The Misty Harbour (3 page)

Then something amazing and quite
poignant happened. The captain's face had been so empty that no one could tell
if the wretched man had recovered his reason, but now
this face came back to life. As if he were a boy on the
verge of tears, his features crumpled into a pitiful expression of misery so deep
that it cannot go on.

And two great tears welled up, about to
spill over …

Almost at the same instant, the doctor
announced softly, ‘It's over.'

Could that have happened? Could death
have come at the very moment Joris was weeping?

And while those tears were still alive,
trickling down to vanish within his ears, the captain himself was dead.

They heard footsteps in the stairwell.
Surrounded by women, Julie was sobbing and gasping below. Maigret went out to the
landing.

‘No one,' he said slowly,
‘is to enter this room!'

‘Is he …?'

‘Yes!' he replied
firmly.

And he went back to the sunny room,
where the doctor, for his own peace of mind, was preparing to administer a heart
injection.

Out on the garden wall, there was a pure
white cat.

Somewhere downstairs, probably in the
kitchen, they could hear Julie's shrill cries as she struggled with her grief,
restrained and surrounded by women from the neighbourhood.

The window was still wide open, and
Maigret saw villagers arriving at a kind of half-run. Kids on bikes, women carrying
babies, men in clogs – it was a disorganized and lively little procession that
poured over the bridge and on towards the captain's house, just as if they had
been drawn there by a travelling circus or a traffic accident.

Maigret soon had to close the window
against the noise outside, and the muslin curtains softened the light. The
atmosphere in the bedroom became milder, more subdued. The wallpaper was pink. The
furniture of pale wood was well polished. A vase full of flowers held pride of place
on the mantelpiece.

The inspector watched the doctor as he
held up to the light a glass and a carafe of water he had taken from the bedside
table. He even dipped a finger into the water and touched it to his tongue.

‘That's what did
it?'

‘Yes. The captain must have liked
to have a glass of water handy at night. As far as I can tell, he drank some at
around
three this morning, but I
don't understand why he didn't call for help.'

‘For the very good reason that he
couldn't speak or even make the slightest sound,' muttered Maigret.

He summoned the policeman and told him
to inform the mayor and the public prosecutor at Caen of what had happened. People
were still coming and going downstairs, while outside, on that bit of road leading
nowhere, the local folk were standing around in groups. A few, to be more
comfortable, were sitting on the grass.

The tide was coming in, already invading
the sandbanks by the entrance to the harbour. Smoke on the horizon betrayed a ship
waiting for the right time to head in to the bay.

‘Do you have any idea
of …' the doctor began, but fell silent when he realized that the
inspector was busy. Maigret had opened a mahogany writing desk that stood between
the two bedroom windows and was making a list of what was in the drawers, with the
obstinate frown he always wore on such occasions. Seen like that, the inspector
looked somewhat brutish. He had lit his fat pipe, which he smoked in slow puffs, and
his big fingers handled the things he was finding without any apparent care or
respect.

Photographs, for example. There were
dozens. Many were of friends, almost all of them in naval uniform and about the same
age as Joris would have been at the time. Evidently he had kept in touch with his
classmates at the marine academy in Brest, and they wrote to him from every corner
of the world. Photos in postcard format, artless and banal, whether they arrived
from Saigon or
Santiago: ‘Hello from
Henry,' or ‘At last! My third stripe! Hooray!
Eugène
.'

Most of these cards were addressed to
‘Captain Joris, aboard the
Diana
, Compagnie Anglo-Normande,
Caen'
.

‘Had you known the captain
long?' Maigret asked the doctor.

‘For a good while. Ever since he
came here. Before that, he sailed on one of the mayor's ships. Captained her
for twenty-eight years.'

‘The mayor's
ships?'

‘Yes, Monsieur Ernest Grandmaison!
The chairman of the Compagnie Anglo-Normande. In effect, the sole owner of the
company's eleven steamships.'

Another photograph: Joris himself this
time, at twenty-five, already stocky, with a broad, smiling face, but a hint of
stubbornness, too. A real Breton!

Finally, in a canvas folder,
certificates, from his school diploma all the way to a master's certificate in
the Merchant Navy, as well as official documents, his birth certificate, service
record, passports …

Maigret picked up an envelope that had
fallen to the floor. The paper was already yellowing with age.

‘A will?' asked the doctor,
who was at a loose end until the examining magistrate arrived.

The household of Captain Joris must have
been run on trust, because the envelope was not even sealed. Within was a sheet of
paper; the writing was in a neat, elegant hand.

I the undersigned Yves-Antoine
Joris, born in Paimpol, a captain in the Merchant Navy, do hereby bequeath all
my
property, real and personal, to
Julie Legrand, in my employ, in recompense for her years of devoted service.

I direct her to make the
following bequests:

My canoe to Captain Delcourt;
the Chinese porcelain dinner service to his wife; my carved ivory-headed cane
to …

Almost everyone in that little
harbour-town world, which Maigret had seen bustling in the fog the night before, had
been remembered. Even the lock-keeper, who was to receive a fishing net, ‘the
trammel lying under the shed', as the captain had put it.

Just then there was a strange noise in
the house. While the women in the kitchen were busy fixing Julie a hot toddy
‘to buck her up', she had dashed upstairs and now entered the bedroom,
looking wildly all around her. She then rushed towards the bed only to draw back,
speechless before the spectacle of death.

‘Is he … Can he
be …?'

She collapsed on to the carpet, wailing
almost unintelligibly, but one could just make out: ‘… It can't
be … My poor
monsieur
 … my … my …'

Solemnly, Maigret stooped to help her to
her feet and guide her, still shuddering in distress, into her bedroom next door.
The place was in disorder, with clothes lying on the bed and soapy water in the wash
basin.

‘Who filled the water carafe
sitting on the bedside table?'

‘I did … Yesterday
morning … When I put flowers in the captain's room …'

‘Were you alone in the
house?'

Julie was panting,
slowly recovering her composure, yet beginning to wonder at the inspector's
questions.

‘What are you thinking?' she
cried abruptly.

‘I'm not thinking anything.
Calm down. I've just read the captain's will.'

‘And?'

‘You inherit everything.
You'll be rich …'

His words simply provoked fresh
tears.

‘The captain was poisoned by the
water in the carafe.'

She glared at him with bristling
contempt.

‘What are you trying to
say?' she shouted. ‘What do you mean?'

She was so overwrought that she grabbed
his forearm, shook it in fury and even seemed about to start hitting and clawing at
him.

‘Julie, compose yourself, listen
to me! The inquiry has only just begun. I am not insinuating anything. I am
gathering information.'

A loud knock at the door; the policeman
had brought news.

‘The magistrate cannot get here
before early this afternoon. The mayor, who was out hunting last night, was in bed.
He will come as soon as he's ready.'

Everyone was on edge. Throughout the
house there was a fever of anxiety. And that crowd outside, waiting without really
knowing what it was waiting for, increased the feeling of tension and
disturbance.

‘Are you planning on staying
here?' Maigret asked Julie.

‘Why not? Wherever would I
go?'

The inspector asked the doctor to leave
the captain's
bedroom, then locked
the door behind him. He permitted only two women to remain with Julie, the wife of
the lighthouse-keeper and a lock-worker's wife.

‘Allow no one else in,' he
told the policeman. ‘If necessary, try to send these curiosity seekers away
without making a fuss.'

The inspector himself left the cottage,
made his way through the onlookers and walked to the bridge. The foghorn was still
sounding in the distance, but only faintly now, with the wind blowing offshore. The
air was mild. The sun shone more brightly with each passing hour. The tide was
rising.

Two lock workers were already arriving
from the village to begin their shifts. On the bridge, Maigret saw Captain Delcourt,
with whom he had spoken the previous evening and who now came towards him.

‘Tell me! Is it true?'

‘Joris was poisoned,
yes.'

‘Who did it?'

The people over at the cottage were
beginning to disperse. The policeman seemed to be the reason, going from group to
group, telling them God knows what and gesturing emphatically. Now, however, the
crowd had fixed on the inspector and observed him intently.

‘Are you already on
duty?'

‘Not yet. Not until the tide rises
a good metre more. Look! That steamship you see at anchor in the roadstead has been
waiting since six this morning.'

Customs officials, the head lock-keeper,
the water bailiff and the skipper of the coastguard cutter were
among the onlookers hovering nearby, not daring to
approach the two men, but the lock workers were getting ready to start their
shifts.

So Maigret was now seeing in broad
daylight the men he had sensed had been working all around him the previous night,
hidden in the fog. The Buvette de la Marine was only a few steps away, its windows
and glass door providing a fine view of the lock, the bridge, the jetties, the
lighthouse and Joris' cottage.

‘Will you come and have a
drink?' the inspector asked Captain Delcourt.

He had the feeling that this was
customary, that with each tide this little fraternity would repair to their local
hangout. The captain checked the level of the water.

‘I've got half an
hour,' he announced.

They both entered the simple wooden
tavern, gradually followed – after some hesitation – by the others. Maigret beckoned
to them to join him and his companion at their table.

He had to break the ice, introducing
himself to everyone to inspire their trust and even gain some sort of access to
their circle.

‘What'll you
have?'

They all glanced at one another, still a
bit ill at ease.

‘This time of day, it's
usually coffee laced with a warming drop …'

A woman served them all. The crowd
returning from the cottage tried to see inside the bar and, reluctant to go on home,
scattered through the harbour to await developments.

After filling his pipe, Maigret passed
his tobacco pouch around. Captain Delcourt preferred a cigarette, but the head
lock-keeper, reddening slightly, tucked a
pinch of tobacco inside his lip and mumbled, ‘If you don't
mind …'

Maigret finally made his move.

‘A strange business, this,
don't you think?'

They had all been expecting this moment,
but the sally still met with an uncomfortable silence.

‘Captain Joris seems to have been
quite a fine fellow …'

And the inspector waited, darting
discreet glances at the men's faces.

‘Indeed!' replied Delcourt,
who was a bit older than his predecessor, less tidy in his appearance and apparently
not averse to drink.

Nevertheless, while speaking he kept a
careful eye, through the curtains, on both the progress of the tide and the ship now
weighing anchor.

‘He's starting a mite early!
The current in the Orne will shortly drive him on to the sandbanks …'

‘Your health!' said Maigret.
‘I take it, then, that none of you knows what happened on the night of the
16th of September …'

‘No one. It was a foggy evening,
like last night. I myself was not on duty. I stayed on here, though, playing cards
with Joris and these other men here with you now.'

‘Did you get together here every
evening?'

‘Just about … Not much
else to do in Ouistreham. Three or four times, that night, Joris left his hand to
someone else when he had to go and attend to a boat in the lock. By nine thirty, the
tide had gone out. He set out into the fog, as if he were heading home.'

‘When did you realize he was
missing?'

‘The next
day. Julie came to ask about him. She'd gone to sleep before he got home and
the next morning was astonished not to find him in his bedroom.'

‘Joris had had a few
drinks?'

‘Never more than one!'
insisted the customs man, growing eager to have his say on this subject. ‘And
no tobacco!'

‘And … How shall I put
this … He and Julie? …'

An exchange of looks, some hesitation,
several smiles.

‘No way to know. Joris swore there
was nothing. It's just that …'

The customs man picked up the
thread.

‘I'm not speaking ill of him
when I say that he didn't entirely fit in with the rest of us. He wasn't
a prideful man, no, that's not the right word! But he paid attention to
appearances, you understand? He'd never have come on duty in clogs, like
Delcourt sometimes does. He played cards here of an evening, but never came by
during the day. He never spoke familiarly to the lock workers … I
don't know if you see what I'm getting at …'