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inspector hadn’t gone ten paces
before he saw Inspector Cavre standing on the kerb as if on guard duty.
    Was Cavre waiting for Maigret to come out
before calling on Albert’s mother himself? Maigret wanted to know for sure. The
conversation he’d just had had put him in a bad mood, and he could think of worse
things than playing a trick on his former colleague.
    Relighting his pipe, which he had put out
with his thumb before going into Madame Retailleau’s, he crossed the street, took
up position on the kerb directly opposite Cavre and stood there as if resolved not to
budge.
    The town was coming alive. Children could be
seen flocking to the school gates on the little church square. Most came from far
afield, wrapped up tight in scarves and wearing thick red or blue woollen socks and
clogs.
    ‘Well, my old Cadaver, your turn! Off
you go!’ Maigret seemed to say, his eyes sparkling mischievously.
    But Cavre didn’t move, except to look
off in the other direction as if he were above jokes of any sort.
    Had Madame Retailleau hired him to come to
Saint-Aubin? It was possible. She was a curious woman, difficult to pin down. There was
something of the farmer’s wife about her; she had their almost congenital
distrust. But she also reminded him of the provincial
haute bourgeoisie
.He suspected her icy manner concealed an unshakeable pride and he had
been impressed by her restraint. The entire time he had been in her house, she
hadn’t taken a step or made a gesture. She had been frozen, like one of those
animals that supposedly play dead in the face of danger, with only the barest movement
of her lips as she uttered the occasional syllable.
    ‘Well, Cadaver, you poor thing? Make
your mind up. Do something.’
    Cadaver was stamping his feet to keep warm,
but didn’t seem inclined to do anything as long as Maigret was spying on him.
    The situation was ridiculous. It was
childish to persist, and yet Maigret persisted. All to no avail, what’s more. At
eight thirty, a little red-faced man emerged from his house, headed to the town hall and
opened its front door with his key. Moments later, Cavre entered the premises.
    That was exactly what Maigret had intended
to do first: go and question the local authorities. His former colleague had beaten him
to it. Now there was nothing for him to do but wait his turn.

3. A Man You Would Keep at
Arm’s Length
    Subsequently, that day became a taboo subject
for Maigret. He never spoke about it again, especially not about that morning, and he
doubtless did his utmost not to think about it either.
    What he found most disconcerting was the way
he had simply ceased to be Maigret. After all, what did he represent in Saint-Aubin?
Nothing. For goodness’ sake, Justin Cavre had simply marched into the town hall
ahead of him, and Maigret had been left standing sheepishly in the street, surrounded by
those houses, which, under a sky like a blister about to burst, looked like fat,
poisonous toadstools.
    People were watching him, he knew. Eyes were
fixed on him behind every curtain. Of course, the opinion of some old women or the
butcher’s wife didn’t matter; people could think whatever they wanted of
him. They could even, as some kids had done on their way to school, burst out laughing
when he walked past.
    But he was conscious of not being the usual
Maigret. It may be an exaggeration to say he did not recognize himself, but that was
partly it.
    What would happen, for instance, if he went
into the whitewashed lobby of the town hall and knocked on the grey door with the words
‘Secretary’s Office’ written across it in black letters? He would be
asked to wait histurn, as if he were applying for a birth certificate
or welfare. And, meanwhile, in that stuffy little office, Cadaver could carry on
questioning the secretary at his leisure.
    Maigret wasn’t there in an official
capacity. He couldn’t invoke the Police Judiciaire. As for his name, who knew if
anyone had heard of it in this