The Yellow Dog (4 page)

In the summertime, the whole place was probably bright and cheerful, freshly painted. But in the rain and the mud, with the din of the surf, it was sinister.

In the centre of the cleared area stood a big new house of grey stone, with a terrace, an ornamental pool and flower beds laid out but not yet planted.

Further along were the foundations of other houses, and stretches of wall that already indicated the layout.

Some windowpanes were missing in the booth. Piles of sand stood waiting to be spread on the new road, which was half blocked now by a steamroller. At the top of the cliff was a hotel – a future hotel, rather – with unfinished stucco walls and
windows sealed by planks and cardboard.

Maigret calmly pushed open the gate of the grey-stone house, Dr Michoux's. When he was on the doorstep and reaching for the knob, Leroy murmured: ‘We have no warrant! Don't you think …?'

Once again, Maigret shrugged. On the path, they could
see the deep tracks left by the yellow dog's paws. There were also other prints: those of enormous feet, in hobnail boots – size twelve at
least!

The knob turned. The door opened as if by magic, and on the carpet inside were the same muddy tracks, of the dog and of those amazing boots.

The house, elaborate in its architecture, was just as pretentious inside. Nothing but nooks and crannies everywhere, filled with couches, low bookcases, Breton closet-beds transformed into vitrines, little Turkish or Chinese tables, dozens of rugs
and hangings. The place strained for a kind of folk-modern effect.

There were a few Breton landscapes, and some signed nude drawings with dedications on them: ‘To my good friend Michoux,' ‘To the artists' friend.'

The inspector gazed sullenly at all the bric-a-brac, but the young Leroy was rather impressed by the false elegance.

Maigret opened doors, glanced into the rooms. Some were unfurnished. The plaster was barely dry on the walls.

Finally he pushed one door open with his foot and gave a grunt of satisfaction on seeing the kitchen. On the pine table stood two empty Bordeaux bottles.

A dozen cans had been roughly opened with a knife. The table was smeared with dirt and grease. Someone had eaten straight from the cans – herring in white wine, cold cassoulet, mushrooms and apricots.

The floor was filthy. Scraps of meat lay around. There was a broken bottle of brandy, and the stench of alcohol mingled with that of the food.

Maigret looked at his companion with an odd smile. ‘Well, Leroy, do you suppose the doctor is the pig who eats like this?'

When the dumbfounded Leroy did not answer, he went on: ‘Not his mum, either, I hope! Or the maid. Look! You like prints. These are more like crusts of mud. That'll give you a perfect outline of
the soles – size eleven or twelve, I'd say. And the dog's tracks too!'

He filled a new pipe, picked up some matches from a shelf. ‘Take whatever evidence there is to take in here. You've got a big job ahead of you. See you later!'

His hands in his pockets, the collar of his coat turned up, he went off along the White Sands beach.

When he stepped into the Admiral café, the first person he saw was Dr Michoux, in his usual corner, still in his slippers, unshaven, his scarf around his neck.

Next to him sat Le Pommeret, turned out as meticulously as the night before. The two men watched silently as the inspector approached.

It was the doctor who finally said, in a hoarse voice, ‘You know what I just heard? Servières has disappeared … His wife is going out of her mind … He left here last night, and nobody's seen him since.'

Maigret gave a start, not because of this news, but because he had just caught sight of the yellow dog, stretched out at Emma's feet.

Le Pommeret had to confirm Michoux's story, for the pleasure of hearing himself talk.

‘She came to my house a while ago, begging me to look for him. Servières – his real name is Goyard – is an old friend …'

Maigret's gaze moved from the yellow dog to the door as it flew open for a newsboy, who entered like a gust of wind, and then to a headline in type big enough to read from across the room:

FEAR REIGNS IN CONCARNEAU

The subheadings read:

New mystery daily

Disappearance of our colleague Jean Servières

Bloodstains in his car

Whose turn next?

Maigret caught the newsboy by the sleeve. ‘Have you sold a lot of those?'

‘Ten times as many as on a regular day. There are three of us running them from the station.'

Set free, the boy raced off along the quay calling, ‘
Brest Beacon
! Sensational news!'

The inspector had hardly had time to start reading the article when Emma announced, ‘You're wanted on the phone.'

It was the mayor's voice. He was furious. ‘Hello, chief inspector! Are you behind this idiotic article? … And I didn't know a thing! I insist – do you hear me? – I insist on
being the first person informed about what happens in this town. I'm the mayor! What is this story about the car? And this man with big feet? In the past half-hour I've had over twenty phone calls from panicky people asking me if the news is true! … I repeat, from now on
I want—'

Without turning a hair, Maigret hung up and returned to the café, where he sat and began to read. Michoux and Le Pommeret scanned a copy of the paper on the marble table.

Our esteemed colleague Jean Servières reported in these very pages the recent dramatic events in Concarneau. That was Friday. A respected businessman of that town, Monsieur Mostaguen, left the Admiral Hotel, stopped in the doorway of a vacant
house to light a cigar and was shot in the stomach by a bullet fired through the letterbox in the door.

On Saturday, Chief Inspector Maigret, recently seconded from Paris to head the Rennes Flying Squad, arrived on the scene. This did not prevent a new drama from occurring.

Indeed, that very evening, a telephone call informed us that, as they were about to drink an aperitif, three prominent local figures – Messieurs Le Pommeret, Jean Servières and Dr Michoux – noticed that the Pernod served them contained a
strong dose of strychnine.

Then this morning, Sunday, Jean Servières' empty car was found near the Saint-Jacques River. Its owner has not been seen since Saturday evening.

The front seat is stained with blood. One window is shattered, and all the evidence suggests that a struggle took place.

Three days: three incidents! Little wonder that Concarneau is in the grip of terror, as anxious citizens wonder who the next victim will be.

The public is particularly disturbed by the mysterious presence of a yellow dog, which no one knows, which seems to have no master and which reappears with each new misfortune.

This dog appears to have given the police a significant lead. They are looking for a person, still unidentified, who has left curious footprints – larger-than-average footprints – in several places

A madman? A drifter? Is he the perpetrator of all these crimes? Whom will he attack tonight?

He will certainly meet opposition from now on, because the frightened citizenry will be armed and ready to shoot at the slightest alarm.

Meanwhile, today, Sunday, the town is deathly still, an atmosphere reminiscent of towns in northern France during the War when the air-raid sirens sounded.

Maigret stared out through the windowpanes. The rain had let up, but the streets were still thick with black mud, and the wind still blew violently. The sky was a livid grey.

People were coming out of Mass. Almost all of them carried a copy of the
Brest Beacon
. Faces were turned towards the Admiral Hotel, and several people quickened their step as they passed.

There was indeed a dead feeling about the town. But wasn't that how it was on any Sunday morning? The telephone rang again. Emma could be heard answering. ‘I
don't know, monsieur. I
haven't heard. Do you want me to get the inspector? … Hello! Hello! … They hung up!'

‘Who was that?' growled Maigret.

‘A Paris newspaper, I think. They asked if there were any new victims … They reserved a room.'

‘Call the
Brest Beacon
for me.'

While he waited, he paced up and down, without a glance at the doctor, who was huddling in his chair, or at Le Pommeret, who was contemplating the many rings on his fingers.

‘Hello! The
Brest Beacon
? Inspector Maigret here. The editor, please … Hello – is that the editor? Good! Would you tell me what time your paper was printed this morning? … Nine thirty, eh? Who did the piece on the
business at Concarneau? … Ah, no, seriously! … Really? The article just turned up in a sealed envelope? … Unsigned? … So, then, you publish whatever material you get, name or no name, just like that? … Well, I take my hat off to you!'

He tried to go out to the quay but found the door locked. ‘What does this mean?' he asked Emma, looking straight into her eyes.

‘The doctor insisted …'

Maigret stared at Michoux, whose expression was more evasive than ever, shrugged his shoulders and went out through the hotel door. Most of the shops had their shutters closed. People in Sunday clothes hurried by.

Beyond the harbour, where boats were tugging at their moorings, Maigret found the mouth of the Saint-Jacques River. It was at the very edge of town, where houses thinned out and shipyards took over. Several half-finished vessels stood on the ways.
Old boats lay rotting in the mud.

A stone bridge crossed the river where it emptied into the harbour, and there a group of inquisitive people stood around a small car.

The nearby wharves were blocked by building sites, so Maigret had to make a detour to get there. From the looks he received on the way, he realized that everyone already knew who he was. He saw anxious people talking quietly in the doorways of the
closed shops.

Finally, he reached the car abandoned at the side of the road. He pulled the door open brusquely, scattering shards of glass, and easily made out the brown streaks on the seat cover.

The onlookers crowded around him, mainly kids and young people in their Sunday best.

‘Monsieur Servières' house?'

A dozen people led him to it. It was a quarter of a mile away, rather secluded – a middle-class house with a garden. His escort stopped at the gate. Maigret rang the bell and was let in by a little maid who looked upset.

‘Is Madame Servières here?'

She was already opening the door to the dining room.

‘Oh, inspector! … Do you think he's been killed? I'm going out of my mind! I …'

She was a handsome woman, about forty, with the look of a scrupulous housewife, an impression confirmed by the tidiness of her home.

‘You haven't seen your husband since—'

‘He was home for dinner last night. I could see that he was worried, but he didn't want to say anything to me … He'd left the car at the gate, which meant that he was going out again that night … to play his
regular card game at the Admiral. I asked him if he'd be late coming
home … At ten o'clock, I went to bed. I was awake a long time. I heard the clock strike eleven, then half past. But he often came home very late … I
must have fallen asleep finally. I woke up in the middle of the night and was upset not to find him beside me … Then I decided that he must have gone on to Brest with some people. There's not much going on here, so sometimes he … I couldn't get back to sleep.
From five o'clock on, I was up and watching out of the window. He doesn't like me to wait up for him, and even less for me to check on him … At nine, I ran over to Monsieur Le Pommeret's … I was coming back another way when I saw people gathered round his
car … Tell me! Why would anyone want to kill him? He's the kindest man on earth … I'm sure he has no enemies.'

A small group still clustered at the gate.

‘They say there are bloodstains! I saw people reading a newspaper, but no one showed it to me.'

‘Did your husband have much money on him?'

‘I don't think so … The same as usual – three or four hundred francs.'

Maigret promised to keep her informed and even took the trouble to give her a few bland words of comfort. A scent of roast lamb came from the kitchen. The maid, in her white apron, led him back to the door.

The inspector had gone no more than a hundred yards when a man approached him eagerly. ‘Excuse me, inspector. Let me introduce myself: Monsieur Dujardin, teacher. For the past hour, people – mostly the parents of my students – have been
coming to ask me whether there's any truth to what the newspaper says. Some of them want to know whether they have the right to shoot if they see that man with the big feet—'

Maigret was no angel of patience. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he snarled, ‘Leave me alone!'