Inspector Cadaver by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page B

whitewashed walls hung with framed colour prints and a photograph of a president of
the Republic from thirty or forty years ago. Beyond it there is another bleak, empty
room with paper streamers and a stage, the Sunday dance hall.
    Four men are sitting at a table around a
bottle of rosé. When the inspector comes in, one of them coughs pointedly, as if
announcing to the others, ‘Here he is …’
    Maigret sits on one of the benches at the
opposite end of the room. And this time, he feels that something has changed. The men
have fallen silent. Before he came in they were certainly not sitting there drinking
with their elbows on the table, staring at each other speechlessly.
    They act out a dumb show, their elbows
moving closer, their shoulders brushing, until finally the oldest, who has a
ploughman’s whip at his side, directs a long stream of spit at the floor, which
causes laughter.
    Is that spit for Maigret’s
benefit?
    ‘What can I get you?’ a woman
comes to ask him. Still young, she has a grubby-faced baby on her hip.
    ‘Some rosé.’
    ‘A half bottle?’
    ‘If you like …’
    He takes small, sharp draws on his pipe.
This isn’t the latent or muted hostility he has encountered thus far; he is being
taunted now, provoked almost.
    ‘What do you want me to say, son, it
takes all trades,’ says the ploughman after a long silence, without anyone having
asked him anything.
    The others burst out laughing, as if these
simple wordsmean a great deal to them. Only one doesn’t laugh, a
youngster, a kid of eighteen or nineteen with light-grey eyes and a face pitted with
smallpox scars.
    Leaning on one elbow, he looks Maigret in
the eye as if he wants to make him feel the full weight of his hatred or contempt.
    ‘You’ve got to have some pride,
though!’ another growls.
    ‘When there’s money involved,
pride never gets much of a look-in …’
    This may not really mean anything, but
Maigret has understood. He has finally found the opposition party, to use a political
term.
    Who knows? No doubt the Trois Mules is the
source of all the rumours that have been going around. And these people are attacking
him because they think he’s being paid by Étienne Naud to hush up the
truth.
    ‘Tell me, gentlemen …’
    He has got to his feet. He has started
walking towards them and, although he does not suffer from shyness, he feels his ears
burning.
    Absolute silence greets him. Only the young
man carries on looking him full in the face. The others turn away, a little
embarrassed.
    ‘As you’re locals, perhaps you
could answer some questions for me and let justice take its course …’
    They are suspicious. Of course the notion
appeals to them, but they are not about to give in just like that. The old man grumbles,
looking at his spit spangling the floor:
    ‘Whose justice?
Naud’s?’
    As if he hasn’t
heard, the inspector carries on, while the landlady, baby on hip, comes and stands in
the kitchen door.
    ‘For that to happen, there are two
things in particular that I need to find. First, a friend of Retailleau: a real friend,
and someone, if possible, who was with him on his last night …’
    A nod from the three men towards the
youngest tells Maigret that the latter fits this description.
    ‘Then I have to get my hands on the
cap. You know the one I mean.’
    ‘On you go, Louis!’ growls the
ploughman, rolling a cigarette.
    But the young man is not convinced yet.
    ‘Who sent you?’
    It’s the first time Maigret has ever
been compelled to account for himself to a young country lad. But there’s no
alternative. He has to win this fellow over.
    ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret of
the Police Judiciaire.’
    Who knows? By some chance, the kid may have
heard of him. Unfortunately his name doesn’t prompt even a flicker of
recognition.
    ‘Why did you stay at
Naud’s?’
    ‘Because he’d been told I was
coming and he picked me up at the station. As I wasn’t familiar with the town
…’
    ‘There are