Georges Simenon - Maigret and the Yellow Dog

MAIGRET
and the Yellow Dog

Le chien jaune
Translated by Linda Asher
the 6th episode in the Maigret Saga
1936

Georges Simenon

MKM XHTML edition 1.0

contents

A Helen and Kurt Wolff Book

Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Publishers SAN DIEGO NEW YORK LONDON

Copyright 1936 by A. Fayard et Cie

English translation copyright 1987 by Georges Simenon

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to: Permissions, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Publishers, Orlando, Florida32887.

Originally published in English in The Patience of Maigret , by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., 1940.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Simenon, Georges, 1903-

Maigret and the yellow dog.

Translation of: Le chien jaune.

A Helen and Kurt Wolff book.

I. Title. PQ2637.I53C5I3 1987 843'.912 87-I74

ISBN 0-15-155564-8

Designed by Kaelin Chappell

Printed in the United States of America

First edition

Maigret and the Yellow Dog

1
Nobodys Dog

Friday, November 7. Concarneau is empty. The lighted clock in the OldTown glows above the ramparts; it is five minutes to eleven.

The tide is in, and a southwesterly gale is slamming the boats together in the harbor. The wind surges through the streets. Here and there a scrap of paper scuttles swiftly along the ground.

There is not a single light on Quai de lAiguillon. Everything is closed. Everyone is asleep. Only the three windows of the Admiral Hotel, on the square where it meets the quay, are still lighted.

They have no shutters, but through their murky greenish panes the figures inside are just barely visible. Huddled in his booth less than a hundred yards away, the customs guard stares enviously at the people lingering in the caf

Across from him in the harbor is a coaster that had come in for shelter that afternoon. There is no one on deck. Its blocks creak and a loose jib snaps in the wind. And there is the relentless din of the gale and the rattle of the tower clock as it prepares to toll eleven.

The hotel door opens. A man appears, still talking to the people inside. The gale snatches at him, flaps his coat-tails, lifts off his bowler hat. He catches it in time and jams it on his head as he walks away.

Even from a distance, it is clear that he is a bit tipsy; he is unsteady on his legs and is humming a tune. The customs guard watches him, and grins when the man decides to light a cigar. A comic struggle then develops between the drunk and the wind, which tears at his coat and his hat as it pushes him along the sidewalk. Ten matches blow out.

The man spots a doorway up two steps, takes cover there, and leans forward. A match flickers, very briefly.

The smoker staggers, grabs for the doorknob.

Was that noise part of the storm, the customs guard wonders. He cant be sure. He laughs as he sees the fellow lose his balance and reel backward at an impossible angle.

The man lands on the ground at the curb, his head in the filth of the gutter. The customs guard beats his hands against his sides to warm them and scowls at the jib, irritated by its racket. A minute, two minutes pass. He takes another glance at the drunk, who has not moved. A dog has turned up from somewhere and is sniffing at him.

That was when I first got the feeling there was something wrong, the customs guard said later, at the hearing.

The comings and goings that followed are harder to establish in strict chronological order. The customs guard approaches the fallen man, not reassured by the presence of the dog, a big snarling yellow animal. There is a street lamp eight or ten yards away. At first he sees nothing unusual. Then he notices a hole in the drunks overcoat and a thick fluid flowing from the hole.

He runs to the Admiral Hotel. The caf is nearly empty.

Leaning on the till is a waitress. At a marble table, two men, their chairs tilted back, their legs stretched out, are finishing their cigars.

Quick! A crime I dont know

The customs guard looks down. The yellow dog has followed him in and is lying at the waitresss feet.

There is hesitation, a vague feeling of fright in the air.

Your friend, the man who just left here

Some seconds later, the three of them are leaning over the body, still sprawled at the curb. A few steps away the Town Hall, where the police station is. The customs guard, who needs to keep busy, dashes over, and then, breathless, runs to a doctors doorbell.

Unable to shake off the sight, he keeps repeating, He staggered backward like a drunk, and he went three or four steps, like this

Five men, then six, seven. Windows opening everywhere.

Whispering

On his knees in the mud, the doctor declares: A bullet fired pointblank into the belly. He must be operated on right away. Someone call the hospital!

Everyone recognizes the wounded man. It is Monsieur Mostaguen, Concarneaus biggest wine dealer, a good fel-low, without an enemy in the world.

The two uniformed policemenone of them has come out without his capdont know where to begin the investigation.

Someone is talking: Monsieur Le Pommeret, whose manner and voice show him to be a leading citizen. He and I were playing cards at the Admiral Caf, with Servires and Doctor Michoux. The doctor left first, half an hour ago. And then Mostaguen Hes afraid of his wife; he left on the stroke of eleven

A tragicomedy: everyone is listening to Monsieur Le Pommeret; they have forgotten about the wounded man.

Suddenly he opens his eyes, tries to get up, and, in a voice so surprised, so gentle, so feeble that the waitress bursts into nervous laughter, he whispers, What happened?

But a spasm of pain racks him. His lips twist. The muscles of his face tighten as the doctor prepares his syringe for a shot.

The yellow dog circles among the many legs. Puzzled, someone asks, You know this animal?

Ive never seen him before.

Probably off some boat.

In the charged atmosphere, the dog is troubling. Perhaps it is his color, a dirty yellow. Hes tall and lanky, very thin, and his huge head calls to mind both a mastiff and a bull-dog.

Five or six yards away, the policemen are questioning the customs guard, who is the only witness.

They look at the doorstep. It is the entrance to a large private house, whose shutters are closed. To the right of the door, a notarys sign announces the sale of the building at auction on November 18.

BOTTOM PRICE: 80,000 FRANCS

A policeman fiddles for a long while without managing to force the lock. Finally, the owner of the garage next door cracks it with a screwdriver.

The ambulance arrives. Monsieur Mostaguen is lifted onto a stretcher. The onlookers are left with nothing to do but contemplate the empty house.

It has stood vacant for a year now. A heavy smell of gunpowder and tobacco hangs in the hallway. A flashlight beam picks out cigarette ashes and muddy tracks on the flagstone floor, indicating that someone had been waiting and watching for a good while behind the door.

A man wearing only a coat over his pajamas says to his wife, Come on! Theres nothing more to see. Well find out the rest from the paper tomorrow. Monsieur Servires is here

Servires, a plump little man in a raincoat, had been with Monsieur Le Pommeret at the Admiral. He is an editor for the Brest Beacon, and, in addition, writes a humor piece every Sunday.