The Misty Harbour by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page B

the bridge, the captain would give the order to reverse engines.
    Delcourt passed close by the inspector,
     looking anxiously out towards the jetties.
    ‘What’s going on?’
    ‘I can’t
     tell …’
    The harbourmaster squinted hard, as if
     it were possible to see into the pitch dark through sheer force of will. Two men
     were already moving to close the lock-gates.
    ‘Wait a minute!’ Delcourt
     yelled to them.
    And exclaimed in astonishment:
    ‘It’s them!’
    Just then a voice not fifty metres away
     called out, ‘Hey there! Louis! Down jib and stand by to come alongside port
     side-to …’
    The voice had come from the darkness
     below, over by the jetties. A firefly of light was coming closer. Someone seemed to
     be moving around; canvas fell as rings clattered along a stay.
    Then a mainsail slipped past, close
     enough to touch.
    ‘How in heaven did they pull that
     off!’ grumbled Delcourt, who then turned towards the schooner and yelled,
     ‘Get her nose in under the port quarter of the steamer, so’s we can
     close the gates!’
    A man had leaped ashore with a mooring
     line and now stood looking around him, hands on his hips.
    ‘The
Saint-Michel
?’
     Maigret asked Delcourt.
    ‘The same … They must
     have flown over the water.’
    There was only a
     small lantern down on the schooner’s deck, illuminating a confused scene: a
     cask, a pile of gear, the silhouette of a man leaving the tiller to dash forwards to
     the schooner’s bows.
    The lock workers seemed particularly
     interested in the boat, arriving one after the other to take a look at it.
    ‘The lock-gate winches, men! Back
     to work! Let’s go!’
    With the gates closed, water roared in
     through the sluices, and both vessels began to rise. The lantern’s pale light
     drew closer. As the schooner’s deck drew level with the quay, the man there
     hailed the harbourmaster.
    ‘All’s well?’
    ‘All’s well,’ replied
     Delcourt guardedly. ‘Didn’t expect you so soon!’
    ‘Had the wind at our backs, and
     Louis put up all the canvas we had. We even left a freighter in our wake!’
    ‘Heading for Caen?’
    ‘We’ll be unloading there,
     yes. Anything new around here?’
    Maigret was a few paces away, Big Louis
     a bit further off, but they could barely see each other. Only Delcourt and the
Saint-Michel
’s captain were talking, and now the harbourmaster,
     at a loss, looked over at Maigret.
    ‘I heard it’s in the paper
     that Joris has come back. Is that true?’
    ‘He came back and he left
     again,’ replied Delcourt.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    Big Louis had taken a step closer. With
     his hands in his pockets and the one shoulder crooked, he looked rather flabby in
     the darkness, like a shapeless hulk.
    ‘He’s
     dead …’
    Now Big Louis went right up to
     Delcourt.
    ‘Is that true?’ he
     grunted.
    Hearing his voice for the first time,
     Maigret found that flabby, too, in a way: hoarse, and somewhat drawling. He still
     could not see his face.
    ‘The first night he was
     home,’ explained Delcourt, ‘he was poisoned. And here,’ he quickly
     pointed out, ‘is the inspector from Paris who’s in charge of the
     case.’
    Having worried for some time how to
     prudently reveal this information, the harbourmaster now seemed relieved. Had he
     been afraid the men of the
Saint-Michel
might accidentally get themselves
     into trouble?
    ‘Ah! So this gentleman is with the
     police …’
    The schooner was still rising. Her
     skipper swung his legs over the rails and dropped down on to the quay, but then
     hesitated before shaking hands with Maigret.
    ‘Hard to imagine …’ he
     said slowly, still thinking about Joris.
    He seemed worried as well, and even more
     obviously than Delcourt.
    Louis, his tall form swaying, his head
     tilted to one side, barked out something the inspector could not understand.
    ‘What did he say?’
    ‘He was grumbling in dialect. He
     said: “a filthy