The Yellow Dog

  Georges Simenon

  THE YELLOW DOG

  Translated by Linda Asher

  Contents

  Title Page

  About the Author

  1. Nobody’s Dog

  2. The Doctor in Slippers

  3. Fear Reigns in Concarneau

  4. Field Headquarters

  5. The Man at Cabélou

  6. A Coward

  7. The Couple by Candlelight

  8. Plus One

  9. The Seashell Box

  10. The Pretty Emma

  11. Fear

  EXTRA: Chapter 1 from The Night at the Crossroads

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Georges Simenon was born on 12 February 1903 in Liège, Belgium, and died in 1989 in Lausanne, Switzerland, where he had lived for the latter part of his life. He published seventy-five novels and twenty-eight short stories featuring Inspector Maigret.

  Written in 1931 and published that same year, The Yellow Dog was the first Maigret novel to be adapted for the big screen. Simenon worked on the adaptation with the director Jean Tarride and the film appeared a year later.

  Penguin is publishing the entire series of Maigret novels.

  PENGUIN CLASSICS

  THE YELLOW DOG

  ‘I love reading Simenon. He makes me think of Chekhov’

  William Faulkner

  ‘A truly wonderful writer … marvellously readable – lucid, simple, absolutely in tune with the world he creates’

  Muriel Spark

  ‘Few writers have ever conveyed with such a sure touch, the bleakness of human life’

  A. N. Wilson

  ‘One of the greatest writers of the twentieth century … Simenon was unequalled at making us look inside, though the ability was masked by his brilliance at absorbing us obsessively in his stories’

  Guardian

  ‘A novelist who entered his fictional world as if he were part of it’

  Peter Ackroyd

  ‘The greatest of all, the most genuine novelist we have had in literature’

  André Gide

  ‘Superb … The most addictive of writers … A unique teller of tales’

  Observer

  ‘The mysteries of the human personality are revealed in all their disconcerting complexity’

  Anita Brookner

  ‘A writer who, more than any other crime novelist, combined a high literary reputation with popular appeal’

  P. D. James

  ‘A supreme writer … Unforgettable vividness’

  Independent

  ‘Compelling, remorseless, brilliant’

  John Gray

  ‘Extraordinary masterpieces of the twentieth century’

  John Banville

  1. Nobody’s Dog

  Friday, 7 November. Concarneau is empty. The lighted clock in the Old Town glows above the ramparts; it is five minutes to eleven.

  The tide is in, and a south-westerly gale is slamming the boats together in the harbour. The wind surges through the streets. Here and there a scrap of paper scuttles swiftly along the ground.

  There is not a single light on Quai de l’Aiguillon. Everything is closed. Everyone is asleep. Only the three windows of the Admiral Hotel, on the square where it meets the quay, are still lighted.

  They have no shutters, but through their murky greenish panes the figures inside are just barely visible. Huddled in his booth less than a hundred metres away, the customs guard stares enviously at the people lingering in the café.

  Across from him in the harbour is a coaster that had come in for shelter that afternoon. There is no one on deck. Its blocks creak, and a loose jib snaps in the wind. And there is the relentless din of the gale and the rattle of the tower clock as it prepares to toll eleven.

  The hotel door opens. A man appears, still talking to the people inside. The gale snatches at him, flaps his coat-tails, lifts off his bowler hat. He catches it in time and jams it on his head as he walks away.

  Even from a distance, it is clear that he is a bit tipsy; he is unsteady on his legs and is humming a tune. The customs guard watches him and grins when the man decides to light a cigar. A comic struggle then develops between the drunk and the wind, which tears at his coat and his hat as it pushes him along the pavement. Ten matches are blown out.

  The man spots a doorway up two steps, takes cover there and leans forwards. A match flickers, very briefly. The smoker staggers, grabs for the doorknob.

  Was that noise part of the storm, the customs guard wonders. He can’t be sure. He laughs as he sees the fellow lose his balance and reel backwards at an impossible angle.

  The man lands on the ground at the kerb, his head in the filth of the gutter. The customs guard beats his hands against his sides to warm them and scowls at the jib, irritated by its racket.

  A minute, two minutes pass. He takes another glance at the drunk, who has not moved. A dog has turned up from somewhere and is sniffing at him.

  ‘That was when I first got the feeling there was something wrong,’ the customs guard said later, at the hearing.

  The comings and goings that followed are harder to establish in strict chronological order. The customs guard approaches the fallen man, not reassured by the presence of the dog, a big snarling yellow animal. There is a street lamp eight or ten metres away. At first he sees nothing unusual. Then he notices a hole in the drunk’s overcoat and a thick fluid flowing from the hole.

  He runs to the Admiral Hotel. The café is nearly empty. Leaning on the till is a waitress. At a marble table, two men, their chairs tilted back, their legs stretched out, are finishing their cigars.

  ‘Quick! A crime … I don’t know …’

  The customs guard looks down. The yellow dog has followed him in and is lying at the waitress’s feet.

  There is hesitation, a vague feeling of fright in the air.

  ‘Your friend, the man who just left here …’

  Some seconds later, the three of them are leaning over the body, still sprawled at the kerb. A few steps away is the town hall, with the police station. The customs guard, needing to do something, dashes over and then, breathless, runs to a doctor’s doorbell.

  Unable to shake off the sight, he keeps repeating, ‘He staggered backwards like a drunk, and he went three or four steps, like this …’

  Five men, then six, seven. Windows opening everywhere. Whispering …

  On his knees in the mud, the doctor declares: ‘A bullet fired point-blank into the belly. He must be operated on right away. Someone phone the hospital!’

  Everyone recognizes the wounded man. It is Monsieur Mostaguen, Concarneau’s biggest wine dealer, a good fellow, without an enemy in the world.

  The two uniformed policemen – one of them has come out without his cap – don’t know where to begin the investigation.

  Someone is talking: Monsieur Le Pommeret, whose manner and voice show him to be someone important. ‘He and I were playing cards at the Admiral café, with Servières and Dr Michoux. The doctor left first, half an hour ago. And then Mostaguen … He’s afraid of his wife; he left on the stroke of eleven …’

  A tragicomedy: everyone is listening to Monsieur Le Pommeret; they have forgotten about the wounded man. Suddenly he opens his eyes, tries to get up, and, in a voice so surprised, so gentle, so feeble that the waitress bursts into nervous laughter, he whispers, ‘What happened?’

  But a spasm of pain racks him. His lips twist. The muscles of his face tighten as the doctor prepares his syringe for a shot.

>   The yellow dog circles among the many legs. Puzzled, someone asks, ‘You know this animal?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him before.’

  ‘Probably off some boat.’

  In the charged atmosphere, the dog is troubling. Perhaps it is his colour, a dirty yellow. He’s tall and lanky, very thin, and his huge head calls to mind both a mastiff and a bulldog.

  Five or six metres away, the policemen are questioning the customs guard, who is the only witness.

  They look at the doorstep. It is the entrance to a large private house, whose shutters are closed. To the right of the door, a solicitor’s sign announces the sale of the building at auction on 18 November: Reserve price: 80,000 francs.

  A policeman fiddles for a long while without managing to force the lock. Finally, the owner of the garage next door cracks it with a screwdriver.

  The ambulance arrives. Monsieur Mostaguen is lifted on to a stretcher. The onlookers are left with nothing to do but contemplate the empty house.

  It has stood empty for a year now. A heavy smell of gunpowder and tobacco hangs in the hallway. A torch beam picks out cigarette ashes and muddy tracks on the flagstone floor, indicating that someone had been waiting and watching for a good while behind the door.

  A man wearing only a coat over his pyjamas says to his wife, ‘Come on! There’s nothing more to see. We’ll find out the rest from the paper tomorrow. Monsieur Servières is here …’

  Servières, a plump little man in a raincoat, had been with Monsieur Le Pommeret at the Admiral. He is an editor at the Brest Beacon, and, in addition, writes a humorous piece every Sunday.

  He is taking notes, giving suggestions – not to say orders – to the two policemen.

  The doors along the hallway are locked. The one at the rear, which opens on to the garden, is swinging open. The garden is surrounded by a wall no higher than a metre and a half. Beyond the wall is an alley that runs into Quai de l’Aiguillon.

  ‘The murderer went out that way!’ proclaims Jean Servières.

  It was on the following day that Maigret established this rough account of the event. For the past month he had been assigned to Rennes to reorganize its mobile unit. There he had received an agitated phone call from the mayor of Concarneau.

  And he had come to the town with Leroy, an inspector with whom he had not worked before.

  The storm never let up. Heavy clouds dropped icy rain over the town. No boats left port, and there was talk of a steamer in distress out past the Glénan Islands.

  Of course, Maigret installed himself at the Admiral Hotel, the best in town. It was five in the afternoon and just dark when he stepped into the café, a long, gloomy room with marble tables and sawdust scattered on the dingy floor. The room was made drearier still by the green windowpanes.

  Several tables were occupied. But a quick survey was enough to tell him which was the one with the regulars, the established customers, whose conversation everyone else tried to overhear.

  Someone rose from that table – a baby-faced man with round eyes and a smile on his lips.

  ‘Inspector Maigret? My good friend the mayor told me you were coming … I’ve heard a lot about you. Let me introduce myself: Jean Servières … Well, now – you’re from Paris, I believe? So am I! I was manager of the Red Cow in Montmartre for some time; I’ve worked for the Petit Parisien, for Excelsior, for the Dispatch … I was a close friend of one of your chiefs – Bertrand, a fine fellow. He retired to the country last year, down in Nièvre. And I’ve done the same thing: I’ve retired, so to speak, from public life … I help out at the Brest Beacon now, to keep busy …’ He jumped around, waving his arms.

  ‘Come, now, let me present our group – the finest band of merry men in Concarneau. This is Le Pommeret: unrepentant skirt-chaser, a man of independent means and vice-consul for Denmark.’

  The man who rose and offered his hand was turned out like a country gentleman: checked riding-breeches, custom-made gaiters without a trace of mud, white piqué stock at his throat. He had a fine silver moustache, smoothly slicked hair, a fair complexion and florid cheeks.

  ‘Delighted, inspector.’

  Jean Servières went on: ‘Dr Michoux, the son of the former deputy. A doctor on paper only, incidentally, since he’s never practised. You’ll see, he’ll eventually sell you some land; he owns the best building plots in Concarneau, and maybe in all of Brittany.’

  A cold hand. A narrow, knifelike face, with a nose bent sideways. Reddish hair already thinning, though the doctor was no more than thirty-five.

  ‘What will you drink?’

  Meanwhile, Leroy had gone off to learn what he could at the town hall and the police station.

  The atmosphere in the café had about it something grey, or grim – impossible to say exactly what. Visible through an open door was a dining room, where waitresses in Breton dress were laying the tables for dinner.

  Maigret’s gaze fell on a yellow dog lying beneath the till. Raising his eyes, he saw a black skirt, a white apron, a face with no particular grace, yet so appealing that throughout the conversation that followed he hardly stopped watching it.

  Whenever he turned away, moreover, the waitress, in turn, fixed her agitated gaze on him.

  ‘If it weren’t for the fact that it nearly killed our poor Mostaguen – the best fellow in the world, except that he’s scared silly of his wife – I’d swear this was just some tasteless joke,’ Servières said.

  Le Pommeret called in an easy tone: ‘Emma!’

  And the waitress came forwards. ‘Well? What will you have?’ There were empty beer mugs on the table.

  ‘Time for an aperitif,’ said the journalist. ‘Otherwise known as Pernod hour. Pernods all round, Emma. That all right, inspector?’

  Dr Michoux was deeply absorbed in studying his cufflink.

  ‘Who could have known that Mostaguen would step into that doorway to light his cigar?’ continued Servières’ resonant voice. ‘No one, right? Le Pommeret and I live on the other side of town; we don’t go past that vacant house. At that time of night, there’d be no one but the three of us out in the streets … Mostaguen isn’t the type to have enemies. He’s what you call a good-natured fellow – his sole ambition is to get the Légion d’Honneur some day …’

  ‘Did the operation go well?’

  ‘He’ll pull through … A funny thing is that his wife made a scene at the hospital. She’s convinced it has to do with some woman! Can you imagine? The poor man would never dare even lay a hand on his secretary!’

  ‘Give me a double,’ Le Pommeret told the waitress as she poured the mock absinthe. ‘And bring some ice, Emma.’

  Some customers left, since it was now dinnertime. A gust of wind blew in through the open door and set the tablecloths in the dining room flapping.

  ‘You’ll read the article I’ve written on this business – I think I’ve covered all the hypotheses. Only one makes sense: that we’re dealing with a madman. We know everyone in town, and we can’t for the life of us work out who might have lost his mind … We’re here every night. Sometimes the mayor comes by to play a game with us. Or else Mostaguen. Or sometimes, for bridge, we go and fetch the clockmaker who lives a few doors away.’

  ‘And the dog?’

  The journalist shrugged. ‘No one knows where it came from. At first we thought it belonged to the coaster that arrived yesterday – the Sainte-Marie. But apparently not. They do have a dog on board, but it’s a Newfoundland, and I defy anyone to say what breed this hideous hound is.’

  As he spoke, he picked up a pitcher of water and poured some into Maigret’s glass.

  ‘Has the waitress been here long?’ the inspector asked quietly.

  ‘Oh, for years.’

  ‘She didn’t go out last night?’

  ‘She didn’t budge … She waited for us to leave before she went up to bed. Le Po
mmeret and I, we were going over old times, memories of the good old days when we were handsome enough to get ourselves women without paying for them. Isn’t that right, Le Pommeret? … He’s not saying a thing! Once you get to know him better, you’ll see that when it comes to women he can go on all night … You know what we call the house he lives in, across from the fish market? The House of Depravity!’

  ‘To your health, inspector,’ said the man in question, not without embarrassment.

  Maigret noticed just then that Dr Michoux, who had barely opened his mouth, was leaning forwards to examine his glass against the light. His brow was furrowed. His face, by nature colourless, wore a look of enormous anxiety.

  ‘Just a minute!’ he exclaimed suddenly.

  He put the glass to his nostrils, then dipped a finger in and touched it to the tip of his tongue.

  Servières burst into loud laughter. ‘He’s letting the Mostaguen business get to him!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Maigret.

  ‘I think we’d better not drink this … Emma, go and ask the pharmacist to come over right away. Even if he’s at dinner …’

  That created a chill. The room looked emptier, more dismal. Le Pommeret tugged nervously at his moustache. Even the journalist squirmed in his seat. ‘What’s bothering you?’

  The doctor was still staring gloomily at his glass. He rose and went to get the Pernod bottle from the shelf. He twisted it in the light, and Maigret made out two or three small white granules floating in the liquid.

  The waitress returned, followed by the pharmacist, whose mouth was full.

  ‘Here, Kervidon, analyse the contents of this bottle and the glasses right away.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘This minute!’

  ‘What shall I test for? What do you have in mind?’

  Maigret had never seen the pale shadow of fear spread so swiftly. In seconds, all the warmth had drained from the customers’ expressions, and the rosy blotches on Le Pommeret’s cheeks looked artificial.

  The waitress leaned an elbow on the till and licked a pencil before setting down some figures in a black oilcloth-covered account book.