The Little Man From Archangel

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The Little Man From Archangel Page 9

by Georges Simenon


  He could see some of those bars in the distance, in the second part of the Rue Haute, on the same side as the Luxor, and he could just make out the couples along the walls.

  He slept badly, still with the feeling of a threat, which had pursued him even into his bedroom. He had removed his spectacles and switched off the light when a memory had jangled in his brain, not exactly a personal memory, for the passage of time had confused the fragments of what he had seen and heard with what he had subsequently been told.

  He was not six years old when the drama had occurred, and since then there had been no further sensational events in the town until the Marcel hold-up.

  He was born in 1916, so it had taken place in 1922, and he was just starting to go to school. It must have been November. The Maison Bleue was already in existence, so called because the outside was painted in sky-blue from top to bottom.

  It had not changed since then. It stood surmounted by a very steep roof, at the corner of the Rue des Prémontrés and the Square, just beside Ancel's butcher's shop, two houses from the fishmonger's where Jonas lived at the time.

  The sign had not changed either. In letters of a darker blue than the facade was written: 'La Maison Bleue'. Then, in smaller letters: 'Children's Clothing. Baby garments a speciality'.

  The woman now known as the widow Lentin still had her husband at the time, a fair-haired man who wore long moustaches and who, since his wife ran the business, worked at odd jobs outside.

  At certain periods, he could be seen sitting all day long on a chair in front of the house, and Jonas remembered a phrase he had heard frequently repeated:

  'Lentin's having one of his bouts '

  Gustave Lentin had fought in the Tonkin campaign, a name which Jonas had heard for the first time when people were talking of him, and which to Jonas seemed a terrible word. He had caught the fevers there, as the people of the Vieux-Marché put it. For weeks he was like any other man, with a rather dark, at times stormy look in his eyes, and he would embark on some job or other. Then it would get around that he was in bed, 'covered with an icy sweat and trembling in his limbs, his teeth clenched like a dead man's.'

  Jonas had not invented this description. He did not know where he had heard it, but it had remained engraved on his memory. Doctor Lourel, since dead, who had worn a beard, came to see him twice a day, striding rapidly, his worn leather bag in his hand, and Jonas, from the pavement opposite, used to glue his eyes to the windows, wondering if Lentin was dying.

  A few days later he would reappear, emaciated, his eyes sad and empty, and his wife would help him out onto his chair beside the doorway, would move him during the day, as the sun followed its course.

  The shop did not belong to Lentin but to his parents-in-law, the Arnauds, who lived in the house with the couple. Madame Arnaud remained in Jonas' mind as a woman almost entirely round, with white hair gathered in a bun at the back of her head and so sparse that the pink of her skull showed through it.

  He could not remember her husband.

  But he had seen the crowd, one morning, as he was about to leave for school. There was a wind blowing that day. It was a market day. An ambulance and two other black cars were standing in front of the Maison Bleue and the crowd was shoving so much that one might have thought it was a riot, if it had not been for the oppressive silence which reigned.

  Although his mother had dragged him away and assured him afterwards that he could not have seen anything, he was convinced, to this day, that he had seen on a stretcher carried by two male nurses in white smocks, a man with his throat cut. A woman was screaming, he was sure, in the house, in the way that mad women scream.

  'You imagine you actually saw what you heard told afterwards.'

  It was possible, but it was difficult to admit that that image had not really appeared before his eyes as a child.

  Lentin, it was afterwards learnt, suffered from the feeling of being a useless passenger in the house of his in-laws. Several times he was said to have let it be known that things would not go on as they were, and they had imagined suicide. They used to watch him. His wife sometimes followed in the street at a discreet distance.

  That night he had not woken her up, even though he was racked with fever. She had been the first down, as usual, imagining him still sleeping and then, silently, a razor in his hand, he had gone into the bedroom of his father and mother-in-law and had cut their throats one after the other as he had seen done by the Tonkinese soldiers, and as, out there, he had perhaps done himself.

  Only old Madame Arnaud had had time to cry out. Her daughter had rushed up the stairs, but when she reached the open door her husband had finished his work and, standing in the middle of the room and fixing her with a 'mad look', he had in turn severed his own carotid artery.

  Madame Lentin was quite white now, diminutive, her hair as thin as her mother's, and she went on selling children's clothing and baby garments.

  Why had Jonas thought of this drama just as he was dropping off to sleep? Because he had passed in front of the Maison Bleue a short while ago and had had a glimpse of a shadow behind the curtain?

  It disturbed him. He forced himself to think of something else. As he was still not able to sleep after half an hour he got up to take a tablet of gardenal. In fact he took two, and the effect was almost immediate. Only towards four o'clock he awoke in the silence of the dawn and lay with his eyes open until it was time to get up.

  He was stiff and uncomfortable. He almost decided against going to the baker for his croissants, as he was not hungry, but it was a form of discipline he had imposed on himself and he crossed the deserted Square, saw Angèle laying her baskets out on the pavement. Did she see him? Did she pretend not to see him?

  'Three?' the baker's wife asked him from force of habit.

  It annoyed him. He had the impression he was being spied on, and above all that the others knew things he did not. Ancel, without taking the cigarette from his lips, was unloading some sides of beef, which did not even cause him to stoop, and yet he must have been five or six years older than Jonas.

  He ate, took out his boxes of books, decided to finish off the stock from the attic before going up to do his room, and at half-past nine he was still working, looking in a bibliography to see whether a dilapidated Maupassant which he had just found in the pile was a first edition.

  Somebody came in and he did not immediately raise his eyes. He knew, by the silhouette, that it was a man, and the latter, without pressing him, was examining the books on a shelf.

  When he finally looked up, Jonas recognized Police Inspector Basquin, to whom he had on many occasions sold books.

  'Excuse me,' he stammered. 'I was busy with . . .'

  'How are you, Monsieur Jonas?'

  'All right. I'm all right.'

  He could have sworn that Basquin had not come that morning to buy a book from him, more especially as he had one in his hand.

  'And Gina?'

  He reddened. It was unavoidable. The more he tried not to the more he reddened, and he felt his ears burning.

  'I trust she's all right, too.'

  Basquin was three or four years younger than he and had been born the far side of the canal, in a group of five or six houses surrounding the brickworks. He was fairly often to be seen at the market, and if ever one of the shopkeepers was robbed, it was nearly always he who took charge of it.

  'Isn't she here?'

  He hesitated, first said no, then, like a man plunging into the water, said all in one breath:

  'She left on Wednesday evening telling me that she was going to look after the baby for Ancel's daughter, Clémence. Since then she hasn't come back and I've heard no news.'

  It was a relief finally to let out the truth, to dispose once and for all of this fairy tale about the visit to Bourges, which was haunting him. Basquin looked a decent sort of fellow. Jonas had heard tell that he had five children, a very blonde wife with a sickly appearance, who in reality was more hardy than some women who
appear outwardly strong.

  In this way, often, in the Old Market, one learns the history of people one has never seen, by odds and ends of conversations picked up here and there. Jonas did not know Madame Basquin, who lived in a small new house on the edge of the town, but it was possible that he had seen her when she was doing her shopping, without realizing who she was.

  The Inspector did not have a crafty look, as though he wanted to catch Jonas out. He was relaxed, familiar, as he stood by the counter, book in hand, like a customer talking about the rain or the fine weather.

  'Did she take any luggage with her?'

  'No. Her case is upstairs.'

  'And her dresses, her clothes?'

  'She was only wearing her red dress.'

  'No coat?'

  Didn't that prove that Basquin knew more than he wanted to show? Why, otherwise, would he have thought of the coat? Frédo had thought of it, certainly, but only after searching in the bedroom.

  Did that mean that Frédo had warned the police?

  'Her two coats are in the cupboard as well.'

  'Had she any money on her?'

  'If she had, it wasn't much.'

  His heart was thumping against his constricted chest and he had difficulty in speaking naturally.

  'You have no idea where she might have gone?'

  'None, Monsieur Basquin. At half-past twelve on Wednesday night, I was so worried that I went round to Clémence's.'

  'What did she tell you?'

  'I didn't go in. There wasn't any light. I thought that they were all in bed and I didn't want to disturb them. I hoped that Gina might have come back another way.'

  'You didn't meet anyone?'

  That was the question which frightened him most of all, for he realized that what he was being asked for was an alibi. He searched desperately in his memory, then confessed, abashed:

  'No. I don't think so.'

  A recollection occurred to him.

  'I heard a couple talking in the Rue de Bourges, but I didn't see them.'

  'You didn't pass anyone, either going or coming back?'

  'I don't remember. I was thinking about my wife. I wasn't paying any attention.'

  'Try to remember.'

  'I am trying.'

  'Someone, at a window, might have seen you passing.'

  He was triumphant.

  'There was a lighted window at the corner of the Rue des Prémontrés and the Rue des Deux-Ponts.'

  'Whose house?'

  'I don't know, but I could show it to you.'

  'Was the window open?'

  'No, I don't think so. The blind was lowered. I actually thought of an invalid . . .'

  'Why an invalid?'

  'No particular reason. It was all so quiet. . .'

  Basquin was watching him gravely, without severity, without antipathy. On his side, Jonas found it natural that he should be doing his duty and preferred it to be him than anyone else. The Inspector was sure to understand sooner or later.

  'It has happened before that Gina . . .' he began, shamefacedly.

  'I know. But she's never been away four days before, has she? And there was always someone who knew where she was.'

  What did he mean by that? That when she went on a spree Gina kept some people informed, her brother, for example, or one of her friends, like Clémence? Basquin had not just spoken idly. He knew what he was talking about, seemed to know more about it than even Jonas himself.

  'Did you have a quarrel on Wednesday?'

  'We never quarelled, I promise you.'

  Madame Lallemand, the mother of the young cripple, came in to exchange her two books and the conversation was left in suspense. Had she heard any rumours? She appeared to know the Inspector, at any rate to know who he was, for she looked embarrassed and said:

  'Give me anything of the same kind.'

  Had she realized that it was an actual interrogation that the bookseller was undergoing? She left hurriedly like someone who realizes they are not wanted and in the meantime Basquin, having replaced his book on the shelf, had lit a cigarette.

  'Not even,' he resumed, 'when she had spent the night out?'

  Jonas said forcefully:

  'Not even then. I never even reproached her.'

  He saw the policeman frown and realized that it was hard to believe. Yet he was speaking the truth.

  'You are asking me to believe that it made no difference to you?'

  'It did hurt me.'

  'And you avoided showing it?'

  It was genuine curiosity which had perhaps nothing professional about it, that he read in Basquin's eyes, and he would have liked to make him understand exactly how he felt. His face was covered with sweat and his spectacles were beginning to mist over.

  'I didn't need to show it to her. She knew it already. In actual fact she was ashamed, but she wouldn't have let it be seen for anything in this world.'

  'Gina was ashamed?'

  Raising his head he almost cried out, he was so sure that he was right:

  'Yes! And it would have been cruel to add to her shame. It wouldn't have been any good. Don't you understand? She couldn't help it. It was in her nature . . .'

  Stupefied, the Inspector was watching him speak, and for a moment Jonas hoped he had convinced him.

  'I had no right to reproach her.'

  'You are her husband.'

  He sighed wearily:

  'Of course . . .'

  He realized that his hopes had been premature.

  'How many times did it happen in the past two years? For it was two years ago that you got married, wasn't it?'

  'Two years ago last month. I haven't counted the number of times.'

  It wasn't entirely true. He could have remembered it in a few moments, but it was not important and the question reminded him of the ones the priest asks in the confessional.

  'The last time?'

  'Six months ago.'

  'Did you know who it was with?'

  He raised his voice again.

  'No! No! Why should I want to know?'

  How could it have helped him, to know the man Gina had slept with? To have even more vivid pictures in his mind and suffer all the more?

  'You love her?'

  He replied almost in a whisper:

  'Yes.'

  It made him wince to talk about it, because it concerned no one but himself.

  'In short, you love her but you're not jealous.'

  It wasn't a question. It was a conclusion, and he did not take it up. He was discouraged. It was no longer the more or less marked coldness of the market people that he was up against, but the reasoning of a man who, on account of his profession, ought to have been capable at least of understanding.

  'You're sure Gina left the house on Wednesday evening?'

  'Yes.'

  'At what time?'

  'Directly after dinner. She washed up, but forgot to clean the stove, and told me she was going round to the Reverdis.'

  'Did she go up to her room?'

  'I think so. Yes.'

  'You aren't sure?'

  'Yes, I am. I remember now.'

  'Did she stay there long?'

  'Not very long.'

  'Did you see her to the door?'

  'Yes.'

  'So you saw which way she went?'

  'Towards the Rue des Prémontrés.'

  He pictured in his mind's eye the red of her dress in the grey light of the street.

  'You're sure your wife didn't spend the night of Wednesday to Thursday here?'

  He reddened again as he said:

  'Certain.'

  And he was about to open his mouth to explain, for he was intelligent enough to know what was coming next. Basquin was too quick for him.

  'Yet you told her father that she had taken the bus to Bourges, at 7.10 on Thursday morning.'

  'I know. It was wrong.'

  'You were lying.'

  'It wasn't exactly a lie.'

  'You repeated it to different p
eople and you gave details.'

  'I was just going to explain . . .'

  'Answer my question first. Had you any reason for hiding from Palestri the fact that his daughter had gone off on Wednesday evening?'

  'No.'

  He hadn't had any particular reason for hiding it from Louis, and besides, that was how it had all started. If only he could have a chance to tell the story the way it had happened, there would be some hope of being understood.

  'You admit that Palestri knew all about his daughter's conduct?'

  'I think so. . . . Yes. . .'

  'Angèle as well. . . . She certainly didn't make any secret of it . . .'

  He could have wept at his own impotence.

  'It's no use pretending that Gina was ashamed, she never tried to hide it herself, quite the opposite.'

  'That's not the same thing. It isn't that sort of shame.'

  'What sort is it?'

  He was tempted to give up, from weariness. They were two intelligent men face to face, but they didn't speak the same language and they were on completely different planes.

  'It was all the same to her what people said. It was . . .'

  He wanted to explain that it was in regard to herself that she was ashamed, but he was not being given the chance.

  'And to you, was it all the same to you?'

  'Of course it was!'

  The words had been faster than his thoughts. It was true and yet untrue. He realized that that was going to contradict what he had still to explain.

  'So you had no reason to hide the fact that she had gone?'

  'I didn't hide it.'

  His throat was dry, his eyes smarted.

  'What difference,' went on Basquin without giving him a chance to go back on what he had said, 'would it make whether she left on Wednesday evening or Thursday morning?'

  'Exactly.'

  'Exactly what?'

  'It doesn't make any difference. That proves that I wasn't really lying.'

  'When you said that your wife had taken the bus at 7.10 to go and see La Loute at Bourges? And in repeating it to at least six people, including your mother-in-law?'

  'Listen, Monsieur Basquin . . .'

  'I am only too anxious to listen.'

  It was true. He was trying to understand, but even so there was in Jonas' manner something which was beginning to irritate him. Jonas noticed it, and that made him lose his bearings even more. As at Le Bouc's during the last few days, there was a wall between himself and the other man, and he was beginning to wonder if he was like other men.

 

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