good manners, ‘It would be
delightful to stay, I’ve enjoyed your hospitality enormously, but alas, duty calls
me back to Paris. Perhaps I will be driving by in the holidays … But, in the
meantime, I will leave with wonderful memories, I can assure you …’
He does nothing of the sort. He eats without
saying a word and, in his mind, calls himself a brute. These people have shown him
nothing but kindness. Perhaps they do have the death of Albert Retailleau on their
conscience, but hadn’t the young man ‘stolen their daughter’s
honour’, as people of their kind would say? Had Madame Retailleau, the mother,
lodged a complaint? Not a bit of it; she would be the first to say everything was for
the best in the best of all worlds, wouldn’t she?
There are three or four of them, perhaps
more, trying to keep their secret, straining their every sinew, and the mere presence of
Maigret must cause Madame Naud, for instance, intolerable suffering. When they were left
alone earlier for a quarter of an hour, hadn’t she been on the verge of screaming
in agony by the end?
The whole thing is so
simple! He can just leave the following morning with the entire family’s blessing
and, when he gets back to Paris, Examining Magistrate Bréjon will thank him with
tears in his eyes!
If Maigret doesn’t do so, is he solely
motivated by a desire for justice? He wouldn’t have dared look anyone in the eye
and maintain as much. Cavre is part of the reason. As are the successive defeats
Inspector Cadaver has inflicted on him since the previous evening, without sparing his
former boss so much as a glance. He has come and gone as if Maigret didn’t exist
or were an entirely harmless adversary.
Wherever he goes, as if by magic testimonies
melt away, witnesses don’t remember anything or clam up, pieces of evidence like
the cap vanish.
At last, after so many years, it is the turn
of the luckless, the unlovely, the envious to win the day!
‘What are you thinking about,
inspector?’
He started:
‘Nothing … I’m sorry
… My mind sometimes wanders …’
To his embarrassment, he had piled his plate
high without realizing. To put him at his ease, Madame Naud murmured, ‘Nothing
gives a hostess more pleasure than to see her cooking being appreciated. The fact Alban
eats like a horse doesn’t count; he’d eat any old thing. He’s not a
gourmet, he’s a glutton.’
She was joking, but there was still a trace
of rancour in her voice and eyes.
Finally Étienne Naud rejoined the
conversation. Evenruddier cheeked after a few glasses of wine, he
ventured, toying with his knife, ‘What about you, inspector, now you’ve had
a little look around the town and asked a few questions, what’s your view of it
all?’
‘He has got to know young
Fillou,’ his wife said, as if warning him of danger.
With the eyes of everyone on him, Maigret
replied, enunciating every syllable, ‘I think Albert Retailleau was unlucky
…’
It didn’t really mean anything, and
yet Geneviève turned pale and was so struck by this inconsequential little remark
that it seemed for a moment as if she were about to get up and leave. Naud was trying to
make sense of it. Alban sneered, ‘Now there’s a remark worthy of a classical
oracle. If, by amazing coincidence, I hadn’t found proof that I was sleeping
peacefully that night in a room in the Hotel de l’Europe eighty kilometres away, I
wouldn’t be easy in mind …’
‘So you don’t know,’
Maigret retorted, ‘that the police have a saying: the better a person’s
alibi, the more suspect he is?’
Groult-Cotelle bristled, taking the joke
seriously.
‘In that case you’ll also have
to suspect the prefect’s private secretary of complicity, since he spent the
evening with me. He’s one of my childhood friends, and we meet up for the
occasional dinner, which almost always goes on until two or three in the morning
…’
What made Maigret take the pretence further?
Was he provoked by this
delightful to stay, I’ve enjoyed your hospitality enormously, but alas, duty calls
me back to Paris. Perhaps I will be driving by in the holidays … But, in the
meantime, I will leave with wonderful memories, I can assure you …’
He does nothing of the sort. He eats without
saying a word and, in his mind, calls himself a brute. These people have shown him
nothing but kindness. Perhaps they do have the death of Albert Retailleau on their
conscience, but hadn’t the young man ‘stolen their daughter’s
honour’, as people of their kind would say? Had Madame Retailleau, the mother,
lodged a complaint? Not a bit of it; she would be the first to say everything was for
the best in the best of all worlds, wouldn’t she?
There are three or four of them, perhaps
more, trying to keep their secret, straining their every sinew, and the mere presence of
Maigret must cause Madame Naud, for instance, intolerable suffering. When they were left
alone earlier for a quarter of an hour, hadn’t she been on the verge of screaming
in agony by the end?
The whole thing is so
simple! He can just leave the following morning with the entire family’s blessing
and, when he gets back to Paris, Examining Magistrate Bréjon will thank him with
tears in his eyes!
If Maigret doesn’t do so, is he solely
motivated by a desire for justice? He wouldn’t have dared look anyone in the eye
and maintain as much. Cavre is part of the reason. As are the successive defeats
Inspector Cadaver has inflicted on him since the previous evening, without sparing his
former boss so much as a glance. He has come and gone as if Maigret didn’t exist
or were an entirely harmless adversary.
Wherever he goes, as if by magic testimonies
melt away, witnesses don’t remember anything or clam up, pieces of evidence like
the cap vanish.
At last, after so many years, it is the turn
of the luckless, the unlovely, the envious to win the day!
‘What are you thinking about,
inspector?’
He started:
‘Nothing … I’m sorry
… My mind sometimes wanders …’
To his embarrassment, he had piled his plate
high without realizing. To put him at his ease, Madame Naud murmured, ‘Nothing
gives a hostess more pleasure than to see her cooking being appreciated. The fact Alban
eats like a horse doesn’t count; he’d eat any old thing. He’s not a
gourmet, he’s a glutton.’
She was joking, but there was still a trace
of rancour in her voice and eyes.
Finally Étienne Naud rejoined the
conversation. Evenruddier cheeked after a few glasses of wine, he
ventured, toying with his knife, ‘What about you, inspector, now you’ve had
a little look around the town and asked a few questions, what’s your view of it
all?’
‘He has got to know young
Fillou,’ his wife said, as if warning him of danger.
With the eyes of everyone on him, Maigret
replied, enunciating every syllable, ‘I think Albert Retailleau was unlucky
…’
It didn’t really mean anything, and
yet Geneviève turned pale and was so struck by this inconsequential little remark
that it seemed for a moment as if she were about to get up and leave. Naud was trying to
make sense of it. Alban sneered, ‘Now there’s a remark worthy of a classical
oracle. If, by amazing coincidence, I hadn’t found proof that I was sleeping
peacefully that night in a room in the Hotel de l’Europe eighty kilometres away, I
wouldn’t be easy in mind …’
‘So you don’t know,’
Maigret retorted, ‘that the police have a saying: the better a person’s
alibi, the more suspect he is?’
Groult-Cotelle bristled, taking the joke
seriously.
‘In that case you’ll also have
to suspect the prefect’s private secretary of complicity, since he spent the
evening with me. He’s one of my childhood friends, and we meet up for the
occasional dinner, which almost always goes on until two or three in the morning
…’
What made Maigret take the pretence further?
Was he provoked by this
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