The Flemish House (4 page)

‘Someone else might have attacked
her …'

This time Machère said nothing and let
his eye drift across the boats that formed a little island a few metres away from
the shore.

‘I thought of that. I investigated
all the sailors. Most of them are responsible people who live on board with their
families and children. The only one that made me pause was the
Étoile
Polaire
. The last boat upstream … The dirtiest one, which looks as if
it's about to sink …'

‘What is it?'

‘A boat skippered by a Belgian
from Tilleur, near Liège … An old brute who has been investigated twice for indecent
assault … The boat hasn't been maintained … No one will insure it … There were
lots of stories about woman and little girls … But why do you want to …?'

The two men walked towards the bridge
again. As they got closer, they entered the light of the town's street lamps.
On their right they saw bistros, French bistros, where
mechanical pianos held sway.

‘I'm having him watched …
All the same, there's the witness statement about the motorbike …'

‘Which hotel are you staying
at?'

‘The Hôtel de la Gare …'

Maigret held out his hand.

‘I will see you again, old man …
Of course, you're the one leading the inquiry … I'm only here as an
amateur …'

‘What do you want me to do? If
they don't find the body, there's no proof … And if it's been
thrown in the water, we'll never find it …'

Maigret distractedly shook his hand, and
as they reached the bridge he went inside the Hôtel de la Meuse.

As he ate his dinner, Maigret had
jotted in his notebook:

Opinions about the Peeters
family.

MACHÈRE – They don't see
themselves as a bistro.

THE HOTELIER – They consider
themselves a cut above. Would I have my son train as a lawyer, for example?

A SAILOR – In Flanders they're
all
like that!

SOMEONE ELSE – They stick together
like freemasons!

And it was curious, from the town, from
the bridge that constituted the central point of Givet, to look across at the
Flemish side. It looked like a French town. Little streets. Cafés filled with people
playing billiards or dominoes. The smell of pastis and general familiarity.

Then that stretch of river. The customs
building. And
last of all, right at the end, on the edge of the
countryside, the Flemish house: the grocery crammed to the rafters with goods; the
little zinc bar for the genever-drinkers; the kitchen and that senile old husband in
his wicker armchair up against the stove; the dining room and the piano, the violin,
the comfortable seats, the home-made tart, Anna and Marguerite, the checked
tablecloth. Joseph, long, thin and sickly, arriving on his motorbike to an
atmosphere of general admiration!

The Hôtel de la Meuse was a hotel for
commercial travellers. The landlord knew everyone. They each had their towel.

Joseph Peeters came in as a stranger,
shyly, at about nine o'clock, swooped towards the inspector and stammered:

‘Any news?'

However, everyone was looking at them,
and Maigret preferred to take the man to his room.

‘What is it?'

‘Do you know about the
advertisement? … A motorcyclist has turned up … A car mechanic from Dinant, who
drove by that evening, at about half past eight, right opposite the house
…'

Maigret's suitcase hadn't
yet been opened. The inspector was sitting on the side of the bed, leaving the only
armchair for his visitor.

‘Do you really love
Marguerite?'

‘Yes … that is …'

‘That is …?'

‘She's my cousin! I wanted
to make her my wife … It was decided a long time ago …'

‘You still had a child with Germaine
Piedboeuf!'

A silence. Then, with a slight stammer,
a faint:

‘Yes …'

‘Did you love her?'

‘I don't know!'

‘Would you have married
her?'

‘I don't know …'

Maigret saw in the glare of the light,
with his thin face, his tired eyes, his weary features, Joseph Peeters didn't
dare to look him in the eye.

‘How did it happen?'

‘We were going out, Germaine and I
…'

‘And Marguerite?'

‘No! That was different
…'

‘So?'

‘She told me she was going to have
a child … I didn't know what to do …'

‘It was your mother who
…'

‘My mother and my sisters … They
proved to me that I wasn't the first, that Germaine had had …'

‘Affairs?'

The window looked out on to the river,
at the very spot where it broke against the piers of the bridge. And it was a
constant, loud roar.

‘Do you love
Marguerite?'

The young man got up, worried and
uneasy.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Do you love Marguerite or
Germaine?'

‘I … That is …'

He had beads of sweat on his
forehead.

‘How do you expect me to know? … My
mother's already fixed me up with a legal office in Reims …'

‘You and Marguerite?'

‘I don't know … I met the
other one at a dance …'

‘Germaine?'

‘At a ball I'd been
forbidden to go to … I drove her home … On the way …'

‘And Marguerite?'

‘It's not the same thing … I
…'

‘You didn't leave Nancy on
the night of the third to the fourth?'

Maigret had heard enough. He walked
towards the door. He had got the measure of his man: a tall, bony boy, but with a
soft character, whose pride was sustained by the admiration of his sisters and his
cousin.

‘What have you been doing since
then?'

‘Studying for my exam … It's
the last one … Anna sent me a telegram to come and see you … Did you …'

‘No! I have no further need of
you! You can go back to Nancy.'

A face that Maigret would not forget:
big, clear eyes, lined red with worry. A waistcoat that was too tight. Trousers with
pockets on the knees.

In the same clothes, adding only a
raincoat, Joseph Peeters would go back to Nancy, on his motorbike, without exceeding
the speed limit …

A little student's bedsit, in the
home of some poor old lady … Classes that he must never miss … The café at lunchtime
… Billiards in the evening …

‘If it was useful to me to see
you, I would let you know!'

And Maigret, on his own now, leaned on the
window-sill, receiving the wind from the valley, seeing the Meuse hurrying towards
the plain, seeing in the distance a small, veiled light: the Flemish house.

In the shadow, a jumbled collection of
boats, masts, funnels, the rounded sterns of barges.

The
Étoile Polaire
at its
head.

He went outside, filling his pipe,
turning up the collar of his overcoat, and the wind was so strong that in spite of
his bulk he had to brace himself to stand up to it.

As usual, Maigret had got up at eight
o'clock in the morning. With his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, his
pipe between his teeth, he stood motionless facing the bridge for a long while, now
watching the river in its madness, now letting his gaze drift over the
passersby.

The wind was as violent as it had been
the previous day. It was much colder than in Paris.

But how exactly could you tell that you
were at the border? Was it the transition to Belgian-style houses with their ugly
brown brickwork, their freestone doorsteps and their windows decorated with copper
pots?

The harder, more chiselled features of
the Walloons? The khaki uniforms of the Belgian customs officers? Or was it that the
currency of both countries was used in the shops?

In any case, it was unmistakable: you
were at the border. Two peoples lived side by side.

Maigret felt better than ever as he
stepped into a waterside bistro for a hot rum. A French bistro, with the whole range
of multicoloured aperitifs. Mirrors on pale walls. And people standing drinking
their morning glass of white wine.

There were about ten sailors around the
owners of two tugs. They were talking about the possibility of going down the river
in spite of everything.

‘There's no chance of getting
beyond the Dinant bridge! Even if you could, we'd be forced to take fifteen
French francs per ton. It's too expensive. At that price it's better to
wait.'

And they looked at Maigret. One man
nudged another with his elbow. The inspector had been spotted.

‘There's a Fleming
who's talking about leaving tomorrow, without an engine, and just letting
himself be carried along by the current …'

There were no Flemings in the café. They
preferred the Peeters' shop, all in dark wood, with its smells of coffee,
chicory, cinnamon and genever. They must have stayed there with their elbows on the
counter for hours at a time, stretching out an idle conversation, looking with their
pale eyes at the stickers on the door.

Maigret listened to what was being said
around him. He learned that the Flemish sailors were not liked, not so much
personally, but because, with their boats and their powerful engines, maintained
like kitchen utensils, they were in competition with the French and accepted freight
at derisory prices.

‘And what if they're
involved in killing girls?'

They were speaking for Maigret's
benefit, looking at him out of the corners of their eyes.

‘I wonder what's keeping the
police from arresting the Peeters family! Maybe they've got too much money so
they're in two minds about it …'

Maigret left the bistro and wandered
along the quayside for another few minutes, looking at the brown water, which was
sweeping tree branches along. In the little street
on the left he
spotted the house that Anna had pointed out to him.

The light that morning was sad, the sky
a uniform grey. The people, who were cold, didn't linger in the streets.

The inspector walked to the door and
pulled on the bell cord. It was just after a quarter past eight. The woman who
opened the door must have been busy with some big cleaning project, because she
wiped her hands on her wet apron.

‘Who do you want?'

At the end of the corridor a kitchen
could be seen, with a bucket and a brush in the middle of it.

‘Is Monsieur Piedboeuf at
home?'

She looked him suspiciously up and
down.

‘The father or the son?'

‘The father.'

‘I suppose you're from the
police? Then you should know that at this time of day he's in bed, given that
he's a night watchman and never comes home before seven in the morning … Now,
if you'd like to go upstairs …'

‘There's no point. And the
son?'

‘He left for the office ten
minutes ago.'

The sound of a spoon falling came from
the kitchen. Maigret saw a bit of a child's head.

‘That wouldn't by any chance
be …' he began.

‘It's the son of poor
Mademoiselle Germaine, yes! Come in or go out! You're freezing the whole house
…'

The inspector came in. The walls of the
corridor were painted to look like marble. The kitchen was in chaos, and
the woman muttered vaguely as she picked up her brush and
bucket.

On the table there were dirty cups and
plates. A two-and-a-half-year-old boy was sitting all by himself, eating a boiled
egg, clumsily, smearing himself with yolk.

The woman must have been about forty.
She was thin, with an ascetic face.

‘Are you bringing him
up?'

‘Since they killed his mother,
I've been looking after him most of the time, yes! His grandfather has to
sleep half the day. There's no one else in the house. And when I have clients
to go and see, I have to leave him with a neighbour.'

‘Clients?'

‘I'm a qualified
midwife.'

She had taken off her checked apron, as
if it stripped her of her dignity.

‘Don't be scared, my little
Jojo!' she said to the child, who was looking at the visitor and had stopped
eating.

Did he look like Joseph Peeters? It was
hard to say. At any rate, he was a feeble child. His features were irregular, his
head was too big, his neck was thin, and above all he had a thin, wide mouth that
looked as if it belonged to a child of at least ten.

He didn't take his eyes off
Maigret but he didn't say anything. He didn't express any more emotion
when the midwife felt the need to kiss him, in what was perhaps a rather theatrical
way, exclaiming: