The Yellow Dog (10 page)

‘They're downstairs, except for one, who's gone to look for you in Brest. He's convinced you're on Goyard's trail.'

‘Emma?'

‘I don't know. I wasn't keeping track of her … She did serve me coffee after dinner.'

It was unsettling to be up here, unsuspected, on top of a house full of life – people moving around in warmth, in light, with no need to lower their voices.

‘Now – turn carefully towards the house that's for sale … Careful!'

The house was the second to the right, one of the few as tall as the hotel. It was part of a block of total darkness, and yet the inspector made out what seemed to be a glint reflecting off a curtainless window on the third floor.

Little by little, he realized that it was not a reflection from outside, but a feeble light inside. He stared at that single point until things began to take shape. A shiny floor … a half-consumed candle, its flame burning straight up,
ringed by a halo.

‘He's there!' Leroy said suddenly, louder than he intended.

‘Shh! Yes.'

Someone was lying on the bare floor, half in candlelight, half in shadow. An enormous shoe, a broad torso moulded by a sailor's sweater.

Leroy knew that there was a policeman at the end of the alley, another in the square, and still another patrolling the quay.

‘Do you want to arrest him?'

‘I don't know. He's been sleeping for three hours now.'

‘Is he armed?'

‘He wasn't this morning.'

Their words were scarcely audible: an indistinct murmur, almost like breathing.

‘What are we waiting for?'

‘I'm not sure. I'd like to know why he's kept a candle burning while he's asleep, especially when people are after him … Look!'

A yellow square appeared on a wall. ‘A light's gone on in Emma's room, right below us. That's the reflection.'

‘Have you had any dinner, inspector?'

‘I brought some bread and sausage … Are you cold?'

The two of them were frozen. They saw the glowing beam from the lighthouse sweep the sky at regular intervals.

‘She's turned out the light.'

‘Yes. Shh!'

Five minutes of silence, a bleak wait. Then Leroy's hand reached for Maigret's, clasped it meaningfully. ‘Look down.'

‘I saw.'

A shadow moved on the rough whitewashed wall that separated the garden of the vacant house from the alley.

‘She's going to meet him,' whispered Leroy, who could not keep silent.

Up above, the man was still asleep in the light of his candle. A currant bush swayed in the garden. A cat fled along a roof gutter.

‘You wouldn't have a lighter with a long wick, would you?'

Maigret had not dared relight his pipe. After hesitating a long time, he finally screened himself with his companion's jacket and scratched a match sharply. Leroy soon smelled the warm odour of tobacco again.

‘Look!'

They said nothing more. The man stood up so abruptly he nearly knocked the candle over. He drew back into the darkness as the door opened, and Emma appeared in the light, uncertain and so abject that she looked guilty.

From under her arm, she took a bottle and a package and set them on the floor. The paper, peeled back, showed a roast chicken.

She spoke. That is, her lips moved. She said only a few words, humbly, sadly. Her companion was out of sight of the two watchers.

Was she crying? She still had on her black waitress's dress and the Breton headdress. She had taken off only her white apron, and without it she looked even more woebegone.

Yes, she must have been crying as she said those few halting words. This was confirmed when she suddenly leaned against the door frame and buried her face in the crook of her arm. Her back shuddered fitfully.

The man suddenly appeared, blacking out nearly the whole square of the window, but he freed the view as he
strode across the room. His great hand hit the girl's shoulder with such a jolt that she made
a complete turn, nearly fell, and raised her poor pale face to him, her lips swollen with sobs.

But the scene was as indistinct, as hazy as a film when the house lights come up. And something was missing: sounds, voices … Like a film, a silent film without music.

Now the man was talking, apparently harshly. He was a bear. His head was hunched into his shoulders, and his sweater showed off his chest muscles. With his fists on his hips, he seemed to be shouting reproaches, or insults, perhaps even
threats.

He looked so close to hitting the girl that Leroy drew closer to Maigret, as if for reassurance.

Emma was still weeping. Her headdress had slipped sideways. Her chignon was coming loose. A window slammed shut somewhere and brought a moment's distraction.

‘Inspector … shouldn't we …' Leroy began.

The scent of tobacco enveloped the two men and gave them an illusion of warmth.

Why was Emma clasping her hands? She was speaking again. Her face was distorted in an expression of fright, of pleading, of pain, and Leroy heard Maigret cock his revolver.

A mere fifteen or twenty metres separated the two pairs. A sharp report, a shattered windowpane, and the giant would be in no condition to do harm.

Now he was striding the length and breadth of the room, his hands behind his back. He seemed shorter, broader. His foot jostled the roast chicken. He nearly slipped and furiously kicked it into the shadow.

Emma looked in that direction.

What could the two of them be saying? What was the subject of their heartbreaking dialogue?

The man seemed to be repeating the same words over again. But was it possible he was saying them more gently?

She fell to her knees, flung herself down in his path and raised her arms towards him. He acted as if she were not there, evaded her grasp. Then she was no longer on her knees, but half sprawled, with one arm stretched out imploringly.

At one moment the man was visible; the next, the darkness swallowed him. When he re-emerged, he stopped short before the pleading girl and looked down at her from on high.

Again he paced – came near, moved away – and she no longer had the strength, or the heart, to reach out to him, to entreat. She slipped full length to the floor. The bottle of wine was inches from her hand.

Unexpectedly, the vagrant stooped, seized her dress at the shoulder in one of his huge paws and, in one movement, set Emma on her feet. It was done so roughly that she swayed when she was no longer supported.

And yet, wasn't there some faint hope on her haggard face? Her hair had tumbled loose. The white headdress trailed underfoot.

The man continued pacing. Twice, he strode past his distraught companion.

The third time, he took her in his arms, crushed her to him, tipped back her head and greedily pressed his lips to hers.

All they could see was his back, a back not human, with a small female hand clamped on his shoulder.

Never taking his lips from hers, the creature stroked her straggling locks with his huge fingers, stroked as if he wanted to annihilate his companion, to crush her, to take her into himself.

‘My God!' Leroy sounded overcome.

Maigret had been so moved that in reaction he nearly burst out laughing.

Had Emma been there a quarter of an hour? The embrace was over. The candle would last only another five minutes. And the atmosphere of relief was almost visible.

Was the waitress laughing? She had apparently found a mirror somewhere. They watched her, in the full light of the candle, roll up her long hair, fasten it with a pin, search the floor for another pin and hold it between her teeth while she put the
headdress back in place.

She was almost beautiful. She
was
beautiful! Everything about her was appealing, even her flat figure, her black dress, her red eyelids. The man had picked up the chicken and, without taking his eyes off her, was biting into it lustily,
cracking the bones, tearing off strips of meat.

He felt, unsuccessfully, for a knife in his pocket, then snapped the neck of the bottle by knocking it against his heel. He drank. When he urged Emma to drink, she tried to refuse, laughing. Perhaps the jagged glass frightened her. But he made her
open her mouth and gently poured in the liquid.

She choked and coughed. He took her by the shoulders and kissed her again, but this time not on the lips. He kissed her gleefully, giving little pecks on her cheeks, on her eyes, on her brow and even on her lace headdress.

She was ready. He pressed his face to the window and
once again he almost totally filled the dim rectangle. When he turned away, it was to put out the candle.

Leroy stiffened. ‘They're leaving together …'

‘Yes.'

‘They'll be caught …'

The currant bush in the garden trembled. A figure was hoisted to the top of the wall. Emma then stood in the alley, waiting for her lover.

‘Follow them, but keep your distance. Make sure they don't notice you! … Let me know what happens when you get a chance.'

Just as the big man had done for his companion, Maigret helped the inspector hitch himself up the roof tiles to the skylight. Then he leaned over to look down into the alleyway, to see the tops of the fugitives' heads.

They hesitated, whispering. It was Emma who led the man towards a shed. They vanished into it, for the door was only latched.

It was a ship chandler's storage shed, connected to his shop, which would be empty at this hour. Just one lock to force, and the couple could reach the quay.

But Leroy would get there before them.

As he climbed down the attic ladder, the inspector realized that something strange was happening. There was a commotion downstairs. And the telephone was ringing amid the clamouring voices.

Among them was Leroy's, louder than usual – he was apparently on the phone.

Maigret hurried down the stairs to the ground floor, where he collided with one of the reporters.

‘What's going on?' he asked.

‘Another shooting … a quarter of an hour ago, in town … They took the victim to the pharmacy.'

The inspector darted out to the quay and saw a policeman running and brandishing his revolver. The sky was blacker than ever. Maigret caught up with the man and again asked, ‘What's going on?'

‘A couple just came out of that shop … I was on patrol across the way. The man practically fell into my arms … It's not worth chasing them now. They must be a long way off!'

‘Explain what happened.'

‘I heard sounds in the shop, but there were no lights on. So I stood by with my gun ready. The door opened; a man came out … But I didn't even have time to take aim. He hit me in the face so hard that I fell down. I dropped my
gun, and the one thing that scared me was that he'd grab it … But no – he went back to get a woman who was waiting in the doorway. She couldn't run, and he picked her up in his arms … By the time I got up, inspector – that was some punch! Look, I'm
bleeding! – they'd taken off along the quay. They must have gone around the harbour. And there are lots of little streets off there, and then it's all open country …'

The policeman was dabbing his nose with his handkerchief. ‘He could have killed me, just like that! He's got a fist like a sledgehammer.'

Voices could still be heard in the hotel, which was all lit up. Maigret left the policeman, rounded the corner and saw the pharmacy. Its shutters were closed, but its open door let out a flood of light.

Fifteen or twenty people were clustered at the door. The inspector elbowed through them.

In the dispensary, a man laid out flat on the floor was emitting rhythmic moans as he stared at the ceiling.

The pharmacist's wife, in her nightgown, was making more noise than all the rest of them together.

And the pharmacist himself, who had slipped a jacket on over his pyjamas, was in a panic, shuffling phials around, tearing open large packages of absorbent cotton.

‘Who is it?' Maigret asked.

He didn't wait for the answer; he had already recognized the customs uniform, its trouser leg slit open. And now he recognized the face.

It was the customs guard who had been on duty in the port the Friday before and had witnessed the Mostaguen shooting from a distance.

A doctor arrived in a rush, looked at the wounded man, then at Maigret, and cried, ‘What next?'

A little blood had run on to the floor. The pharmacist had washed the guard's leg with hydrogen peroxide, which left streaks of rosy foam.

Outside, a man was telling his tale, perhaps for the tenth time, but in a voice still gasping with excitement nonetheless.

‘My wife and I were asleep when I heard a noise that sounded like a gunshot, and a cry! Then nothing more, for maybe five minutes. I didn't dare go back to sleep. My wife wanted me to go and look. Then we heard these moans that sounded
as if they were coming from right in front of our door. I opened it – I had a gun – and I saw a dark shape. I recognized the uniform. I shouted, to wake up the neighbours. And the fruitseller – he has a car – helped me bring the fellow here—'

‘What time did you hear the shot?'

‘Half an hour ago.'

That was just when the scene between Emma and the man of the huge footprints was at its most intense.

‘Where do you live?'

‘I'm the sailmaker. You've passed my house a dozen times, on the right side of the harbour, past the fish market. My house is at the corner of the quay and a little street … After that, the buildings thin out, and
there's almost nothing except private houses.'

Four men carried the wounded customs guard into a back room, where they laid him on a couch. The doctor gave instructions. In the shop, the mayor's voice could be heard asking, ‘Is the inspector here?'

Maigret went and stood in front of him, his hands in his pockets.

‘You must admit, chief inspector …'