The Misty Harbour Read online

  ‘The Saint-Michel was in that day. So it was only natural that he would come and see you. One question: when he comes, he usually has something to eat, doesn’t he?’

  ‘You’re horrible!’ she muttered between her teeth.

  ‘And he came here while you were in Paris. Not finding you at home, he left you a note. To make sure that no one else but you would find it, he left it in the kitchen cupboard. Now give me the note …’

  ‘I don’t have it any more!’

  Maigret looked at the empty fireplace, the closed window.

  ‘Give it to me!’

  She was rigid in protest, but not like an intelligent woman would be, and she so resembled an angry child that the inspector, catching one of her outraged looks, grumbled softly, ‘Silly goose!’

  The note was simply under her pillow, where Julie had been lying a minute before. Instead of giving up, however, she went back on the attack, trying to snatch the note from the inspector with a fury that amused him.

  Pinioning her hands, he said sternly, ‘Are you done now?’

  And he read these lines of wretched handwriting, riddled with mistakes.

  If you comm back with yor boss be carefull with him for theres bad fellos that have got it in for him. I wil be back in 2 or 3 days with the ship. Dont look for the cuttletts I ate them. Yor brother for life.

  Maigret bowed his head, thrown so off-balance that he paid no further attention to Julie.

  Fifteen minutes later, Captain Delcourt was telling him that the Saint-Michel was probably in Fécamp and that if the north-westerly winds held steady, the ship would arrive the following night.

  ‘Do you know the position of every single vessel?’

  And Maigret, uneasy, looked out at the shimmering sea, with only a single plume of smoke visible in the distance.

  ‘The ports are all in contact with one another,’ replied the harbourmaster. ‘Look! There is the list of all the ships due in today.’

  He pointed to a blackboard hanging on the wall of the office, with the list written out in chalk.

  ‘Have you discovered something? Well, don’t rely too much on what people say. Even important people! If you only knew how much petty jealousy can flourish around here …’

  After waving to the captain of a freighter heading out to sea, the harbourmaster looked out of his office window at the Buvette de la Marine and sighed.

  ‘You’ll see …’

  By three o’clock, the officials from the public prosecutor’s office had finished their work. A dozen or so men filed out of Joris’ cottage and walked through the little green gate towards the four cars that awaited them, surrounded by onlookers.

  The deputy public prosecutor gazed around him appreciatively.

  ‘The duck hunting here must be superb!’ he remarked to Monsieur Grandmaison.

  ‘We’ve had a disappointing season. But last year—’

  The mayor suddenly dashed over to the first car as it was pulling away.

  ‘You’ll all stop in at my house for a moment, I hope? My wife will be expecting us …’

  When Maigret was the only man left, the mayor turned to him with just enough bonhomie to appear polite.

  ‘Ride back with us, inspector. You are invited as well, naturally.’

  Only Julie and the two women remained in Captain Joris’ cottage, along with the local policeman at the door, to await the hearse that would deliver the body to Caen.

  The atmosphere in the cars had already taken on the festive air that often enlivens the trip when convivial companions return from a funeral. While Maigret perched uncomfortably on a jump seat, the mayor was chatting with the deputy public prosecutor.

  ‘If it were up to me, I would stay here all year round, but my wife is not that fond of country living. So we spend most of our time at our house in Caen – although my wife has only just got back from Juan-les-Pins, where she spent a month with the children.’

  ‘How old is your boy now?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  The lock workers watched the cars drive by. And almost immediately, on the road to Lion-sur-Mer, they arrived at the mayor’s residence, a large Norman villa on a property surrounded by white fencing and strewn with animal lawn ornaments.

  Standing in the front hall in a dark silk dress, Madame Grandmaison welcomed her guests with the delicately aloof smile befitting her station in life. The drawing room was at their disposal; cigars and liqueurs were set out on a table in the smoking room.

  All these people knew one another. The social elite of Caen were having a reunion. A maid in a white apron took everyone’s hats and coats.

  ‘Really, judge: you’ve never visited Ouistreham – and you’ve lived in Caen for how long?’

  ‘Twelve years, dear madame … Ah! Here’s Mademoiselle Gisèle!’

  A girl of fourteen had come in to curtsey slightly to the guests, already holding herself like quite the lady – and, like her mother, acutely conscious of her social position. Meanwhile, however, no one had remembered to introduce Maigret to the mistress of the house.

  Turning to the deputy public prosecutor, that lady inquired, ‘I suppose that after what you’ve all just been through you would prefer something a little stronger than tea? A liqueur brandy, then? … And your wife, is she still in Fontainebleau?’

  Everywhere, people were talking. Maigret heard snatches of conversations.

  ‘No, ten ducks per night is the limit … But I assure you, it isn’t cold at all! The blind is heated …’

  On another side: ‘… hit hard by the drop in business?’

  ‘That depends on the company. Here we’ve been relatively unaffected. Locally, none of our vessels is in trouble. The smaller concerns, on the other hand, especially those with only schooners for the coastal trade, are beginning to suffer. I might even say that those companies depending on schooners are in general looking to sell them, for they cannot cover their expenses …’

  ‘No, madame,’ insisted the deputy public prosecutor soothingly, ‘there is no reason for alarm. The mystery – if there is one – of this man’s death will soon be resolved. Isn’t that so, inspector? … But … Haven’t you been introduced? May I present Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, a man of stellar reputation from the Police Judiciaire.’

  Maigret stood stiffly with a most unwelcoming expression on his face, and when young Gisèle smilingly held out to him a plate of petits fours, he gave her an odd look.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Really? You don’t like cakes?’

  ‘To your good health!’

  ‘Here’s to our charming hostess!’

  The public prosecutor, a tall, thin man of about fifty who could barely see through the thick lenses of his glasses, now took Maigret aside.

  ‘I’m giving you carte blanche, of course. But telephone me every evening to keep me up to date. What do you think of this case? A sordid affair, is it not?’ Noticing Monsieur Grandmaison approaching, he added in a louder voice, ‘And besides, you are lucky to be dealing with a mayor like Grandmaison here, who will be of great assistance in your inquiry. Is that not so, dear friend? I was just telling the inspector …’

  ‘If he wants,’ replied the mayor, ‘we’d be delighted to have him stay in our house. I suppose you are at present at the hotel?’

  ‘I am,’ replied the inspector, ‘and thank you for your invitation, but the hotel is so conveniently situated …’

  ‘And you believe you will ferret something out at the tavern? A word of warning, inspector! You don’t know Ouistreham! Consider what people who spend their lives in a tavern can conjure up through sheer imagination! They’d point the finger at their own parents simply to have a good tale to tell.’

  ‘Why don’t we talk about something else?’ suggested Madame Grandmaison with a gracious smile. ‘Inspector, a petit four? … Really? … You don’t like sweets?’

  For the second time! Unbelievable! And Maigret was almost moved to pull out his big fat pipe in protest.


  ‘If you will excuse me. There are some matters I must attend to.’

  No one tried to detain him. All things considered, they were no more enamoured of his presence than he was of theirs. Outside, he filled his pipe and walked slowly back to the harbour. The local people knew him now, knew that he had stood a round of drinks at the bar, so they greeted him with a hint of friendliness.

  As he approached the quay, he noticed the hearse carrying the captain’s body drive away towards Caen and saw Julie’s face, framed in a downstairs window at the cottage. The other women were trying to cajole her back into the kitchen.

  A fishing boat had just come in, and people gathered around it as the two fishermen sorted out their catch. The customs officials up on the bridge parapet whiled away the slow hours of their shift.

  ‘I’ve just had a confirmation!’ called out Captain Delcourt, hurrying over to Maigret. ‘The Saint-Michel will arrive tomorrow! She was laid up for three days in Fécamp having her bowsprit repaired.’

  ‘Say, tell me: does she ever carry salted cod’s roe as cargo?’

  ‘Cod’s roe? No. The Norwegian roe comes in on Scandinavian schooners or small steamers. They don’t unload at Caen, though, they make directly for the sardine ports, like Concarneau, Les Sables-d’Olonne, Saint-Jean-de-Luz …’

  ‘What about seal oil?’

  This time the captain stared at him in surprise.

  ‘Why would they carry that?’

  ‘I don’t really know …’

  ‘The answer’s no, in any case. These coasters almost always carry the same cargo: vegetables, and onions in particular, for England, coal for the Breton ports, stone, cement, slates … By the way, I asked some lock workers about the Saint-Michel’s last call here. On the 16th of September, she came in from Caen at the tail end of the tide, when everyone was about to go off duty. Joris pointed out that the water in the channel was too low for safe access to the sea, especially when it was so foggy. The skipper insisted on going through the lock anyway, though, so that he could leave the next morning at first light. She spent the night here, in the outer harbour, moored to some pilings. At low tide, they were high and dry, couldn’t leave until nine the next morning.’

  ‘And Julie’s brother was aboard?’

  ‘He must have been! There were only three of them: the skipper, who also owns the boat, and two crew. Big Louis—’

  ‘He’s the ex-convict?’

  ‘Yes. He’s called Big Louis because he’s big, bigger than you are and could strangle a man with one hand …’

  ‘A bad sort?’

  ‘If you ask the mayor or anyone well-to-do in these parts, they’ll say yes. Me, I never knew him before he went off to prison. He doesn’t turn up here very often. All I know is, he has never caused any trouble in Ouistreham. He does drink, of course. Although … It’s difficult to tell, he always seems half-soused. He hangs around the harbour. He’s gimpy in one leg and his head and shoulders are hunched to one side, which makes him look a bit shifty. Still, the skipper of the Saint-Michel is happy enough with him.’

  ‘He was here yesterday, while his sister was in Paris.’

  Not daring to deny it, Captain Delcourt looked away. And Maigret understood then and there that there was a fraternal bond among these men of the sea, that they would never tell him all they knew.

  ‘He’s not the only one …’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing, really. I heard about a stranger seen prowling around … But nothing definite.’

  ‘Who saw him?’

  ‘I don’t know. People talk, that’s all … Could you manage a quick drink?’

  For the second time, Maigret settled into the bar, where he was welcomed with handshakes.

  ‘Well! Those gentlemen from the public prosecutor’s office certainly got their job done in a hurry.’

  ‘What’s your pleasure?’

  ‘I’ll have a beer.’

  The sun had been out all day long. But now streamers of mist were threading their way from tree to tree, and vapour began rising from the canal.

  ‘Another pea-souper,’ sighed the captain.

  And at the same instant, they heard the fog horn.

  ‘It’s the light buoy, out at the entrance to the harbour channel.’

  ‘Did Captain Joris go often to Norway?’ asked Maigret abruptly.

  ‘When he sailed for the Compagnie Anglo-Normande, yes! Especially right after the war, when there was a shortage of wood. It’s a lousy cargo, wood is – gets in the way of handling the ship.’

  ‘Did you work for the same company?’

  ‘Not for long. I was mostly with Worms, in Bordeaux. I ran the “ferry”, we called it, just the one run: Bordeaux to Nantes, Nantes to Bordeaux. For eighteen years!’

  ‘What’s Julie’s background?’

  ‘A fishing family, Port-en-Bessin. If you can call them fisherfolk … The father never did much of anything. Died during the war. The mother must still be peddling fish in the streets, when she isn’t swilling red wine in bistros …’

  For the second time, thinking of Julie, Maigret smiled to himself. He remembered her arriving in his office in Paris, neat as a pin in her blue suit, a determined little thing …

  And that very morning, when she struggled so clumsily, like a child, to keep him from taking her brother’s letter.

  Joris’ house was already fading into the mist. There was no light any more upstairs, where the body had lain, or in the dining room, only the light in the front hall and probably at the back of the house, in the kitchen, where the two women were keeping Julie company.

  Some lock workers now came in from the harbour but, sizing up the situation, went off to a table in the back to play some dominoes. The lighthouse lit up.

  ‘The same again!’ called the captain, pointing to the glasses. ‘This one’s on me.’

  When Maigret asked the next question, his voice sounded strangely soft, almost velvety.

  ‘If Joris were alive right now, where would he be? Here?’

  ‘No! At home. In his slippers.’

  ‘In the dining room? In his bedroom?’

  ‘In the kitchen. With the evening paper. And then he’d read one of those books on gardening. He’d fallen head over heels for flowers. Just look at his garden! Still full of them, although it’s late in the season.’

  The other men laughed, but were a trifle chagrined at not having a passion for flowers instead of haunting their beloved tavern.

  ‘He never went hunting?’

  ‘Not often … A few times, when he was invited.’

  ‘With the mayor?’

  ‘When the shooting was good, they’d go off to the duck blind together.’

  The place was so poorly lit that it was difficult to see the domino players through the smoky haze. A big stove made the air even heavier. Outside, it was almost evening, but the fog turned this darkness more oppressive, almost sinister. The fog horn was still sounding. Maigret’s pipe made faint sizzling noises.

  Leaning back in his chair, he half closed his eyes, trying to piece together his scattered clues floating in a formless mass.

  ‘Joris vanished for six weeks only to return with a cracked and patched-up skull,’ he murmured, without realizing that he was speaking out loud.

  Then poison is waiting for him on the day he comes home!

  And Julie doesn’t find her brother’s note in the pantry cupboard until the next day …

  Maigret heaved a great sigh and muttered, ‘So: someone tried to kill him. Then someone got him back on his feet. Then someone finished him off. Unless …’

  For these three statements did not fit together. Then he had an outlandish idea, so outlandish that it startled him.

  ‘Unless this someone wasn’t trying to kill him that first time? And was only trying to affect his reason?’

  Hadn’t the doctors in Paris affirmed that his operation could only have been performed by a highly skilled surgeon?


  But does one fracture a man’s skull to steal away his mind?

  And besides! What proof was there that Joris had lost his mind for ever?

  The others watched Maigret in respectful silence. The customs official simply signalled to the waitress for another round.

  And they sat off in their corners in the fug of the tavern, each in a reverie slightly blurred by drink.

  They heard three cars go by: the public prosecutor’s party was returning to Caen after the Grandmaisons’ reception. By now Captain Joris’ body was already in a cold room at the Institut Médico-Légal.

  No one spoke. Dominoes clicked on the unvarnished wooden table. The puzzling crime, it seemed, had gradually come to weigh heavily on everyone’s mind. They felt it hanging, almost visibly, over their heads. Their faces creased into scowls.

  The youngest of the customs officials grew so uneasy that he rose and blurted out, ‘Time I was getting home to the little woman …’

  Maigret handed his tobacco pouch to his neighbour, who filled his pipe and passed the tobacco along. Then Delcourt stood up as well to escape the now oppressive atmosphere.

  ‘How much does it come to, Marthe?’

  ‘These two rounds? Nine francs seventy-five. And the gentleman’s from yesterday, that’s three francs ten.’

  Everyone was on his feet. Moist air swept in through the open door. There were handshakes all around.

  Once outside, the men strode off into the mist in every direction, as the fog horn boomed over the sound of their footsteps.

  Maigret stood listening to all the footsteps heading off in every direction. Heavy footsteps, sometimes pausing, or suddenly darting away …

  And he realized that somehow there was now fear in the air. They were afraid, all those men going home, afraid of nothing, of everything, of some nebulous danger, some unforeseeable disaster, afraid of the dark and the lights in the mist.

  ‘What if it isn’t over?’

  Maigret knocked the ashes from his pipe and buttoned his overcoat.

  4. The Saint-Michel

  ‘Do you like it?’ inquired the hotel-owner anxiously about each dish.

  ‘It’s fine! Fine!’ replied the inspector, who wasn’t actually quite sure what he was eating.