.

‘A glass of port?'

‘I've just had
one.'

‘You'll have another, I trust
… So … Tell me what you've been doing … Or rather … I
mean, I don't want to pry …'

‘The cap has disappeared,'
Maigret declared, staring at the carpet.

‘Ah, yes, really? The famous cap that
was supposed to prove the crime … So where was it? Believe it or not, I've
always wondered if it really existed …'

‘Someone called Louis Fillou claims it
was in his chest of drawers.'

‘It was in Pockmarks' house? And
you say it was stolen this morning? Don't you find that a little odd?'

He burst out laughing as he stood there, so
tall and strong, so sturdy and ruddy-cheeked. The owner of the house, the head of the
family, just back from debating regional governmental affairs in La Roche-sur-Yon. He
was Étienne Naud, Squire Naud, as the locals would have said, the son of
Sébastien, a man who was himself known and respected throughout the
département.

But there was fear in his laughter as he
reached for a glass of port, his eyes searching in vain for the usual support of his
family. He would have liked to have his whole entourage around him, his wife, his
daughter and Alban, who, on that day of all days, had seen fit to stay away.

‘A cigar … No? … Are you
sure …?'

He paced round and round the drawing room,
as if taking a seat meant falling into a trap, delivering himself bound hand and foot to
this appalling detective chief inspector whom his idiotic brother-in-law had sent to
ruin his life.

An incident occurred, which, although trivial
in itself, nonetheless set Maigret thinking. It was before dinner. Étienne Naud
still hadn't been able to bring himself to sit down, as if he were afraid he would
be even more at the inspector's mercy once he was at rest. Madame Naud and her
maid could be heard in the dining room, engaged in a discussion about poorly cleaned
silverware. Geneviève had just come downstairs.

Maigret caught the look her father gave her
as she came into the drawing room. It was slightly anxious. Of course Naud hadn't
seen his daughter since the day before, when she had been ill. And it was also only
natural that Geneviève should reassure him with a smile.

Just at that moment, the telephone rang, and
Naud went out into the hall to answer it. He left the door open.

‘What?' he exclaimed in
astonishment. ‘For goodness' sake, of course he's here …
What's that? Yes, hurry up, we're expecting you …'

When he returned to the drawing room, he
shrugged again.

‘I wonder what's got into our
friend Alban. He's had a regular place at our table for years. Then this evening
he calls me to ask me if you're here and, when I say you are,
he
asks my permission to come for dinner and adds that he needs to speak to you
…'

Maigret happened to be looking at the
daughter rather than the father. He was taken aback by the fierce expression on her
face.

‘That's what he did earlier,
pretty much,' she said testily. ‘He came for lunch and, when he saw the
inspector wasn't here, he seemed put out. I thought he was going to go. He
stammered, “What a pity. I had something to show him …” Then he left
immediately after bolting his dessert. You saw him in town, I suppose,
inspector?'

It was so subtle that it was impossible to
put into words. A nuance in the girl's voice. Or not really in her voice, even.
What is it, for instance, that makes an experienced man suddenly realize a young girl
has become a woman?

Maigret's intuition was of a similar
sort. Geneviève's irritability struck him as more than just an ordinary bad
mood, and he resolved to keep a closer eye on Mademoiselle Naud.

Madame Naud came in, apologizing, and her
daughter took the opportunity to repeat. ‘Alban just rang to inform us that
he's having dinner with us. But only after he had asked if the inspector had come
back. We're not the attraction …'

‘He'll be here in a
moment,' said her father, finally sitting down now the family was reunited.
‘It'll only take him a few minutes on his bike.'

Maigret remained sitting quietly in his
seat, looking somewhat dejected. His large eyes were expressionless, as
they always were whenever he found himself in an awkward situation. He observed each
of them in turn, giving a ghost of a smile when anyone spoke to him, and thought,
‘How they must curse their blundering idiot of a brother-in-law and me! They all
know what happened, including their friend Alban. That's why they start shaking
the minute they're apart. When they're together they can reassure each
other, present a united front …'

What had really happened? Had Étienne
Naud found young Retailleau in his daughter's bedroom? Had an argument broken out
between them? Had they had a fight? Had Naud simply shot him down like a rabbit?

What they must have gone through that night.
The mother beside herself with panic, the servants, who would have been scared if they
had heard something …

There was a tap at the front door.
Geneviève made a move as if to open it but then remained in her chair, and Naud, a
little surprised, as if this wasn't the usual way of things, went out into the
hall. They heard him chatting about the fog, and then the two men came back in
together.

As a matter of fact, this was the first time
Maigret had seen the young girl and Alban in the same room. She held out her hand to him
rather stiffly. He bowed, kissed the back of her fingers, then hurriedly turned to
Maigret, anxious to tell him or show him something.

‘Would you believe it, inspector, this
morning after you left I happened to lay my hands on this …'

And he held out a little strip of paper
that, judging by two little prick marks in the top corner, had been pinned to other
pieces of paper like it.

‘What is it?'
Naud inquired casually, as a look of distrust crossed the girl's face.

‘You've always made fun of my
mania for keeping every last scrap of paper. I could find the paltriest little laundry
bill from three, or even eight, years ago …'

The piece of paper Maigret was turning over
in his thick fingers was a receipt from the Hotel de l'Europe in La Roche-sur-Yon.
Room: 30 francs. Breakfast: 6 francs. Service …

Date: 7 January.

‘Of course,' Alban said with an
apologetic air, ‘it's not remotely important. But I remembered that the
police like alibis. Look at the date. As chance would have it I was in La Roche, as you
can see, on the night when the person of whom you know met his death …'

Naud and his wife responded like society
people confronted by a display of bad manners. Madame Naud looked at Alban in
astonishment, as if she wouldn't have expected such a thing from him, then, with a
sigh, lowered her eyes to the logs in the fire. Her husband merely frowned. He was
slightly slower on the uptake, or perhaps was trying to find a hidden meaning in his
friend's behaviour.

As for Geneviève, she had gone white
with rage. She was clearly shocked. Her eyes glittered. Maigret stared fixedly at her,
so fascinated was he by her reactions of the past few minutes.

Tall and thin, with a receding hairline,
Alban remained standing somewhat sheepishly in the middle of the drawing room.

‘At least you're not waiting to
be accused of anything
before you mount your defence,' Naud
declared eventually, having had time to weigh his words.

‘What on earth do you mean,
Étienne? I get the feeling you've all misinterpreted this. Just now, while I
was filing some papers, by pure chance I happened to come across this hotel bill. I
thought it would be interesting to show it to the inspector, given that it is the very
date when …'