Signed, Picpus Page 5
A train on the far side of the Seine, a boat returning noiselessly, the dark shape of Isidore, tall, thin, leather leggings, hunting jacket, drooping moustache … He made for the kitchen, where he would light the lamp and set down a bucket full of water containing live gudgeon and roach …
People were waking up here and there. An angler came out of his room on the ground floor, filling his first pipe of the day, and went to get his fishing tackle from a shed.
Another man … The pair of them shook hands … Isidore took something, a longish bundle, from the locker of his boat, climbed aboard another boat, newly painted a delicate green, and slipped the bundle into its locker …
It was as if there was something almost ritualistic about all this activity, as though every fine Sunday brought out the same anglers, the same couples, the same early-morning starts …
Isidore was now wiping the dew off the dinghy and fetching fishing lines and rods, which he arranged carefully, while an agreeable smell of coffee drifted up from the kitchen, where a maid had come down, hair uncombed, only half-dressed under her apron.
What’s this? Monsieur Blaise had been occupying the room next to Maigret’s. He emerged now, muttered a shy ‘good morning’ and went down the metal stairs. One of the establishment’s most loyal customers, according to Madame Roy. A quiet, mild-mannered, middle-aged man, always extremely well turned out.
In the kitchen, his lunch-hamper was being got ready: a half chicken, a half bottle of burgundy, cheese, fruit and a bottle of mineral water. Isidore escorted him to his boat, the stern of which was fitted with an outboard motor with a cord-pull start.
The air was growing lighter. Imperceptibly, other anglers, probably from the village on the opposite bank, had found spots among the trees lining the river. The motor was running. Seated by himself in the stern, Monsieur Blaise, with a cigarette between his lips, moved upstream, letting out a pike line with a metal lure which trailed in the wake of the boat.
‘Sleep well?’
‘And you?’
The pace of things was quickening. People came and went in their pyjamas, in dressing gowns, both maids now fully dressed went into the rooms bearing breakfast trays.
‘Are you there, Maigret? … What are you doing?’
Nothing … Mademoiselle Jeanne … Odd that Madame Roy should have gone to see her with the tench just moments after the murder had been committed … Oddest of all, surely, is the presence, in the kitchen, behind a door of which the key has not been found, of old Le Cloaguen, who claims he doesn’t know anything …
Children are eating their breakfasts at small tables under the trees. Couples wearing very little carry glossy-hulled canoes, and a young man in thick glasses hoists the sail of a very small royal-blue boat.
‘Aren’t you going fishing?’
No! Maigret is going to do nothing. It’s after nine when he decides to shave and finish getting dressed. He breakfasts on sausage and a half-litre of white wine. As far as the eye can see, the Seine is being churned up by boats, single-seater canoes and miniature yachts, and anglers sit without moving every fifty or sixty metres without fail.
The hours glide by as gently as the water in the river. Places for lunch are already being laid, and a few cars arrive from Paris and overflow the courtyard of the inn. Madame Maigret who can never sit still doing nothing, has brought her needlework. On principle, since after all they are in the country, she is sitting on the grass, although there are plenty of chairs all around her.
The canoes come in one after the other, a few of the anglers too, but others who are much keener, like Monsieur Blaise, took their lunch with them when they left.
Monsieur Blaise must have gone a fair way up the reach, towards Seine-Port, for his boat has not been seen all morning. Still, a wide swathe of the opposite bank after the bend in the river has been overrun by reeds, and this lends the vista a deceptively exotic look, like an aquatic jungle where young lovers in canoes deliberately arrange to get lost.
Isidore has been looking after everything, racking wine, going to Corbeil in the car to pick up the meat, repairing a boat which has sprung a leak …
Three o’clock. From time to time Madame Maigret casts a protective glance at her husband, who has fallen asleep in a chair, and it would not take much for her to tell the people round about to be quiet.
He is not sleeping that deeply because he has heard the phone ring. He looks at his watch, stands up and reaches the house just as a maid appears at the door and calls: ‘Phone for Monsieur Maigret!’
It is Lucas. Maigret had told him to watch the house on Boulevard des Batignolles and to phone him at about three.
‘That you, sir?’
Hm. There’s a contrite tone in the sergeant’s voice.
‘There’s been a bit of a hitch, but I swear that I couldn’t have been more careful … First thing this morning I noticed that a curtain at one of the windows was moving. But there was no way I could be recognized because I was disguised as a tramp and …’
‘Moron!’
‘What? … I didn’t catch …’
Everyone in the Police Judiciaire knows that Maigret hates disguises. But there was no way of preventing Lucas, who loves dressing up, from getting into character.
‘To cut a long story short, about eleven this morning …’
‘Who came out?’
‘The wife … She didn’t even look round her. She headed off towards Place Clichy and there got the Métro … I was right behind her and I swear …’
‘Where did she lose you?’
‘How did you know? She got off at Saint-Jacques underground station … You know where I mean? … The boulevard was completely deserted. Opposite the station exit, there was a taxi, just one. She got into it, behaving normally, and then it drove off. I spent ten minutes trying to find another one …’
‘You don’t say.’
‘I got the taxi’s number … Well, sir, turns out it’s false. There is no such number plate in records … I went back to Boulevard des Batignolles after I got changed …’
‘I assume that you’re back now as Lucas?’
‘Yes … The concierge says Madame Le Cloaguen hasn’t come back. The old man must be locked up in his room because he hasn’t gone out. Nor has the daughter …’
An empty Paris, with avenues and streets that look wider and airier … The choice of Boulevard Saint-Jacques, one of the furthest from central Paris …
Maigret is suddenly sobered.
‘Well, there we are …’ he growled.
‘What do I do now?’
‘You wait … Phone me when she gets back … By the way … Listen … Be sure and get a good look at her shoes. I’d be interested to know if they’ve got dust on them …’
‘Understood, sir …’
Wrong. Lucas has not understood. The thought that has only just crossed Maigret’s mind is still unformed …
He steps out of the phone booth, prowls briefly around the inn, smiles at Madame Roy, who smiled at him first. But it’s a sombre smile.
‘When I think of that poor woman, inspector …’
‘Was she particularly friendly with any of your customers?’
‘No … I can’t think … She was quite a shy person. This is her table, here. I feel like crying every time I look in this direction … She loved children. That’s why she was so often with Madame Rialand, the dentist’s wife, who’s got two, Monique and Jean-Claude …’
Maigret stands in the doorway. His face is now not quite as relaxed as it usually is on sunny Sundays. One detail puzzles, bothers him. The business of the solitary taxi outside the Saint-Jacques Métro station. It’s so obvious! Whoever pulled that fast one on Lucas is not a child – and no amateur either!
Has the wiry, nervous Madame Le Cloaguen gone for good? The inspector is convinced she hasn’t. In that case, why did she feel the need to be free of surveillance for a few hours? Was it to meet someone? To move some papers to a safe place? To …
Two or three strollers gather round, as always happens when a fisherman ties up. Isidore arrives at a run.
‘Catch anything, Monsieur Blaise?’
Almost casually and with a practised air of a man used to catching fish, Monsieur Blaise says:
‘Couple of pike … Not too bad …’
He opens the boat’s locker revealing a cloth on which the two pike are wrapped in leaves to keep them fresh.
Monsieur Blaise has caught Maigret’s eye and, as he had that morning, gives him a guarded nod. When people are staying at the same inn, in the country …
He gets out of the boat and walks slowly up to his room. Maigret has made sure of getting a good look at his shoes, which are clean, with no dust on them.
Isidore who has already started putting the fishing tackle away, looks up because Maigret, like some credulous Parisian townie, is talking to him.
‘Did he catch them with a trail net from the stern?’
‘Don’t think so. I’d put live bait in the boat. When the drag doesn’t net anything, Monsieur Blaise, who knows all the best spots, will use a line with live bait. He doesn’t often come back empty-handed …’
‘May I …?’
As Maigret gets into the boat, he almost upsets it. He bends down and picks up one of the pike.
‘A beauty, it really is …’
‘Middling size. Six or seven pounder …’
But suddenly Isidore gives the inspector a sharper look and takes both fish from him.
‘If you don’t mind … I’ll have to wrap them for him. He’s bound to want to take them back to Paris …’
Isidore goes off to the kitchen.
‘What are you doing, Maigret?’ asks Madame Maigret placidly.
Nothing … He’s doing nothing … He’s waiting for something … He pretends to be fascinated by the manoeuvres of a sailing boat which is trying unsuccessfully to travel upstream when there is no breeze to fill its sail.
That’s it! … His heart misses a beat! … The light of triumph in his eye … Because, say what you like, it’s always very gratifying … Maigret knew it would happen … He was certain of it … And yet all he had to go on were hunches, very fine details …
It was a miracle that these top rooms had been too hot; a miracle that he had felt the charm of an August night and that with his braces hanging down his sides he should have been up to observe the sunrise.
Isidore’s actions that morning, in the gloom … Maigret clearly saw him take something from his boat, a longish bundle, and put it in the locker of Monsieur Blaise’s boat. Now, it couldn’t have been the live bait. The live bait was in a square metal container, with a lid riddled with holes. The inspector did not think it important at the time …
It was Lucas’s phone call that started it off …
Then the two pike … He’s had a pretty good look at them … Maigret had done some fishing in his day and though he might not have caught too many fish, at least he knew a thing or two about the technique …
The most difficult job is getting the hook out of a pike, the most voracious of all river fish. It’s so difficult that sometimes you have to cut its belly open.
Neither of the pike caught by Monsieur Blaise has a wound or even a scratch on it!
And Isidore was out fishing with a net for a large part of the night …
What happens now is the logical consequence of the way Isidore looked at the inspector. After passing through the kitchen, Isidore has walked all round the buildings, climbed up to the first floor of the annex and has gone almost furtively into Monsieur Blaise’s room.
To keep him up to date!
Kindly Madame Maigret, who thinks that her husband is getting bored, murmurs:
‘You ought to have brought a book … Seeing that for once you’re taking time off …’
Ah! there’s no doubt about it … He is being watched from up there … Isidore comes down … He moves like a cat or a poacher …
‘Aren’t you tired yet with standing all this time? …’
Monsieur Blaise’s window is open. The man inside is visible; he has got changed and is just finishing putting on his town clothes.
‘Tell me, Madame Roy …’
‘I’m listening, inspector …’
A few questions asked in a matter-of-fact voice.
Yes, Monsieur Blaise gets here by the Saturday evening train, and usually goes back on Sunday by the six o’clock. It’ll soon be time for him to go across the river by the dam.
No, he never comes by car.
Women? … The very idea! The thought has never entered her head. He doesn’t bother with women. Never once has he come to the Beau Pigeon with anyone.
What? In the villas across the river? She’s never thought of that either. It’s out of the question, he’s out fishing all day. Anyway, the one or two villas you can see all belong to well-heeled families from Paris. There’s the Mallets, who are in river transport – their offices are on Quai Voltaire … Also the Duroys, an old couple who …
‘Sh! … He’s coming …’
Monsieur Blaise, who must be Maigret’s age, looks a lot younger. He gives the impression that he looks after his appearance and leads an untroubled existence.
‘How are we, Madame Roy? …’
‘And yourself, Monsieur Blaise? … I hear you’ve had a good day’s fishing? …’
‘Not bad.’
She adds teasingly, with even a hint of familiarity:
‘And did you sleep well? … Admit it: you can’t just fish from dawn to dusk and when your boat is moored in the reeds …’
‘I never sleep during the day,’ he replies, suddenly curt.
‘Oh, there’s no harm in it. Why only just now, Monsieur Maigret …’
A quick – too quick – instinctive glance from Monsieur Blaise. Was he really unaware of the identity of the inspector?
The phone rings. Maigret picks up the receiver. He is not surprised to hear Lucas’s voice.
‘She’s back, sir … No, not in a taxi … Turned up on foot, from the direction of Rue d’Amsterdam …’
‘What about her shoes?’
‘You were right … Then almost as soon as she got back, the old man came out … In no hurry … Went for his usual walk … I’ve got a uniformed man watching while I’m phoning … What do I do now? …’
It is Lucas’s favourite question. Maigret gives him detailed instructions.
‘Ah! … Monsieur Blaise has gone …’ he says, emerging from the phone booth.
He looks out and in the distance sees the ferryman’s boat but not his man.
‘Tell me, Madame Roy, how come he hasn’t crossed the river?’
‘You mean Monsieur Blaise? … Ah, yes! … The moment you were called to the phone, there were some guests leaving by car …’
‘Did he know these people?’
‘No … I know because he approached them, very apologetic, asked if they could take him as far as Corbeil, because he was afraid of missing his train …’
‘Did he take his pike with him?’
‘Oh yes! … He had his bundle under his arm …’
‘Of course, I don’t suppose you remember the number of the car?’
She suddenly takes fright.
‘Whatever are you thinking, inspector? A man like Monsieur Blaise! He’s the one I always ask for advice about what I should do about investing my money … He keeps up to date with the Stock Exchange …’
‘Do you know his address in Paris?’
‘It must be in the hotel register … Just a moment … But I’m wondering … Yes, really wondering what makes you think …’
‘I don’t
think anything, Madame Roy … Let’s see … Blaise … B … Blochet, Bardamont … Blaise … Profession: none … 25, Notre Dame-de-Lorette …’
Madame Roy gives a nervous laugh.
‘I can’t think that … I don’t know what you … Well, they do say policemen have a habit of suspecting everybody of something …’
‘Do you mind if I use your phone again?’
‘Corbeil: Railways Police inspector. No, the train for Paris hasn’t been through yet … Another couple of minutes. Description? … Right! … Call you back …’
‘Police Judiciaire, Paris: 25, Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette … Who’s on duty? … Dupré? … Dupré is fine, but tell him to try and look natural! …’
Madame Roy is busying about in her kitchen and she is cross.
‘Could I have a small calvados, please?’
He waits for the phone to ring. He is not surprised to discover that no one answering to the description of Monsieur Blaise got on the Paris train at Corbeil station.
Two hours later, when everyone registered at the Beau Pigeon is sitting down to dinner and the visitors’ cars are beginning to leave, Dupré is next to phone. Monsieur Blaise has not come home.
‘Are we going to stay here another night?’ asks Madame Maigret. ‘It’s such a narrow bed! … I don’t mind for myself, but you hardly got a wink of sleep last night …’
That is of no importance. While Isidore is mooring the guests’ boats, Maigret stands, inscrutable, by the water’s edge.
‘It’s bizarre!’ observes the inspector.
‘What’s bizarre?’
‘This craze anglers have! … Don’t think I didn’t spot it! He doesn’t want to look like a learner. Oh no! He’s got his pride. So it was you who …’
Isidore hesitates a moment then makes up his mind and winks.
‘For a good customer, you know, we can always …’
The gramophone. There are only three couples dancing under the trees on the terrace.
Phone. Dupré at last! It’s eleven o’clock.
‘Monsieur Blaise has just got home … What? … What do you mean, pike? … No, he didn’t have any pike … What’s all this about pike, sir? … Want me to stay? … Right! … That’s fine! … I understand …’