Maigret and the Death of a Harbor-Master Read online

  Maigret

  and the

  Death of a Harbormaster

  LE PORT DES BRUMES

  THE 15TH EPISODE IN THE MAIGRET SAGA

  1932

  Georges Simenon

  translated by Stuart Gilbert

  * * *

  A 3S digital back-up edition 1.0

  click for scan notes and proofing history

  valid XHTML 1.0 strict

  * * *

  CONTENTS

  1. The Cat in the House

  2. The Will

  3. The Store-Cupboard

  4. The Schooner

  5. Notre-Dame des Dunes

  6. The Mayor’s Mishap

  7. Maigret Sets the Pace

  8. The Mayor’s Inquiry

  9. A Conspiracy of Silence

  10. On Board the Saint Michel

  11. The Sand-Bank

  12. The Unfinished Letter

  13. The House Opposite

  * * *

  Georges Simenon - Maigret and M. Labbé

  (dual edition, with The Man From Everywhere)

  Le Port des Brumes: Translated From The French By Stuart Gilbert

  Harcourt, Brace And Company New York

  Copyright, 1942, By Harcourt, Brace And Company, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  first American edition

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  * * *

  1.

  THE CAT IN THE HOUSE

  WHEN the Cherbourg train left Paris, just before three, the cool clear sunlight of an October afternoon still bathed the busy streets. Thirty miles out, when it was nearing Nantes, the lights had been turned on in the compartments. Half an hour later, when the train reached Evreux, it was quite dark. Across the dripping windows nothing could now be seen but a dense fog, through which now and again a railway signal glimmered for a moment, fringed by iridescent sheen.

  Slumped in a corner seat, his head resting on the padded back, Maigret watched with half-closed eyes the oddly assorted couple facing him.

  Captain Joris was asleep. On that enigmatic, shaven head of his the wig had slipped askew; his clothes were rumpled, travel-stained.

  Julie was firmly clutching her bag, a cheap affair in imitation crocodile-skin, and gazing straight in front of her. Tired though she was, she was obviously determined not to give way to fatigue, and to keep up appearances.

  Joris. Julie. A puzzling pair.

  It was nothing new for Inspector Maigret to have people crashing in like this—out of the blue, so to speak— into his life, and monopolizing it for days, weeks, or even months on end; only to relapse once more into the common herd of nondescripts.

  The rumbling wheels set a rhythm to his thoughts, the thoughts that always haunted him at the start of an investigation. Would it be an interesting case or mere routine-work; dull or eventful?

  As Maigret gazed at Joris a smile hovered on his lips. An odd bloke! “Bloke” came naturally, for at Headquarters during the last five days this stalwart, stockily built seaman in the early fifties had been known merely as “The Bloke.”

  Noticing a man behaving in a peculiar manner, dodging in and out amongst the traffic, a constable on duty on the Central Boulevards had taken him into custody. He had been questioned in French. No answer. Seven or eight foreign languages were tried without success. A deaf-mute expert likewise had drawn blank.

  A lunatic? He had been searched in Maigret’s office. His suit and undergarments were brand-new. Tailor’s and shirt-maker’s names had been cut out. No identity papers. No wallet. But, tucked into a coat pocket, five crisp thousand-franc notes.

  The inquiry had got on everybody’s nerves. Police registers and anthropométrie records had been ransacked. Telegrams dispatched all over France, and abroad. And from morn till night, under a perpetual cross-fire of questions, “The Bloke” had just gone on smiling, quite happily, to himself. Throughout the ordeal he had not once protested, never shown emotion; sometimes he seemed to make an effort to remember, but gave in almost at once.

  Loss of memory? The wig had fallen off his head, and it was found that a bullet had perforated the top of the man’s skull, not more than two months previously. The doctors were all admiration; rarely had they seen a damaged skull repaired so neatly.

  A new batch of telegrams went out, to hospitals and nursing-homes in France, Belgium, Germany, and Holland. Five strenuous days had been wasted in inquiries on these lines.

  Chemical analysis of the stains on the man’s clothes and the dust in his pockets had given odd results. Some traces had been found of a fishy substance used as sardine bait and peculiar to the northern coast of Norway, where cod-roes are dried and ground up for this purpose.

  Did this mean he came from those parts? Was he a Scandinavian? There were indications that he had made a long railway journey. But how could he have managed it alone, unable to utter a word, and wearing that queer, bewildered air which made him so conspicuous?

  His photograph was published in the papers. A wire came from Ouistreham: Unknown man identified. It was followed up by a young woman, who burst into Maigret’s office. A young woman with a haggard face, clumsily rouged and powdered; Julie Legrand, “The Bloke’s” housekeeper.

  So now he was “The Bloke” no longer; he had a name, a place in the community. He was Yves Joris, a retired sea-captain, now harbor-master at Ouistreham.

  Julie burst into tears. Julie simply couldn’t understand! When she implored him to speak, the man merely gazed at her good-humoredly, as he did at everyone else.

  Captain Joris had disappeared from Ouistreham, a small port on the north coast between Trouville and Cherbourg, on September 16. It was now the end of October.

  What had he been doing during those six unaccountable weeks?

  “He went to the ship-canal,” Julie explained, “to take his turn of duty at the lock. High water was late that night. I didn’t wait up for him. Next morning, when I went to his bedroom, he wasn’t there.”

  The night had been foggy. He might have missed his footing and fallen into the lock. It had been dragged without result. Another theory had then been put forward: perhaps he’d had a sudden fancy for a jaunt to Paris, or elsewhere.

  “Lisieux. Three minutes’ stop.”

  Maigret stepped out on to the platform to stretch his legs. He filled his pipe again. He had smoked so many pipes since leaving Paris that you could have cut the air in the compartment with a knife.

  “Take your seats.”

  Julie had seized the opportunity to dab her nose with her puff. Her eyes were still red with weeping.

  Curious! There were moments when she looked quite attractive, chic almost by Parisian standards; others when, though one couldn’t say just why, her peasant origin showed definitely through.

  She straightened the wig on the Captain’s head, casting a glance at Maigret as though to say, “He has only me to look after him, you know.” For Joris had no family. For years he had lived alone, except for Julie, whom he called his housekeeper. She always referred to him as “her gentleman.”

  “He treated me like a daughter.”

  A quiet man. No enemies; no love-affairs, no vices. After knocking about the world for thirty years, he had settled down for good, it seemed, to blameless domesticity. But he couldn’t resign himself to idleness. After giving up the sea he had applied for the post of harbor-master at Ouistreham. He had built a little house there.

  Then one fine evening—the sixteenth of September— he’d vanished from the face of the earth; only to reappear in Paris six weeks later, and in w
hat a state!

  Julie had been quite shocked at finding him dressed in a ready-made gray lounge suit. Never before had she seen him in anything but uniform.

  She was obviously nervous. Something was weighing on her mind. Every time she turned towards the Captain her look expressed compassion, but something else: an obscure rankling apprehension. It was he—“her gentleman”—sure enough. And yet, somehow, it wasn’t altogether he!

  “He’ll recover, won’t he? Luckily I’m good at nursing.”

  The moisture on the windows was condensing into turbid drops of water. The Inspector’s massive head was gently swaying from side to side with the movement of the train. And all the time, placidly, he was observing the two in front of him: Julie, who had pointed out that they might just as well have traveled Third, as she always did; Joris, who was waking up and gazing dreamily about him.

  Another stop, at Caen. The next would be for Ouistreham.

  “A village with a thousand or so inhabitants,” one of Maigret’s colleagues, who came from those parts, had told him. “The harbor’s small, but a busy one because of the ship-canal linking the roadstead with the city of Caen. It takes ships of five thousand tons and more.”

  Maigret made no attempt to imagine what the place was like. He knew too well how misleading such mental pictures always are. He waited, letting his gaze roam constantly towards the wig which hid the pink streak of a scar.

  At the time of his disappearance Captain Joris had had thick, dark brown hair, only faintly graying at the temples. Another source of distress for Julie; she couldn’t bear the sight of that bald head! And every time the wig slipped awry, she made haste to set it straight.

  “Obviously someone was out to kill him,” Maigret mused. “That shot was aimed at his head. But obviously, too, someone patched up that head with quite extraordinary skill. He had no money with him when he went; when he was found he had five thousand francs in his pocket.”

  More was to come. Abruptly Julie opened her bag.

  “I forgot to tell you. I brought along his letters.”

  Nothing much. Ship-chandlers’ catalogues. A receipt for a subscription to the Merchant Service League. Picture-postcards from friends still at sea; one from Punta Arenas.

  A letter from the Caen branch of the Banque de Normandie. A printed form with the blanks typewritten in:

  We beg to advise you that your Account, No. 14173, has been credited with the sum of 300,000 frs. (three hundred thousand francs) transferred under your instructions from the Dutch Bank, Hamburg.

  Yet Julie had persistently assured him that the Captain wasn’t at all well off. Once again Maigret fixed his eyes on the curious pair of people on the opposite seat.

  Cod-roe powder. Hamburg. Those obviously “Made-in-Germany” shoes. Bits of a puzzle that only “The Bloke” himself could fit together. And Joris, seeing Maigret’s eyes intent on him, promptly responded with the friendliest of smiles.

  “Caen. Passengers for Cherbourg, keep your seats. All change for Lion-sur-Mer, Luc, Ouistreham.”

  Seven o’clock. The air was so saturated with moisture that the platform lamps seemed wrapped in cotton-wool.

  “What do we do now?” Maigret asked Julie as they pushed their way through the crowd on the platform.

  “There aren’t any more trains. In winter the local runs only twice a day.”

  Luckily there were taxis waiting outside. Maigret was hungry. He decided to take no risks, and dine in the refreshment-room.

  Captain Joris was still on his best behavior. He ate whatever was set before him, like a docile, well-mannered child. A railway employee paused for a moment by the table, staring at Joris ; then whispered in Maigret’s ear:

  “Ain’t that the harbor-master from Ouistreham, sir?” And tapped his forehead significantly with his forefinger.

  When Maigret nodded he moved away, obviously thrilled by the encounter.

  When the bill came, Julie’s housewifely instincts were properly revolted.

  “Just fancy asking twelve francs for a dinner like this! Why, they don’t even use butter for their cooking. We’d have done better to go straight home and have our dinner there.”

  As she spoke, Maigret was thinking: A bullet through his head… Three hundred thousand francs… And his keen gaze bored into Joris’s mild eyes; his lips set in a hard, menacing line.

  The taxi which drew up beside them had been a private car in happier days; now its cushions were battered, it creaked at every joint. The three of them bundled into the back—for the flap-seats had been dismantled—Julie wedged between the two men and crushed by each in turn.

  As they approached the house her mind became more and more preoccupied with domestic cares. “I wonder now!” she murmured. “Did I lock the garden gate?”

  The fog outside the town was like a solid mass of clotted darkness. They did not catch sight of a horse and cart coming towards them till it was under two yards away. A phantom horse, a phantom cart. And the trees and houses beside the road seemed equally wraithlike.

  The driver slowed down to a bare six miles an hour. Even so, a man on a bicycle, emerging suddenly from the fog, blundered into the side of the car. The driver stopped. The cyclist was unhurt.

  They crossed the village of Ouistreham. Julie let down the window and called to the driver:

  “Drive down to the harbor and cross the swing-bridge. Stop at the house just before the lighthouse.”

  Outlined by the pale glimmer of a row of gas-lamps, a road ran straight down from the village to the harbor, which was about half a mile away. No one was out at that hour.

  “That’s the Sailors’ Rest.” Julie pointed through the window at a little café on the roadside. “The lock-keepers spend most of their time there.”

  After the bridge came a mere apology for a road, floundering through the fenlands bordering the Orne. It led only to the lighthouse and a cottage surrounded by a small garden. Here the car stopped. Maigret observed Joris’s movements. He got out of the car of his own accord and walked at once to the gate.

  “See that, sir?” Julie exclaimed in a flutter of delight. “He recognized the house. I’m sure he’ll be himself again, one day.”

  She took out her key, opened the creaking iron gate and walked up the gravel path. After paying the driver, Maigret walked quickly after her. Once the car had gone, they were in total darkness.

  “Would you strike a light, please? I can’t find the keyhole.”

  A tiny flame. The door opened. A dark form slipped out, brushing against Maigret’s calf. Julie entered the hall, turned on the light. Then she halted, gazing at the floor in a puzzled way.

  “That was the cat went out just now, wasn’t it?”

  She took off her hat and coat, hung them on a peg, walked straight to the kitchen and switched on the light —unconsciously indicating that this was the room in which the occupants of the house usually spent their evenings.

  A cheerful-looking kitchen. Tiled floor and walls, a big, well-scoured deal table, gleaming copper pans. Automatically the Captain went up to a wickerwork armchair beside the fireplace and sat down in it.

  “It’s queer. I could have sworn I put the cat out, as usual.” She was thinking aloud; her brows were wrinkled. “Yes, I’m positive. And the doors are locked all right.” She turned to Maigret. “I wonder would you mind, sir, having a look round the house with me? To tell the truth, I’m nervous.”

  So much so that she could hardly bring herself to lead the way. She entered the dining-room, where the extreme tidiness, spotless floor and furniture showed that the room was seldom used.

  “Would you mind looking behind the curtains?”

  A cottage piano. Some bits of Chinese lacquerware, three porcelain bowls: souvenirs of the Captain’s voyages East.

  In the parlor, too, the furniture was equally well kept; in practically the same state as when it had figured in some store-window. The Captain followed them, complacent, almost beaming. They walked up the stairs, whic
h were carpeted in red. There were three bedrooms, one not in use.

  These rooms, too, were spick-and-span, each object in its place. And there was a homely fragrance, of country fields and cooking, in the air.

  No one was hiding anywhere. Windows were shut and bolted. The garden gate was locked, though the key had been left in it.

  “The cat may have got in through a ventilator,” Maigret suggested.

  “There isn’t one.”

  They returned to the kitchen. Julie opened a cupboard.

  “Would you like something to drink, sir?”

  And this was the moment—when she was bustling to and fro, pouring liqueurs into tiny glasses adorned with colored flowers—this was the moment she chose to break down, in a flood of tears.

  She shot a furtive, tearful glance at the Captain, who had gone back to his chair. And the sight of him was so distressing that she had to turn away. To give her thoughts a new direction she said to Maigret:

  “I’ll get the spare-room ready for you.”

  Her voice was shaken by sobs. She took down a white apron hanging on the wall and dabbed her eyes with it.

  “Thank you, I’d rather stay at the hotel… I suppose there is one here?” he added.

  She glanced up at a small china clock, of the type that figures as a prize at country fairs, the humble household god of many a French cottage kitchen.

  “Yes. It’s not too late; you’ll find them up. The hotel’s just beyond the lock, behind the café I showed you from the taxi.”

  But she was obviously in half a mind to implore him to stay. She seemed to dread the idea of being left alone with the Captain, at whom she could no longer bring herself to glance.

  “Are you sure there’s nobody hiding in the house?”

  “You could see for yourself there isn’t anybody.”

  “You’ll come back first thing tomorrow, won’t you?”