business”!’
‘What was a filthy
business?’ the inspector asked the ex-convict, but Big Louis simply looked him
in the eye. They had moved closer and could now see each other’s faces. Big
Louis’ features looked swollen; one cheek was
bigger than the other, or simply seemed so because of the
way he always tilted his head to one side. Puffy flesh, and big eyes that seemed to
start from his head.
‘You were here yesterday!’
said the inspector sharply.
The water was at the proper level; the
upper gates were opening. The steamer moved smoothly into the canal, and Delcourt
hurried over to record her tonnage and provenance.
A voice shouted down from the bridge:
‘Nine hundred tons! … Rouen!’
The
Saint-Michel
remained in
the lock, however, and each of the men stationed there to deal with her, aware that
something unusual was happening, waited, wrapped in shadows, listening
carefully.
Delcourt returned, writing the necessary
information in his notebook.
‘Well?’ asked Maigret
impatiently.
‘Well, what?’ grumbled
Louis. ‘You says I was here yesterday! That’s ’cause I
was …’
It was hard to understand him, because
he had a peculiar way of chewing on his words with his mouth almost closed, as if he
were eating. Not to mention his thick local accent …
‘Why did you come here?’
‘See my sister.’
‘And, not finding her at home, you
left her a note.’
In the meantime, Maigret was stealthily
observing the schooner’s captain, who was dressed just like Louis. There was
nothing special about him; indeed, he seemed more like a seasoned bosun’s mate
than the skipper of a coaster.
‘We were
three days at Fécamp for repairs,’ the man now piped up, ‘so Louis
grabbed his chance to come here and see Julie!’
All around the lock, the men on duty
must have been straining to listen in, keeping as quiet as possible. The fog horn
still moaned in the distance, and the fog itself was growing wetter, leaving the
cobblestones black and gleaming.
A hatchway opened in the
schooner’s deck, and a man’s head emerged, with unkempt hair and a bushy
beard.
‘What’s wrong? Why’re
we sitting here?’
‘Shut it, Célestin!’ said
his skipper quickly.
Delcourt was stamping up and down the
quay to warm himself up – and perhaps to save face as well, for he didn’t know
if he should stay there or not.
‘Louis, what made you think that
Joris was in danger?’
‘Huh!’ said Louis, and
shrugged. ‘He’d already had his skull stove in, hadn’t he, so it
wasn’t hard to work out.’
It was so difficult to make out the
syllables all mashed together in the man’s grunting that Maigret could have
done with an interpreter.
The atmosphere felt intensely
uncomfortable and in a way, mysteriously threatening.
Louis looked towards the cottage but
couldn’t see a thing, not even a darker patch in the night.
‘She’s there, our
Julie?’
‘Yes. Are you going to go and see
her?’
Louis shook his head with big sweeps,
like a bear.
‘Why not?’
‘Sure she’ll cry.’
It sounded like
‘Shore shale crah’ – and in the disgusted tone of a man who can’t
take the sight of tears.
They were still standing there; the fog
was thickening, soaking their shoulders, and Delcourt decided to intervene.
‘Anyone for a drink?’
A lock worker chimed in, off at his post
in the darkness.
‘They just closed the
bar!’
‘We could go below to the cabin,
if you like,’ offered the
Saint-Michel
’s captain.
There were four of them: Maigret,
Delcourt, Big Louis and the skipper, whose name was Lannec. The cabin wasn’t
large, and the small stove gave off heat so intense that the air was hazy with
humidity. The paraffin lamp, set in gimbals, looked almost red hot.
Cabin walls of varnished pitch pine. A
scarred oak table, so worn that the entire surface was uneven. Dirty dishes
‘What was a filthy
business?’ the inspector asked the ex-convict, but Big Louis simply looked him
in the eye. They had moved closer and could now see each other’s faces. Big
Louis’ features looked swollen; one cheek was
bigger than the other, or simply seemed so because of the
way he always tilted his head to one side. Puffy flesh, and big eyes that seemed to
start from his head.
‘You were here yesterday!’
said the inspector sharply.
The water was at the proper level; the
upper gates were opening. The steamer moved smoothly into the canal, and Delcourt
hurried over to record her tonnage and provenance.
A voice shouted down from the bridge:
‘Nine hundred tons! … Rouen!’
The
Saint-Michel
remained in
the lock, however, and each of the men stationed there to deal with her, aware that
something unusual was happening, waited, wrapped in shadows, listening
carefully.
Delcourt returned, writing the necessary
information in his notebook.
‘Well?’ asked Maigret
impatiently.
‘Well, what?’ grumbled
Louis. ‘You says I was here yesterday! That’s ’cause I
was …’
It was hard to understand him, because
he had a peculiar way of chewing on his words with his mouth almost closed, as if he
were eating. Not to mention his thick local accent …
‘Why did you come here?’
‘See my sister.’
‘And, not finding her at home, you
left her a note.’
In the meantime, Maigret was stealthily
observing the schooner’s captain, who was dressed just like Louis. There was
nothing special about him; indeed, he seemed more like a seasoned bosun’s mate
than the skipper of a coaster.
‘We were
three days at Fécamp for repairs,’ the man now piped up, ‘so Louis
grabbed his chance to come here and see Julie!’
All around the lock, the men on duty
must have been straining to listen in, keeping as quiet as possible. The fog horn
still moaned in the distance, and the fog itself was growing wetter, leaving the
cobblestones black and gleaming.
A hatchway opened in the
schooner’s deck, and a man’s head emerged, with unkempt hair and a bushy
beard.
‘What’s wrong? Why’re
we sitting here?’
‘Shut it, Célestin!’ said
his skipper quickly.
Delcourt was stamping up and down the
quay to warm himself up – and perhaps to save face as well, for he didn’t know
if he should stay there or not.
‘Louis, what made you think that
Joris was in danger?’
‘Huh!’ said Louis, and
shrugged. ‘He’d already had his skull stove in, hadn’t he, so it
wasn’t hard to work out.’
It was so difficult to make out the
syllables all mashed together in the man’s grunting that Maigret could have
done with an interpreter.
The atmosphere felt intensely
uncomfortable and in a way, mysteriously threatening.
Louis looked towards the cottage but
couldn’t see a thing, not even a darker patch in the night.
‘She’s there, our
Julie?’
‘Yes. Are you going to go and see
her?’
Louis shook his head with big sweeps,
like a bear.
‘Why not?’
‘Sure she’ll cry.’
It sounded like
‘Shore shale crah’ – and in the disgusted tone of a man who can’t
take the sight of tears.
They were still standing there; the fog
was thickening, soaking their shoulders, and Delcourt decided to intervene.
‘Anyone for a drink?’
A lock worker chimed in, off at his post
in the darkness.
‘They just closed the
bar!’
‘We could go below to the cabin,
if you like,’ offered the
Saint-Michel
’s captain.
There were four of them: Maigret,
Delcourt, Big Louis and the skipper, whose name was Lannec. The cabin wasn’t
large, and the small stove gave off heat so intense that the air was hazy with
humidity. The paraffin lamp, set in gimbals, looked almost red hot.
Cabin walls of varnished pitch pine. A
scarred oak table, so worn that the entire surface was uneven. Dirty dishes
Similar Books
