Maigret at the Coroner's

by Georges Simenon

  With Conley, the deputy sheriff with the fancy revolver, everything changed yet again. Ward had supposedly followed Bessie for only about fifteen yards. But then, why did the sergeant claim he hadn’t followed her at all?

  ‘It’s impossible,’ continued Conley, ‘to locate footprints on the railbed itself, which is stony, or on the soil immediately nearby, which is harder than the normal desert terrain. But walking towards the south and off to the right …’

  ‘Towards the highway, in other words?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Drifting right, I’m saying, I found other footprints.’

  ‘Coming from which direction?’

  ‘From the highway, more to the south.’

  ‘Diagonally?’

  ‘Almost perpendicularly.’

  ‘A man’s footprints?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I put down markers. The length of the prints suggests to me that they belong to a man of medium height.’

  ‘Where did that trail lead you?’

  ‘To within around fifty yards of the place where the car stopped for the first time.’

  Now there was no impediment to Ward’s having told the truth: that Bessie had gone off with Mullins and not come back.

  The attorney must have been thinking the same thing.

  ‘You didn’t find any woman’s footprints in that area?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The hypothesis was already untenable.

  ‘The trail vanishes once you get to the tracks?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The person must have kept walking on the embankment, where footsteps leave no trace, as I said.’

  Recess.

  Twice O’Rourke went past Maigret out in the arcade, and both times he looked at him with a droll little smile. There must have been alcohol in the office he visited during each recess because afterwards it was on his breath.

  Had Cole told him who the heavy-set, passionately attentive man in the audience was?

  Was O’Rourke amused to see this colleague at a loss?

  The juror with the wooden leg asked him for a light.

  ‘Complicated, isn’t it?’ grumbled Maigret.

  Had he used the wrong word? Had the fellow not understood? Or was he taking seriously the instructions not to discuss the case until a verdict was reached? In any case, the juror simply smiled and went off to stand before a lawn being watered by rotary sprinklers.

  Maigret was sorry he had not taken any notes. The contradictions among the police officers’ depositions did not interest him as much as those among the stories of the five airmen, who seemed more and more estranged from one another with each successive hearing.

  ‘Hans Schmider!’

  At times it was hard to tell why a witness was on the stand, and the game was to guess his profession. This man was portly; more precisely, his big belly swelled his shirt out like a flabby bag over his too-tight belt. His clinging trousers could not cover his navel, so he seemed to have short legs and an outsize torso.

  His medium-length hair stuck out in every direction. His shirt was of dubious cleanliness. His arms and chest were hairy.

  ‘You work in the sheriff’s office.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  His strong voice and relaxed, almost familiar attitude suggested that he was used to such hearings.

  ‘At what time were you apprised of the situation?’

  ‘At around six that morning. I was asleep.’

  ‘Did you leave immediately for the scene?’

  ‘I swung by the office to pick up my gear.’

  He was so at ease, leaning back in his chair, his belly prominently displayed, that he automatically pulled his cigarettes from his pocket, leaving Ezekiel just enough time to spring from his seat.

  ‘Tell us what you saw.’

  Schmider rose and with his hands in his pockets went to the blackboard to study the drawing there before erasing it. He had to bend down to pick the chalk up from the floor, thus pulling his trousers so taut that people thought they would split.

  He marked the north, south, east, west; drew in the railway tracks, the highway, then a dotted line meandering extensively from the latter to the former.

  Finally, at the edge of the highway, two rectangles.

  ‘Here, at point A, I saw tread marks from the car I’ll call vehicle number one.’

  He stepped down from the dais to fetch a rather large package on the table, from which he withdrew a chunk of plaster.

  ‘Here is the imprint of the left front tyre, a rather worn Dunlop.’

  On his own, he presented the object, like a cake, beneath the noses of the jurors, then did the same with the following three moulds.

  ‘Did you compare these tread imprints with those from Ward’s car?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They are identical. There is no doubt on that point. Now, here are the imprints of two tyres from vehicle number two. These tyres are almost new, bought on credit. We’ve already visited all the stores selling Dunlops, but I don’t believe we’ve had any results yet.’

  Schmider was the lab technician on the sheriff’s team, with the self-assurance to match. The idea of any other possible interpretation never even occurred to him.

  ‘Did you find any more such marks along the highway?’

  ‘When I arrived, I saw many other vehicles aside from the ambulance and police cars. I made moulds only of the tread marks pointed out to me, those that were particularly distinct.’

  ‘Who pointed them out to you?’

  He turned towards the attorney’s table and pointed to O’Rourke.

  ‘Did you make any other moulds?’

  Schmider went back to his cardboard box as if it contained inexhaustible treasures, and everyone waited with both impatience and confidence, for everyone felt that from that box, the truth would emerge.

  When he pulled out the impression of a shoe sole, the five airmen looked down in unison at their feet.

  ‘This is a mould made about fifteen yards from the highway. It’s from a man’s shoe. The shoe is rather worn, with a rubber heel. Now here is the impression left by a woman’s shoe I made right next to that other one. It matches exactly this shoe belonging to Bessie Mitchell, as you can verify.’

  With the other hand, he waved a simple, ordinary, dark-reddish loafer, also much worn, with a flat heel. He walked both pieces of evidence past the jurors. With a little encouragement, he would have paraded them before the entire audience.

  ‘Did you pursue further evidence regarding the man’s shoe?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I compared the imprint with the shoes of any sheriff or deputy who was at the scene.’

  ‘Did you find a match?’

  ‘No, sir. And Sergeant Ward, as I verified, was wearing high-heeled cowboy boots. Van Fleet, O’Neil and Wo Lee have smaller feet.’

  Everyone waited. He knew it and savoured the delay.

  ‘The size more or less matches Sergeant Mullins’ feet, but the shoes he showed me do not have rubber heels.’

  There was a sigh, as if in relief, in the line of airmen, but Maigret could not tell which one of them had breathed it.

  Schmider, who had carefully placed his moulds on the table, thrust his arm again into his box and pulled out, this time, a white leather handbag.

  ‘This is the bag that was found a few steps from the railway tracks, partly buried in the sand.’

  ‘Did anyone identify it?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Sergeant Mitchell!’

  He stepped forwards. The bag was handed to him. He opened i
t and took out a kind of purse of red silk containing several coins.

  ‘Is this your sister’s handbag?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I recognize this purse Erna gave her.’

  Sitting among the other spectators, Erna spoke up in agreement.

  ‘It’s her handbag. I was with her when she bought it, on sale, a month ago.’

  A few people laughed. As the inquest had proceeded, people had grown so comfortable together that there was almost a circus atmosphere.

  ‘Here are a handkerchief, two keys, a lipstick, a powder compact.’

  ‘Aside from the coins, is there any folding money?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  And Erna spoke up again, without being asked:

  ‘I remember that she’d forgotten her wallet.’

  No papers. No identification of any kind. Maigret recalled a question he had already wondered about.

  A woman’s body, badly damaged, had been found on the railway tracks. Yet a few hours later, before the information was published in the newspapers, the sheriff’s men had told Mitchell that his sister was dead.

  Who had identified her? How?

  Maigret looked glumly over at O’Rourke. This was the first time he had followed an investigation as a private individual, without knowing any behind-the-scenes information, and it frustrated him to feel that he was missing out on so much evidence.

  Hadn’t he done the same thing in Paris? How many times, to give himself free rein, to avoid some premature intervention, had he hidden – even from the examining magistrate – what he knew about a case?

  Was O’Rourke at least going to press his advantages?

  Did he really want to discover the truth and, above all, reveal it?

  There were moments when Maigret doubted it – and others when he thought his colleague, who knew his job, would do what needed to be done in his own good time.

  One last piece of evidence remained in the box, and Schmider brought it out at last. It was another mould, another plaster footprint.

  ‘This cast was made to the south of where Bessie died.’

  In other words, from the trail of prints only Gerald Conley had described.

  ‘It’s a size nine, meaning a medium size, verging on small. Corporal Wo Lee wears an eight. Sergeant O’Neil and Corporal Van Fleet wear a nine and a nine and a quarter, respectively. The shoes they showed me did not display the same signs of wear.’

  Once more, Maigret almost rose for permission to speak, forgetting that he was not on home ground.

  The clock above the door, which was open and crowded with curious onlookers, read four thirty. On both preceding days, the hearings had been adjourned at around five o’clock.

  Twice already, documents had been brought for the coroner to sign, which he had done without interrupting the interrogations.

  ‘Any questions, members of the jury?’

  It was the black man who spoke up.

  ‘Did the witness take any impressions of tread marks from the taxi?’

  ‘None were pointed out to me.’

  ‘Doesn’t he know anything about the third car, the one that took the three airmen back to the base?’

  ‘When I arrived on the scene, several vehicles were already there, and while I was working other cars arrived.’

  The coroner looked at the clock.

  ‘Jurors, the chief deputy sheriff is our only remaining witness before you begin deliberations. I’m wondering if we shouldn’t keep going to wind this up today.’

  O’Rourke raised his hand.

  ‘May I be allowed a remark here? My deposition will not necessarily be a long one, but it is possible that, if we wait until tomorrow morning, a new witness will provide us with interesting information.’

  Maigret could breathe again. He breathed so deeply, with such an air of relief, that two of his neighbours looked around at him. He had been afraid that the jurors would be sent off to deliberate with such ragged and contradictory material.

  Above all, it seemed incredible that this inquest would be closed without further discussion of the third car, to which the black juror had just alluded, the one that had taken the three airmen back and had apparently yet to be found.

  Was it the one with the tyres bought on credit? Why, at least twice, had the attorney asked witnesses if the body of the car had been in good condition and whether they had noticed any signs of an accident?

  The coroner turned questioningly to the jurors, who all, except for the woman, quickly nodded their assent.

  Thus, for one more day, they would be something other than ordinary citizens. As if to compound their delight, a photographer crouched down in front of them – and a flash shot through the courtroom.

  ‘Tomorrow, Courtroom Two, nine thirty.’

  Maigret must have been in the photo, because he was only two people away from the foreman of the jury.

  For about an hour, he had been anxious to get down to work with pencil and paper, which was unusual for him. He needed to take stock of the situation and felt that it would not take him long to eliminate most of the hypotheses.

  ‘They didn’t question the other men on the train,’ said someone close to him.

  It was Mitchell, in a bad mood.

  ‘The engine driver, who was at the left in the locomotive, could see only the left side of the tracks, where my sister’s legs were. His assistant, on the right, saw the upper part of the body. I’ve asked again that he be called to the stand.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘That they’ll do so if they see any need to.’

  ‘How did they recognize your sister?’

  This time, Mitchell looked at him in amazement, and with that simple question Maigret must have lost considerable prestige in his eyes, because he simply shrugged and went off into the crowd.

  Maigret had understood. Wasn’t it obvious that a girl like Bessie had already been involved with the police? Tucson must have had a few dozen more like her, basically, and the law probably kept an eye on them.

  That suddenly reminded him of the men on those barstools, all evening long, staring dolefully at what were essentially girly calendars. And it reminded him of the cars he had noticed, parked in the shadows, in which couples were probably holding their breath as he passed by …

  Harry Cole hadn’t said when he would meet him, but Maigret was sure he would run into him any time now. It was the FBI man’s way of impressing him, a way of saying: ‘I let you come and go, but as you see, I always know where to find you.’

  Just to be difficult, Maigret went into a bar instead of returning to the hotel, and the first words he heard were: ‘Hello! Julius!’

  Cole was there, and Mike O’Rourke was sitting next to him with a glass of beer.

  ‘You know each other? Not yet? Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, a famous policeman in his country. Mike O’Rourke, the wiliest chief deputy sheriff in Arizona.’

  Why did these people always seem to be making fun of him?

  ‘How about a beer, Julius! Mike tells me you’ve been following the depositions assiduously and that you must have your own thoughts on the matter. I’ve invited him to have dinner with us. I suppose that’s fine with you?’

  ‘I’m delighted.’

  That wasn’t true. He would have appreciated the gesture the next day, when he would have had time to go over what he knew. Now, he felt even more awkward and stupid in that the others seemed in excellent humour, as if they had something sneaky in mind.

  ‘I’m sure,’ observed O’Rour
ke as he wiped his lips, ‘that Inspector Maigret finds our investigative methods downright rudimentary and naive.’

  For his counter-attack, Maigret inquired: ‘Did the waitress at the Penguin Bar give you any helpful information?’

  ‘She’s a pretty girl, isn’t she! Her background’s Irish, like mine, and you know, the Irish always get along well together.’

  ‘Was she at the Penguin on the evening of July 27?’

  ‘That was her day off. She knew Bessie real well and knows Erna Bolton and a few of the fellows.’

  ‘Including Mullins?’

  ‘I don’t think so. She hasn’t mentioned him to me.’

  ‘Wo Lee?’

  ‘Not him, either.

  That left Corporal Van Fleet and Sergeant O’Neil – who was an Irishman as well, like the chief deputy sheriff.

  ‘Have you found the third car?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m still hoping we’ll find it before tomorrow morning.’

  ‘There are some things I don’t understand.’

  ‘There would certainly be more things I wouldn’t understand if I were following an investigation in Paris.’

  ‘Back home, the real investigation does not take place in public.’

  O’Rourke shot him an amused look.

  ‘Or here, either.’

  ‘I suspected as much. But each of your men still comes and says whatever he feels like saying.’

  ‘Now that, that’s another story. Don’t forget that everyone gives evidence under oath, and that in the United States this oath is a very serious matter. Perhaps you’ve noticed, though, that they answer only the specific questions they get asked!’

  ‘What I particularly noticed is that there are questions they do not get asked.’

  Mike O’Rourke clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘OK! You’ve figured it out! After we’ve had dinner, you can ask me all the questions you want.’

  ‘And you’ll answer them?’

  ‘Probably. As long as I’m not under oath …’