The Flemish House (10 page)

‘Did Gérard Piedboeuf speak to
you?'

‘What did I tell you a moment
ago?'

‘That he'd asked you to say
…'

‘Well! That's the truth …
And the truth, honest to God, is that I'll never tell you what I know, because
I hate the cops, you as much as the others! … You can go and tell the judge …
I'll swear you beat me, and I'll show them the marks … Which won't
stop me offering you a glass of red wine, if your stomach can take it …'

At that very moment, Maigret looked him
in the eyes and suddenly got to his feet.

‘Show me around your boat!'
he said curtly.

Surprise? Fear? Simple annoyance?
Whatever it was, the man, his mouth full, pulled a face.

‘What do you want to
see?'

‘One moment …'

And Maigret went outside and came back a
few seconds later with a customs officer in an oilskin glistening with rain. The
bargeman sniggered:

‘I've already passed the
inspection …'

Maigret was talking to the customs
officer.

‘You're used to it … I
imagine all boats do a certain amount of smuggling …'

‘Not a certain amount!'

‘Where do they usually hide the
goods?'

‘It depends … In the old days they
used to lock it up in waterproof boxes that they fastened under the boat … But now
we put a chain under the hull, so they can't do that now … Under the floor
too, sometimes, between the floor and the bottom … But we tend to make a few holes
with a huge drill that you might have seen on the quay …'

‘So?'

‘Wait! What's your
cargo?'

‘Ironwork …'

‘It would take too long …'
grunted the customs officer. ‘We'll have to look elsewhere …'

And Maigret didn't take his eyes
off the bargeman. He hoped for a revealing glance towards some hiding place. The man
was still eating, not hungrily, just to do something. He wasn't frightened. On
the contrary, he sat firmly where he was.

‘Get up!'

This time he obeyed with bad grace.

‘Am I not allowed to sit down in
my own place these days?'

On the chair there was a filthy cushion,
which Maigret picked up. Three sides of the cushion were sewn normally. The fourth
bore coarse stitches that hadn't been made by a seamstress.

‘Thank you! I don't need you
any more!' Maigret said to the customs man.

‘You think he's
smuggling?'

‘Not in the slightest … Thank you
…'

And he waited until the official
reluctantly left.

‘What is it?'

‘Nothing at all!'

‘Do you usually put things as hard
as that in cushions?'

The stitches parted, revealing something
black. And soon Maigret unfolded a little worn serge coat, full of creases.

It was the same serge described in the
report from the Belgian public prosecutor's office. There was no label. The
piece of clothing had been made by Germaine Piedboeuf herself.

But that wasn't the most
interesting object. In the middle of the parcel there was a hammer, its handle
polished with use.

‘The funniest thing,' the
bargeman muttered, ‘is that you're making a big mistake … I
haven't done anything! … I got those two things there out of the Meuse, on the
fourth of January, first thing …'

‘And you thought it was a good
idea to put them in a safe place!'

‘I'm starting to get used to
it!' the man replied complacently. ‘Are you arresting me?'

‘Is that all you have to
say?'

‘That you're making a big
mistake!'

‘Are you still leaving
tomorrow?'

‘If you don't arrest me,
it's very likely.'

It must have been the biggest surprise
in the world to see Maigret carefully making up the parcel again, slipping it under
his overcoat and leaving without a word.

He watched him walk off in the rain,
along the quay,
passing in front of the customs man, who saluted
him. Then he went back down into his cabin, shaking his head, and poured himself a
drink.

When Maigret arrived at his hotel for
lunch, the landlord told him the postman had turned up with a recorded delivery
letter at his address but hadn't wanted to leave it.

It was like a signal for a thousand
petty concerns to get together and start harassing a man. As soon as he sat down,
the inspector asked after his colleague. No one had seen him. He had them call his
hotel. He was told that he had left half an hour before.

It didn't matter. Maigret
didn't even have the power to give instructions to Machère. But he would have
liked to suggest that he keep an eye on the bargeman.

At two o'clock he was at the post
office, where he was handed the recorded delivery letter. It was a silly story. Some
furniture he had bought and refused to pay for because it wasn't what
he'd ordered. The supplier had sent him a formal demand.

He had to spend half an hour writing his
reply, then a letter to his wife to give her instructions on the subject.

No sooner had he finished than he was
called to the phone. It was the head of the Police Judiciaire asking him when he
would be back and requesting that he send some details about two or three cases
currently under way.

Outside, it was still raining. The café
floor was covered with sawdust. There was no one there at that time of day,
and the waiter was taking advantage of the fact to get on with his
own correspondence.

One ridiculous little detail: Maigret
hated writing on marble tables, and there were no others.

‘Please call the Hôtel de la Gare
and find out if anyone's seen the inspector.'

Maigret was in a vaguely bad mood, all
the more aggravating because it had no serious cause. Two or three times he went and
pressed his forehead against the misted window. The sky was becoming a little
clearer, the drops of rain less frequent. But the muddy quay was still deserted.

At about four o'clock he heard a
blast from a whistle. He ran to the door and saw a tug, belching out thick steam for
the first time since the spate had begun.

The current was still violent. When the
tug, slender and light, a thoroughbred in comparison with the barges, came away from
the shore, it literally reared up, and for a moment looked as if it was going to be
dragged away by the flood.

A new whistle-blast, more strident this
time. And it turned into the current. A cable stretched behind it. A first barge
broke away from the block of waiting boats and drifted across the Meuse as two men
pulled with all their might on the helm.

In the doorways of the cafés, customers
had gathered to witness the manoeuvre, which took no more than six minutes. Two or
three barges entered the struggle in turn, formed a semi-circle and suddenly, at the
sound of a whistle, vibrant with pride, the tug set off towards Belgium,
while the barges behind it did their best to stay in a straight
line.

The
Étoile Polaire
was not part
of the train.

… and consequently I ask you
to be so kind as to collect from my home at Boulevard Richard Lenoir the
furniture which …

Maigret wrote unusually slowly, as if his
fingers were too big for the pen that they were crushing on to the paper. By
contrast, this produced handwriting that was small but fat which, from a distance,
looked like a series of stains.

‘Monsieur Peeters going past on
his motorbike …' announced the waiter, who was lighting the lamps and drawing
the curtains over the big window.

It was half past four.

‘It takes courage to cover 200
kilometres in weather like that! He's muddy from head to toe!'

‘Albert! The telephone!'
cried the landlady.

Maigret signed the letter and put it in
an envelope.

‘It's for you, inspector!
From Paris …'

‘Hello! … Hello! … Yes, it's
me …'

And Maigret tried to rein in his bad
mood. It was his wife on the phone, asking him when he was coming back.

‘Hello … They came for the
furniture …'

‘I know! I'll do what needs
to be done …'

‘There's also a letter from
the English colleague who …'

‘Yes, darling! It doesn't
matter …'

‘Is it cold there? Cover up well …
You haven't quite recovered from your cold and …'

Why did he feel almost painful impatience?
A vague impression. He felt as if he was missing something, wasting his time in this
cabin.

‘I'll be in Paris in three
or four days.'

‘Is that all!'

‘Yes … Lots of love … Goodbye
…'

In the café, he asked where he would
find a post box.

‘Just on the corner of the street,
by the tobacconist's.'

It was dark outside. All that could be
seen of the Meuse was the reflections of the street lights. Against the trunk of a
tree, Maigret noticed a figure that made him start. It wasn't the sort of
weather to go for a walk in the rain and the wind.

He put the letter in the box, turned
round and saw the figure detaching itself from the tree. He walked off, and the
stranger started walking behind him.

It was quick work! A few hasty steps
back and Maigret grabbed the man by the collar.

‘What are you doing
here?'

He was holding him a bit too tightly.
The stranger's face was flushed. Maigret relaxed his grip.

‘Speak!'

Something shocked him, he didn't
know what. That evasive gaze was awkward, even more awkward than the smile on the
man's face.

‘Aren't you the steward on
the
Étoile Polaire
?'

The man nodded his head delightedly.

‘Were you tailing me?'

There was a mixture of fear and gaiety
on the man's long face. Had the sailor not confessed to Maigret that
his steward was simple-minded and prey to epileptic seizures?

‘Don't laugh! Tell me what
you're doing here …'

‘I'm watching
you.'

‘Was it your boss who told you to
keep me under surveillance?

It was impossible to be brutal with this
poor wretch, all the more pitiful because of his age. He was twenty. He didn't
shave, but his sparse beard, of very fine hairs, wasn't even as long as a
centimetre. His mouth was twice as big as a normal mouth.

‘Don't beat me …'

‘Come!'

Some barges had changed places. For the
first time in weeks there was activity on board, because they were preparing to
leave. Women could be seen going for provisions. Customs men were walking around,
boarding the boats.

The
Étoile Polaire
, once the
other boats had left, was isolated, and her bows were some distance from the shore.
There was a light in the cabin.

‘You go ahead!'

He had to walk along a gangway that
consisted only of a sagging and unstable plank.

There was no one on board, even though
the paraffin lamp was lit.

‘Where does your boss keep his
Sunday best?'

For Maigret saw an unusual degree of
chaos.

The steward opened a cupboard and was
amazed by what he saw. The clothes that the bargeman had been
wearing in the morning could be seen lying on the floor.

‘And his money?'

Gestures of furious denial. The idiot
didn't know! The money was hidden!

‘It's all right! You can
stay here.'

Maigret went outside, his head down, and
bumped into a customs man.

‘You haven't seen the man
from the
Étoile Polaire
?'

‘No! Isn't he on board? I
thought he was supposed to be leaving first thing.'

‘Does he own the boat?'

‘Far from it! It belongs to one of
his cousins, who lives in Flémalle. An eccentric like himself …'

‘What does he earn from the
barge?'

‘Six hundred francs a month?
Perhaps a bit more with the smuggling … But not much …'

The Flemish house was lit up. There were
lights on not only in the windows of the shop, but also on the first floor.

A few minutes later, the bell of the
grocery rang. Maigret wiped the soles of his shoes on the mat, and called out to
Madame Peeters, who was already running from the kitchen:

‘Don't let me bother
you!'

The first person he saw, when he was
ushered into the dining room, was Marguerite Van de Weert, who was flicking through
a musical score.

She was more diaphanous than ever in her
pale-blue satin dress, and she gave Maigret a welcoming smile.

‘Have you come to see
Joseph?'

‘Isn't he here?'