The Grand Banks Café Read Free

around
     here?’ asked the inspector.
    â€˜That he was. A curious sort. Not
     much taller or wider than Louis. But always polite, always friendly. And always
     nattily turned out. I don’t think he went much to cafés. He wasn’t
     married. He had digs in Rue d’Étretat, with a widow whose husband had worked
     for customs. There was talk that they’d get wed in the end. He’d been
     fishing off Newfoundland these fifteen years. Always for the same owners: the French
     Cod Company. Captain Fallut, to give him his full name. They’re in a fix now
     if they want to send the
Océan
out to the Grand Banks. No captain! And half
     the crew not wanting to sign on for another tour!’
    â€˜Why is that?’
    â€˜Don’t try to understand!
     The evil eye, like I told you. There’s talk of laying the boat up until next
     year. On top of which the police have told the crew they have to stay
     available.’
    â€˜And the wireless operator is
     behind bars?’
    â€˜Yes. They took him away the same
     evening, in handcuffs he was … I was standing in the doorway. I tell you God’s
     truth, the wife cried … and so did I. But he wasn’t
a special customer. I used to knock a bit off when I sold
     him supplies. He wasn’t much of a drinker himself.’
    They were interrupted by a sudden
     uproar. Louis had thrown himself at the Breton, presumably because the Breton had
     insisted on trying to stop him drinking. Both were rolling around on the floor. The
     others got out of their way.
    It was Maigret who separated them,
     picking them up one in each hand.
    â€˜That’s enough! You want to
     argue?’
    The scuffle was over quickly. The
     Breton, whose hands were free, pulled a knife from his pocket. The inspector saw it
     just in time and with a swift back heel sent it spinning two metres away.
    The shoe caught the Breton on the chin,
     which started to bleed. Louis, still in a daze and still drunk, rushed to his friend
     and started crying and saying he was sorry.
    Léon came up to Maigret. He had his
     watch in his hand.
    â€˜Time I closed up! If I
     don’t we’ll have the police on the doorstep. Every evening it’s
     the same story! I just can’t kick them out!’
    â€˜Do they sleep on board the
Océan
?’
    â€˜Yes. Unless, that is, and it
     happened to two of them yesterday, they sleep where they fall, in the gutter. I
     found them this morning when I opened the shutters.’
    The serving girl went round gathering
     glasses off the tables. The men drifted off in groups of two or three. Only Louis
     and the Breton didn’t budge.
    â€˜Need a room?’ Léon asked
     Maigret.
    â€˜No thanks. I’m booked into
     the Hôtel de la Plage.’
    â€˜Can I say something?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜It isn’t that I want to
     give you advice. It’s none of my business. But if anyone was feeling sorry for
     the wireless operator, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to
chercher la
     femme
, as they say in books. I’ve heard a few whispers along those
     lines …’
    â€˜Did Pierre Le Clinche have a
     girlfriend?’
    â€˜What, him? No fear! He’d
     got himself engaged wherever it was he came from. Every day he’d write home,
     letters six pages long.’
    â€˜Who do you mean, then?’
    â€˜I dunno. Maybe it’s more
     complicated than people think. Besides …’
    â€˜Besides what?’
    â€˜Nothing. Behave yourself, Louis!
     Go home to bed!’
    But Louis was far too drunk for that. He
     was tearful, he had his arms around his friend, whose chin was still bleeding, and
     he kept saying sorry.
    Maigret left the bar, hands thrust deep
     in his pockets and with his collar turned up, for the air was cool.
    In the vestibule of the Hôtel de la
     Plage, he saw a young woman sitting in a wicker chair. A man got up from another
     chair and smiled. There was