The Yellow Dog (13 page)

‘Exactly – after! After everything else! In other words, I ran this investigation from the end, backwards – which doesn't mean I won't go the other way in the next one. It's a question of atmosphere, a question of
faces … When I first got here, I came across one face that appealed to me, and I never let go of it.'

But he did not say whose face he meant. He lifted aside an old sheet that hid a wardrobe. Inside hung a black velvet Breton costume, which Emma probably saved for special occasions.

On the dressing table were a comb with several teeth missing, some hairpins and a box of too-pink face powder. In a drawer he found what he seemed to be looking for: a box encrusted with shiny seashells, the kind sold in souvenir shops all along
the coast. This one, which looked perhaps ten years old and as though it had weathered God knows what travels, bore the words
Souvenir of Ostend
.

A smell of old cardboard, dust, perfume and yellowed paper rose from it. Maigret sat down on the edge of the bed beside his companion and, with his large fingers, lifted out the inventory of tiny items.

There was a rosary of faceted blue glass beads on a flimsy silver chain, a first communion medal and an empty perfume bottle that Emma must have found abandoned in a guest's room and saved for its
appealing shape …

A paper flower, the keepsake from some dance or festival, struck a lively red note. Beside it was a small gold crucifix, the only object of any value …

A whole pile of postcards … One showed a large hotel in Cannes. On the back, in a woman's handwriting:

You reely awt to come here, insted of sticking in that awful hole were it rains all the time. And we earn good mony here. We get all we want to eat. Big kiss – Louise.

Maigret passed the card to Leroy and stared attentively at a photograph you get at fairground shooting galleries. Because of the rifle on his shoulder, they could barely see the man taking aim, with one eye shut. He had an enormous build, and a
sailor's cap on his head. Emma, grinning into the lens, gripped his arm proudly. At the bottom of the card was the name
Quimper
.

Next was a letter, on paper so tattered that it must have been reread many times:

Darling,

It's done, it's signed: I have my boat. She'll be called the
Pretty Emma
. The priest in Quimper promised he would christen her next week, with holy water, grains of wheat, salt and all, and there will be real
champagne, because I want it to be a party people will talk about for a long time around here.

It will be hard to pay for her at first, because I have to hand the bank 10,000 francs a year. But just think, she'll
carry over 3,000 square feet of sail and make ten knots. There's
good money in carrying onions to England. What I mean is that it won't be too long before we can get married. I've already found a cargo for the first trip, but they're trying to bargain me down, because I'm new.

Your boss ought to give you two days off for the launch because everyone will be drunk and you won't be able to get back to Concarneau. I've had to treat everyone in the cafés round here to celebrate the boat, which is already in
port and flying a brand-new flag.

I'll get my picture taken on board and send you one. I kiss you with all my love, waiting for the day when you'll be the beloved wife of your

Léon.

Gazing dreamily at the drying laundry on the other side of the alley, Maigret slipped the letter into his pocket. There was nothing else in the shell box but a pen holder carved of bone; a little glass lens in the base showed a view of the crypt at
Notre-Dame de Lourdes.

‘Is there anyone in the room the doctor generally uses?' he asked.

‘I don't think so. The reporters are on the third floor.'

Out of duty, the inspector searched the room again, but he found nothing else of interest. A little later, down on the second floor, he opened the door to Michoux's room, the one with the balcony overlooking the port and the roadstead.

The bed was made, the floor polished. There were clean towels on the washstand.

Leroy watched his chief with a mixture of curiosity and scepticism. But Maigret whistled a quiet tune as he looked around, then headed for a small oak table in front of the
window. On it lay a promotional
writing folder and an ash tray.

Inside the folder were white paper with the hotel's letterhead and a blue envelope to match. But there were also two large sheets of blotting paper – one nearly black with ink, the other barely marked with sketchy characters.

‘Go and get a mirror, son!'

‘A big one?'

‘Doesn't matter. Just one I can set up on the table.'

When Leroy returned, he found Maigret planted on the balcony, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his waistcoat, smoking his pipe with obvious satisfaction.

‘Will this do?'

The balcony window was closed again. Maigret stood the mirror on the table and, using two candlesticks from the mantel, he set the sheet of blotting paper upright in front of it.

The characters reflected in the mirror were far from easy to read. Letters, even whole words, were missing. Others were so distorted that he could only guess at them.

‘I see what you're doing!' said Leroy, looking sly.

‘Good! Now go and ask the proprietor for one of Emma's account books, or anything else with her handwriting on it.'

With a pencil he transcribed words on a sheet of paper: ‘… see you … o'clock … vacant … absolutely …'

By the time Leroy returned, Maigret had filled in the blanks roughly and pieced together the following note:

I need to see you. Come tomorrow night at eleven to the vacant house on the square, a few doors past the hotel.
I'm absolutely counting on you. Just knock and I'll open the door.

‘Here's the book Emma keeps for the laundry,' Leroy announced.

‘It's the same writing. And look – the letter is signed. An initial E … And the letter was written here in this room.'

‘Where she spent nights with the doctor?' Leroy was aghast.

Maigret could understand his repugnance at accepting this idea, especially after the scene they had witnessed the night before from their perch on the roof.

‘In that case, then she's the one who—'

‘Easy! Easy, my boy! No jumping to conclusions. And no deductions, remember? … What time does Jean Goyard's train get in?'

‘Eleven thirty-two.'

‘Here's what you're going to do, my friend. First, tell our two colleagues with him to bring the fellow to me at the police barracks … He'll get there at about noon. Telephone the mayor that I'd like to see
him at the same time, same place … Wait! Same message for Madame Michoux – phone her at home … Then, at some point, the local police or others will probably be bringing in Emma and her sweetheart. Same place, same time for them … Am I forgetting
anyone? … Good! Just one thing: Emma's not to be questioned in my absence. In fact, stop her from talking if she tries.'

‘The customs guard?'

‘I don't need him.'

‘Monsieur Mostaguen?'

‘Hmm … no. That's all.'

In the café, Maigret ordered the local brandy and sipped it with visible pleasure as he remarked to the newspapermen: ‘We're winding up, gentlemen. You should be getting back to Paris
tonight.'

His walk through the Old Town's twisting streets added to his good humour. And when he reached the gateway to the police barracks, with the bright French flag above it, he noticed that, by some magical effect of the sunlight, the three
colours and the wall rippling with light, there was a kind of Bastille Day gaiety to the atmosphere.

An elderly policeman was sitting inside the gate, reading a humour magazine. The courtyard, with green moss growing between its small paving stones, was still as serene as a cloister.

‘The sergeant?'

‘They're all out – the lieutenant, the sergeant and most of the men – looking for that drifter.'

‘The doctor hasn't budged?'

The man smiled and looked at a barred prison window to the right. ‘No danger of that.'

‘Open the door for me, will you?'

As soon as the bolts were drawn, Maigret exclaimed, in a bright, cordial voice: ‘Hello there, doctor! Slept well, I hope!'

But all he saw was a pale, knife-sharp face emerging from the grey blanket on the bunk. The eyes were feverish, sunk deep into their sockets.

‘Well now, what's the problem? Something wrong?'

‘Very wrong,' mumbled Michoux, raising himself with a sigh. ‘My kidney …'

‘They're giving you whatever you need, I hope?'

‘Yes … Good of you …'

He had gone to bed fully dressed, which was apparent when he slid his legs from under the blanket. He sat up and wiped his hand over his forehead.

Meanwhile, Maigret, bursting with health and vigour, straddled a chair and planted his elbows on its back.

‘Well now! I see you ordered yourself a nice bottle of Burgundy!'

‘My mother brought it yesterday … I would just as soon have skipped that visit. She must have got wind of something in Paris … She came back.'

The dark circles under his eyes seemed to cover half of his unshaven hollow cheeks. The lack of a tie and his crumpled suit added to his aura of distress.

He cleared his throat and spat conspicuously into his handkerchief, which he then examined like a man worried about tuberculosis and keeping an anxious watch on himself.

‘Is there anything new?' he asked warily.

‘The police must have told you about last night.'

‘No! What hap … Who's been …?' He cowered against the wall as if afraid of being attacked.

‘Nothing serious. Someone was shot in the leg.'

‘Did they get the … whoever did it? … I can't take any more, inspector! You have to admit it's enough to drive a person crazy … Someone else from the Admiral café. Am I right? We're the ones
he's after! And I'm racking my brain to work out why … Yes, why? Mostaguen! Le Pommeret! And the poison – that was meant for all of us together … You'll see, they'll get me, no matter what, even in here! … But why? Tell me!'

He was no longer just pale. He was livid. It was painful
to see such a picture of panic at its most pathetic and repellent.

‘I don't even dare fall asleep … That window – look! There are bars, yes, but someone could shoot between them, at night. Suppose a guard fell asleep, or let his mind wander … I'm not made for this kind of
life. Yesterday I drank that whole bottle, in hopes of getting to sleep, but I never closed an eye. I just felt sick. If they'd only kill that drifter, with his yellow dog … Did he turn up again, the dog? Is he still prowling around the café? … I don't
understand why nobody's put a bullet into his hide. His and his master's both!'

‘His master left Concarneau last night.'

‘Oh!' The doctor seemed to have some trouble believing that. ‘Right after – after his latest attack?'

‘Before.'

‘But – that's impossible! That would mean—'

‘Correct. That's what I was telling the mayor, last night … Odd character, the mayor. Just between you and me, what do you think of him?'

‘Me? I don't know … I …'

‘Well, he sold you the land for the development. You're involved with him. You were friends, so to speak.'

‘We did some business together and we are neighbours, that's all … out here in the country, you know …'

Maigret noticed that the doctor's voice was growing firmer, his gaze less distracted.

‘What was it you were telling him?' Michoux asked.

Maigret pulled his notebook from his pocket. ‘I was saying that the series of crimes – or murder attempts, if you like – couldn't have been committed by any of the persons now known to us. I won't go over the events one
by one; I'll just summarize: objectively, you understand, like a technician … Well, obviously you were in no position last night to fire at the customs guard, which could be enough to rule you out altogether. Le Pommeret couldn't
have shot him either, since they're burying him tomorrow morning. Neither could Goyard; he's just been found in Paris … And they couldn't, any of them, have been the person behind the letterbox in the vacant house last Friday … Nor could Emma.'

‘What about the drifter with the yellow dog?'

‘I considered him. Not only is he probably not the one who poisoned Le Pommeret, but last night he was a long way from where the shooting occurred … That's why I told the mayor that it might be some unknown person, some
mysterious X, who committed all these crimes. Unless …'

‘Unless?'

‘Unless it's not one person. Instead of some sort of unilateral offensive, suppose there's actually a battle going on between two groups, or between two individuals.'

‘But what happens to me then, inspector? If there are unknown enemies prowling around, I …' And his face went dull again. He put his head in his hands. ‘When I think how sick I am, and how the doctors tell me I need absolute
calm! … Oh, there's no need for any bullet or poison to do me in. You'll see – my kidney will take care of that.'

‘What do you think of the mayor?'

‘I don't know! I don't know anything about him! … He comes from a very rich family. When he was young, he lived the high life in Paris, had his own racing stable. And then he settled down. He had managed to save some of
his money and came to live here, in the house built by his grandfather, who used to be mayor of Concarneau himself … He sold me the land he didn't need. I think he'd like to be appointed to the departmental council, and then
move on to the Senate.'