Read Online Inspector Cadaver by Georges Simenon - Free Book Online Page B

followed him on to the street if Jeanne
hadn’t stopped him.
    ‘Désiré has
manners … Understand, you little brat? And you there, my Parisian friend, if
anyone tells you Désiré’s son isn’t a brave man …’
    Doors opened. Maigret chose to walk away.
    With tears in his eyes, Louis said through
gritted teeth, ‘I swear to you, inspector …’
    ‘Yes, son, I believe you.’
    ‘It was that man who stayed at the
Lion d’Or, wasn’t it?’
    ‘Yes, I’m sure it was. I’d
like to have proof, though. Do you know anyone who was at the Lion d’Or last
night?’
    ‘I bet the Liboureau kid was there. He
goes there every night.’
    ‘Well then, while I wait for you at
the Trois Mules, go and ask him if he saw old Désiré in there and if he got
into conversation with the visitor from Paris … Wait … I suppose you can eat
at the Trois Mules? We’ll have a bite together … Be quick about
it.’
    There was no tablecloth. The cutlery was
iron. There was only beetroot salad, rabbit and a piece of cheese washed down with a
wretched bottle of white. But when he came back, Pockmarks was too shy to sit at the
inspector’s table.
    ‘Well?’
    ‘Désiré went to the Lion
d’Or yesterday.’
    ‘He talked to Cadaver?’
    ‘To what?’
    ‘Take no notice. It’s a nickname
we gave him. Did he talk to him?’
    ‘That wasn’t what happened. The
character you call Ca … It makes me feel strange saying it …’
    ‘His name is Justin
Cavre.’
    ‘From what Liboureau told me, Monsieur
Cavre spent most of the evening watching people playing cards without saying anything.
Désiré was off in a corner, drinking on his own. He left about ten
o’clock and a few minutes later Liboureau noticed the Parisian wasn’t there
any more. But he didn’t know if he’d gone out or upstairs.’
    ‘He went out.’
    ‘What are you going to do?’
    Proud to be the inspector’s
accomplice, Louis was seething with impatience to act.
    ‘Who was it who saw a large sum of
money at Madame Retailleau’s?’
    ‘The postman, Josaphat. He’s
another drinker. We call him Josaphat because when his wife died he got even more
cock-eyed than usual and wouldn’t stop crying and saying: “Goodbye,
Céline. We’ll meet again in the valley of Josaphat, we will. Count on me
…”’
    ‘What would you rather for
dessert?’ asked the landlady, who clearly spent her days with one or other of her
children on her arm, doing her work one-handed. ‘I’ve got biscuits and
apples.’
    ‘You choose,’ said Maigret.
    And the other, blushing:
    ‘I don’t mind … Biscuits
… This is what happened. Maybe ten or twelve days after Albert’s funeral,
the postman had a pick-up at Madame Retailleau’s. She was doing the housework. She
looked in her purse but she was fifty francs short. So she went over to the soup tureen
on the dresser. You must have noticed it. A tureen with blueflowers.
She stood in front of it to block Josaphat’s view, but that evening he swore
he’d seen a wad of thousand-franc notes, at least ten, maybe more … Well,
everyone knows Madame Retailleau has never been able to get her hands on that much money
… Albert spent everything he earned …’
    ‘On what?’
    ‘He cared about his looks. It’s
not a crime, is it? He loved being well dressed and he had his suits made in Niort. He
was always ready to stand a round. He used to tell his mother that she had her pension,
after all …’
    ‘They used to argue?’
    ‘Sometimes. Albert was independent,
you know? His mother would have liked to treat him like a kid. If he’d listened to
her, he wouldn’t have gone out at night and he’d have never set foot in the
café. My mother is the opposite. All she asks is that I’m out of the house as
much as possible.’
    ‘Where can we find
Josaphat?’
    ‘He should be at home now, or else on
his way back from his first round. In half an hour, he will be at the station to pick up
the bags for the second post.’
    ‘Please will