The Grand Banks Café (4 page)

‘No!'

‘So you know how he was
dressed?'

‘All I noticed was a pair of
tan-coloured shoes under a gas lamp as he ran away.'

‘What did you do next?'

‘I went on board.'

‘Why? And why didn't you try
to save the captain? Did you know he was already dead?'

A heavy silence. Marie Léonnec clasped
both hands together in anguish.

‘Speak, Pierre! Speak …
please!'

‘Yes … No … I swear I don't
know!'

Footsteps in the corridor. It was the
custody officer coming to say that they were ready for Le Clinche in the examining
magistrate's office.

His fiancée stepped forward, intending
to kiss him. He hesitated. In the end, he put his arms round her, slowly,
deliberately.

So it was not her lips that he kissed
but the fine, fair curls at her temples.

‘Pierre!'

‘You shouldn't have
come!' he told her, his brow furrowed, as he wearily followed the custody
officer out.

Maigret and Marie Léonnec returned to
the exit without speaking. Outside she sighed unhappily:

‘I don't understand … I …'

Then, holding her head high:

‘But he's innocent, I know
he is! We don't understand because we've never been in a predicament
like his. For three days he's been behind bars, and everybody thinks
he's guilty! … He's a very shy person …'

Maigret was moved, for she was doing her
level best to make her words sound positive and convincing, though inside she was
utterly devastated.

‘You will do something to help
despite everything, won't you?'

‘On condition that you go back
home, to Quimper.'

‘No! … I won't! … Look … Let
me …'

‘In that case, take yourself off
to the beach. Go and sit by my wife and try to find something to do. She's
bound to have something you can sew.'

‘What are you going to do? Do you
think the tan-coloured shoes are a clue? …'

People turned and stared at them, for
Marie Léonnec was waving her arms about, and it looked as if they were having an
argument.

‘Let me say it again: I'll
do everything in my power … Look, this street leads straight to the Hôtel de la
Plage. Tell my wife that I might be back late for lunch.'

He turned on his heel and walked as far
as the quays. His surly manner had disappeared. He was almost smiling. He'd
been afraid there might have been a stormy scene in the cell, heated protests,
tears, kisses. But it had passed off very differently, in a way that was more
straightforward, more harrowing and more significant.

He had liked the boy, more precisely the part of him that
was distant, withdrawn.

As he passed a shop, he ran into Louis,
who was holding a pair of gumboots in his hand.

‘And where are you off
to?'

‘To sell these. Do you want to buy
them? It's the best thing they make in Canada. I defy you to find anything as
good in France. Two hundred francs …'

Even so Louis seemed a touch jittery and
was only waiting for the nod to be on his way.

‘Did you ever get the idea that
Captain Fallut was crazy?'

‘You don't see much down in
a coal bunker, you know.'

‘But you do talk. So?'

‘There were weird stories going
round, of course.'

‘What stories?'

‘All sorts! … Something and
nothing! … It's hard to put your finger on it. Especially when you're
back on dry land again.'

He was still holding the boots in his
hand, and the owner of the ship's chandler's shop who had seen him
coming, was waiting for him in his doorway.

‘Do you need me any
more?'

‘When did those stories start
exactly?'

‘Oh, straight away. A ship is in
good shape or it's in poor shape. I tell you: the
Océan
was sick as a
dog.'

‘Handling errors?'

‘And how! What can I say? Things
that don't make any sense, though they happen right enough! The fact is we had
this feeling we'd never see port again … Look, is it
true that I won't be bothered again over that
business with the wallet?'

‘We'll see.'

The port was almost empty. In summer,
all the boats are at sea off Newfoundland, except the smaller fishing vessels which
go out after fresh fish in coastal waters. There was only the dark shape of the
Océan
to be seen in the harbour, and it was the
Océan
that
filled the air with a strong smell of cod.

Near the trucks was a man in leather
gaiters. On his head was a cap with a silk tassel.

‘The boat's owner?'
Maigret asked a passing customs man.

‘Yes. He's head of French
Cod.'

The inspector introduced himself. The
man looked at him suspiciously but without taking his eyes off the unloading
operation.

‘What do you make of the murder of
your captain?'

‘What do I think about it? I think
that there's 800 tons of cod that's off, that if this nonsense goes on,
the boat won't be going out again for a second voyage, that it's not the
police who'll sort out the mess or cover the losses!'

‘I assume you had every confidence
in Captain Fallut?'

‘Yes. And?'

‘Do you think the wireless
operator …?'

‘The wireless operator is neither
here nor there: it's a whole year down the chute! And that's not
counting the nets they came back with! Those nets cost two million francs, you know!
Full of holes, as if someone has been having fun fishing up rocks! On top of which,
the crew's
been going on about the
evil eye! … Hoy, you there! What do you think you're playing at? … God give me
strength! Did I or did I not tell you to finish loading that truck first?'

And he started running alongside the
boat, swearing at all the hands.

Maigret stayed a few moments more,
watching the boat being unloaded. Then he moved off in the direction of the jetty,
where there were groups of fishermen in pink canvas jerkins.

He'd been there only a moment when
a voice behind him said:

‘Hoy! Inspector!'

It was Léon, the landlord of the Grand
Banks Café, who was trying to catch him up by pumping his short legs as fast as he
could.

‘Come and have a drink in the
bar.'

He was behaving mysteriously. It seemed
promising. As they walked, he explained:

‘It's all calmed down now.
The boys who haven't gone home to Brittany or the villages round about have
just about spent all their money. I've only had a few mackerel men in all
morning.'

They walked across the quays and went
into the café, which was empty except for the girl from behind the bar, who was
wiping tables.

‘Half a mo'. What'll
you have? Aperitif? … It's almost time for one … Not that, as I told you
yesterday, I encourage the boys to drink too much … The opposite! … I mean, when
they've had a drop or three, they start smashing
the place up, and that costs me more than I make out of
them … Julie! Pop into the kitchen and see if I'm there!'

He gave the inspector a knowing
wink.

‘Your very good health! … I saw
you in the distance and since I had something to tell you …'

He crossed the room to make sure the
girl was not listening behind the door. And then, looking even more mysterious and
pleased with himself, he took something out of his pocket, a piece of card about the
size of a photo.

‘There! What do you make of
that!'

It was indeed a photo, a picture of a
woman. But the face was completely hidden, scribbled all over in red ink. Someone
had tried to obliterate the head, someone very angry. The pen had bitten into the
paper. There were so many criss-crossed lines that not a single square millimetre
had been left visible.

On the other hand, below the head, the
torso had not been touched. A pair of large breasts. A light-coloured silk dress,
very tight and very low cut.

‘Where did you get
this?'

More knowing winks.

‘Since there's just the two
of us, I can tell you … Le Clinche's sea-chest doesn't fasten properly,
so he'd got into the habit of sliding his girlfriend's letters under the
cloth on his table.'

‘And you used to read
them?'

‘They were of no interest to me …
No, it was luck … When the place was searched, nobody thought of looking under the
tablecloth. It came to me last night,
and
that's what I found. Of course, you can't see the face. But it's
obviously not the girlfriend, she isn't stacked like that! Anyway, I've
seen a photo of her. So there's another woman lurking in the
background.'

Maigret stared at the photo. The line of
the shoulders was inviting. The woman was probably younger than Marie Léonnec. And
there was something extremely sensual about those breasts.

But also something vulgar too. The dress
looked shop-bought. Seduction on the cheap.

‘Is there any red ink in the
house?'

‘No! Just green.'

‘Did Le Clinche never use red
ink?'

‘No. He had his own ink, on
account of having a fountain pen. Special ink. Blue-black.'

Maigret stood up and made for the
door.

‘Do you mind excusing
…?'

Moments later he was on board the
Océan
, searching first the wireless operator's cabin and then the
captain's, which was dirty and full of clutter.

There was no red ink anywhere on the
trawler. None of the fishermen had ever seen any there.

When he left the boat, Maigret came in
for sour looks from the man in gaiters, who was still bawling at his men.

‘Do you use red ink in any of your
offices?'

‘Red ink? What for? We're
not running a school …'

But suddenly, as if he'd just
remembered something:

‘Fallut was the only one who ever
wrote in red ink, when he was working at home, in Rue d'Étretat. But
what's all this about now? … You down there, watch out
for that truck! All we need now is an accident! … So what
are you after now with your red ink?'

‘Nothing … Much
obliged.'

Louis reappeared bootless and a few
sheets to the wind, with a roughneck's cap on his head and a pair of scuffed
shoes on his feet.

… and that no one could tell me to
my face and that I've got savings, which are at least the equivalent of a
captain's pay.

Maigret left Madame Bernard standing on
the doorstep of her small house in Rue d'Étretat. She was about fifty, very
well preserved, and she had just spoken for a full half-hour about her first
husband, about being a widow, about the captain, whom she had taken as her lodger,
about the rumours which had circulated about their relationship and, finally, about
an unnamed female who was beyond a shadow of a doubt a ‘loose
woman'.

The inspector had looked round the whole
house, which was well kept but full of objects in rather bad taste. Captain
Fallut's room was still as it had been arranged in readiness for his
return.

Few personal possessions: some clothes
in a trunk, a handful of books, mostly adventure yarns, and pictures of boats.

All redolent of an uneventful,
unremarkable life.

‘… It was understood though not
finally settled, but we both knew that we would eventually get married. I would
bring the house, furniture and bed linen. Nothing would have changed, and we would
have been comfortably off,
especially in
three or four years' time, after he got his pension.'

Visible through the windows were the
grocer's opposite, the road that ran down the hill and the pavement, where
children were playing.

‘And then this last winter he met
that woman, and everything was turned upside down. At his age! How can a man lose
his head over a creature like that? And he kept it all very secret. He must have
been going to see her in Le Havre or somewhere, for no one here ever saw them
together. I had a feeling that something was going on. He started buying more
expensive underwear. And once, even a pair of silk socks! As there wasn't
anything definite between us, it was none of my business, and I didn't want to
look as if I was trying to defend my interests.'

The interview with Madame Bernard cast
light on one whole area of the dead man's life. The small, middle-aged man who
returned to port after a long tour on a trawler and spent his winters living like an
upstanding citizen, with Madame Bernard, who looked after him and expected to marry
him.

He ate with her, in her dining room,
under a portrait of her first husband, who sported a blond moustache. Afterwards, he
would go to his room and settle down with an exciting book.