The Yellow Dog (6 page)

Maigret noticed an unfamiliar car parked opposite the Admiral Hotel. He pushed open the café door and found the atmosphere transformed.

A man squeezed past him, saw the dog being lifted out of the wheelbarrow, aimed a camera at the animal and set
off a magnesium flash. Another, dressed in plus fours and a red sweater, with notebook in hand,
touched the visor of his cap.

‘Inspector Maigret? Vasco, from the
Journal
. I've just got here and already I've been lucky enough to meet Monsieur …' He indicated Michoux, who was in his corner, slouching against the moleskin banquette.
‘The
Petit Parisien
is right behind. They broke down about ten kilometres back.'

‘Where do you want the dog?' Emma asked the inspector.

‘Isn't there a spot for him in the hotel?'

‘Yes, near the courtyard … a porch where we store empty bottles.'

‘Leroy! Phone a vet.'

An hour earlier, the place had been deserted, seething with silence. Now, the photographer,
in an off-white trenchcoat, was shoving tables and chairs around and yelling, ‘Wait a minute! Hold it,
please! Turn the dog's head this way …' And the magnesium flared.

‘Le Pommeret?' Maigret asked Dr Michoux.

‘He left not long after you did … The mayor phoned again. I think he may be on his way over …'

By nine that evening, the place had become a sort of military headquarters. Two more reporters had arrived. One was working on his story at a table towards the back. From time to time the photographer came down from his room. ‘You
wouldn't have any rubbing alcohol? I've absolutely got to have it to dry my film … The dog looks terrific! … Did you say there's a pharmacy nearby? … Closed? Doesn't matter.'

At the hall phone, a reporter was dictating his story, in an offhand voice: ‘Maigret, yes –
M
as in Maurice,
A
as in Arthur … Yes.
I
as in Isidore … Take down all the names
first … Michoux –
M, I, choux
, that's
chou
as in
choucroute
 … No, no, not like
pou
. Now wait – I'm going to give you the headlines … Will this go on page one? … Absolutely! Tell the boss it's got to
go on the front page …'

Feeling lost, Leroy kept looking at Maigret as if to get his bearings. In a corner, the lone travelling salesman was preparing his next day's route with the help of the regional directory. Now and then he would call over to Emma.

‘Chauffier's … is that a big hardware outlet? … Thanks.'

The vet had removed the bullet and set the dog's hindquarters in a cast. ‘These animals, it takes a lot to kill them!'

Emma had spread an old blanket over straw on the blue granite floor of the porch that gave on to both the courtyard and the cellar stairway. The dog lay there, all alone, inches from a scrap of meat he never touched.

The mayor arrived by car. He was a very well-groomed elderly man with a small white goatee; his gestures were curt. His eyebrows rose as he entered and noticed the atmosphere of a guardroom – or, more precisely, a field headquarters.

‘Who are these gentlemen?'

‘Reporters from Paris.'

The mayor was very touchy. ‘Wonderful! So tomorrow the whole country will be talking about this idiotic business! … You still haven't found out anything?'

‘The investigation is still going on!' growled Maigret, as if to say, ‘None of your business!'

For the atmosphere was really tense. Everyone's nerves were on edge.

‘And you, Michoux, you're not going home?' The mayor's look of contempt made clear that he thought the doctor a coward.

‘At this rate,' he said, turning back to Maigret, ‘there'll be full-scale panic within the next twenty-four hours … What we need – as I told you before – is an arrest, no matter who.' He emphasized his last
words with a glance at Emma. ‘I know I have no authority to give you orders … As for the local police, you're ignoring them completely … But I'll tell you this: one more crime, just one, and we'll have a catastrophe on our hands. People are expecting
trouble. Shops that on any other Sunday stay open till nine at night have already closed their shutters … That idiotic piece in the
Brest Beacon
terrified the public …'

The mayor, who had not taken his bowler off his head, now pulled it down farther as he left, saying, ‘I'll thank you to keep me informed, inspector … And I remind you that whatever happens now is your
responsibility.'

‘A beer, Emma!' Maigret snapped.

There was no way to keep the reporters from descending on the Admiral Hotel, or from installing themselves in the café, telephoning and filling the place with their noisy commotion. They demanded ink, paper. They interrogated Emma, whose poor face
looked constantly alarmed.

Outside, the night was dark, with a beam of moonlight that heightened the melodrama of the cloudy sky instead of brightening it. And there was the mud, which clung to every shoe, since paved streets were still unknown in Concarneau.

‘Did Le Pommeret tell you he was coming back?' Maigret suddenly asked Michoux.

‘Yes. He went home for dinner.'

‘His address?' asked a reporter who had nothing else to do.

The doctor gave it to him, as the inspector shrugged and pulled Leroy off into a corner.

‘Did you get the original manuscript of this morning's article?'

‘I just got it. It's in my room … The handwriting is disguised. It must have come from someone who thought they'd know his writing.'

‘No postmark?'

‘No. The envelope was dropped in the newspaper's box. It says “Extremely Urgent” on it …'

‘Which means that at eight this morning, at the latest, someone knew about Jean Servières' disappearance, knew that the car was, or would be, abandoned near the Saint-Jacques River, and that there would be bloodstains on the
seat … And that same someone also knew that we'd discover the tracks of an unknown man with big feet …'

‘It's amazing!' sighed Leroy. ‘But about those fingerprints – I wired them off to Quai des Orfèvres. They've already checked the files and called me back. The prints don't match those of any known
offender.'

There was no doubt about it: the tension was getting to Leroy. But the person most thoroughly infected, so to speak, by that virus was Ernest Michoux, who looked even more colourless in contrast to the newspapermen's sporty clothes, easygoing
manner and self-assurance.

He had no idea what to do with himself. Maigret asked him: ‘Aren't you going to bed?'

‘Not yet … I never fall asleep before one in the morning …' He forced a feeble smile, which showed two gold teeth. ‘Frankly, what do you think?'

The illuminated clock in the Old Town tolled ten. The inspector was called to the telephone. It was the mayor.

‘Still nothing?' It sounded as if he, too, was expecting trouble.

But, actually, wasn't Maigret expecting trouble himself? Frowning, he went out to visit the yellow dog. The animal had dozed off; now, without alarm, he opened one eye to watch Maigret approach. The inspector stroked his head, pushed a
handful of straw beneath his front legs.

He felt the proprietor come up behind him.

‘Do you suppose those newspaper people will be staying long? … Because if they are, I ought to think about supplies. The market opens at six tomorrow morning …'

For anyone not used to Maigret, it could be unsettling to see his large eyes stare blankly at you, as now, then to hear him mutter something incomprehensible and move on as if you were not worth noticing.

The reporter from the
Petit Parisien
returned, shaking his dripping raincoat.

‘Is it raining?' someone asked. ‘What's new, Groslin?'

The young man's eyes sparkled as he spoke quietly to his photographer then picked up the telephone.

‘
Petit Parisien
, operator … Press service – urgent! What? You have a direct line to Paris? … Well then, hurry … Hello!
Petit Parisien
? Mademoiselle Germaine? Give me the copy desk. This is
Groslin!'

His tone was impatient. And he darted a challenging look at the colleagues listening to him. Passing by, Maigret stopped to listen.

‘Hello, is that you, Mademoiselle Jeanne? … Rush this through! There's still time to get the story into a few of the out-of-town runs. The other papers will only be able to get it into
their Paris editions. Tell the copy desk to rewrite what I give you; I don't have time. Here we go.

‘The Concarneau Case. Our predictions were correct: another crime … Hello? Yes,
crime
! A man's been killed. Is that better?'

Everyone was silent. Spellbound, the doctor drew close to the reporter as he went on, excited, triumphant.

‘First Monsieur Mostaguen, then the newspaperman Jean Servières and now Monsieur Le Pommeret! … Yes, I spelled the name earlier. He's just been found dead in his room … at home. No wound. His muscles are rigid. All
evidence points to poisoning. Wait – end with: “Terror reigns”… Yes! Rush this to the managing editor … I'll call back in a while to dictate a piece for the Paris edition, but the information has to get to the out-of-town desks now.'

He hung up, mopped his face, and threw a jubilant look around the room.

The telephone was ringing again. ‘Hello. Inspector? We've been trying to get through to you for a quarter of an hour. I'm calling from Monsieur Le Pommeret's house … Hurry! He's dead!' And the voice
repeated, in a wail, ‘Dead!'

Maigret looked around. Empty glasses stood on almost every table. Emma, her face drained, followed his eyes.

‘Nobody touch a single glass or bottle!' he ordered. ‘You hear me, Leroy? Don't leave here.'

Sweat dripping from his brow, the doctor snatched off
his scarf; at his skinny neck, his shirt was fastened by a toggle stud.

By the time Maigret reached Le Pommeret's apartment, a doctor from next door had already made the initial examination.

A woman of about fifty was there. She was the owner of the building, the person who had telephoned.

It was a pretty house of grey stone, facing the sea. Every twenty seconds, the glowing brush of the lighthouse beacon set the windows on fire. There was a balcony with a flagstaff and a shield bearing the Danish coat of arms.

Outside, five people watched wordlessly as the inspector went in.

The body lay on the reddish carpet of a studio crowded with worthless knick-knacks. On the walls were publicity shots of actresses, framed pictures clipped from sexy magazines and a few signed photos of women.

Le Pommeret's shirt was pulled out of his trousers, his shoes were still crusted with mud.

‘Strychnine,' said the doctor. ‘At least so far I'd swear to that. Look at his eyes. And notice especially how rigid the body is. The death throes took over half an hour. Maybe more …'

‘Where were you?' Maigret asked the landlady.

‘Downstairs. I sub-let the whole second floor to Monsieur Le Pommeret, and he took his meals at my place … He came home for dinner around eight o'clock. He ate almost nothing. I remember he said there was something wrong with
the electricity, but the lights seemed perfectly normal to me. He said he'd be going out again,
but that first he'd go up and take an aspirin, because his head felt heavy …'

The inspector looked questioningly at the doctor.

‘That's it! The early symptoms.'

‘Which appear how long after absorbing the poison?'

‘That depends on the dose and on the person's constitution. Sometimes half an hour, sometimes two hours.'

‘And death?'

‘Doesn't come until after general paralysis sets in. But there is local paralysis first. So he probably tried to call for help … He would have been lying on this couch …'

The couch that had earned Le Pommeret's place the name House of Depravity! Pornographic prints crowded the walls around the couch. A night light gave off a rosy glow.

‘He'd have gone into convulsions. Like an attack of delirium tremens … He died on the floor.'

Maigret walked to the door as a photographer started to come in and slammed it in the man's face.

‘Le Pommeret left the Admiral a little after seven o'clock,' Maigret calculated. ‘He'd had a brandy-and-water … A quarter of an hour later, he drank and ate something here … From what you say about
the way strychnine works, it's just as possible he was poisoned back there as here …'

Abruptly, he went downstairs, where the landlady was crying, with three of her neighbours around her.

‘The dishes, the glasses from dinner?'

It took her a moment to understand what Maigret wanted. By the time she replied, he had already looked into the kitchen and seen a basin of warm water, clean plates and glasses laid out to the right, dirty to the left.

‘I was just washing up when …'

A local policeman arrived.

‘Watch the house,' Maigret told him. ‘Put everyone out except the landlady … and no reporters, no photographers! Nobody is to touch a glass or a plate.'

It was 500 metres, through the downpour, to the hotel. The town was dark except for two or three distant lighted windows. Then on the square, at the corner by the quay, the Admiral Hotel's three square windows shone out, though their green
panes made the place look like a huge aquarium.

As Maigret drew near, he heard voices, the telephone ringing, and then the roar of a car starting up.

‘Where are you heading?' he asked the reporter in it.

‘The phone is tied up. I'm going to look for another one. In ten minutes it'll be too late to make my Paris edition.'