The Little Man From Archangel

by Georges Simenon

  They must have noticed his hat. They must have seen, too, that he locked his door. However, they did not ask him any questions, but ignored him as they had ignored for the past four days. Nevertheless he said:

  'See you later.'

  He took the Rue Haute. About five hundred yards up on the left there was a square, in the middle of which stood the grey building of the Town Hall.

  Here also there was a market, much less important than the one opposite his shop, a few barrows of vegetables and fruit, two or three stalls, a woman selling baskets and bootlaces.

  To reach the police station one did not go in by the main entrance but by a small door in the side street, and he went into the first room which smelled like a barracks and was divided in two by a sort of black wooden counter.

  Five or six people were waiting on a bench and, out of humility or timidity, he was going to sit in the queue, when a police sergeant called to him:

  'What do you want?'

  He stammered:

  'I've had a summons.'

  'Let's see.'

  He glanced at it, disappeared through a door, and said on returning a little later:

  'Wait a minute.'

  Jonas remained standing to start off with, and the hands of the clock, on the rough white wall, pointed to ten past ten, a quarter past ten, twenty past ten. Then he sat down, fiddling with his hat, wondering whether, as at the doctor's, all the people ahead of him had to go in first.

  It was not the case, for when they called a name, a woman rose and was led in the opposite direction to the one the sergeant had taken a short time before. Then they said another name and told an elderly man who was going towards the desk;

  'Sign here. … Now here. ... You've got four hundred and twenty- two francs?'

  He held the money in his hand and, in exchange, was given a pink piece of paper which he folded carefully and put in his wallet before leaving.

  'Next!'

  It was an old woman, who leaned towards the sergeant and spoke to him in a low voice, and Jonas was unconsciously straining his ears to hear, when a bell rang.

  'One moment!' the man in uniform interrupted her. 'Monsieur Milk! This way please.'

  He went down a corridor onto which there opened a number of offices, until he came to the one where the superintendent, sitting in front of a piece of mahogany furniture, had his back to the window.

  'Sit down,' he said, without looking up.

  He wore spectacles for reading and writing, which Jonas did not know, only having seen him in the street, and he took them off each time he looked at him.

  'Your name is Jonas Milk, born at Archangel on the 21st of September 1916, naturalized a Frenchman on the 17th of May, 1938?'

  'Yes, Superintendent.'

  The man had in front of him some closely written sheets of paper which he appeared to be perusing in order to refresh his memory.

  'Two years ago you married Eugénie Louise Josephine Palestri.'

  He nodded his head and the superintendent leaned back in his chair, played with his spectacles for a moment, before asking him:

  'Where is your wife, Monsieur Milk?'

  To hear himself addressed by that name, to which he had become unaccustomed, was enough to discompose him.

  'I don't know, Superintendent.'

  'I see here'—and he tapped the papers in front of him with his hornrimmed spectalces, which he had folded up—'that you have provided at least two different accounts of her departure.'

  'Let me explain.'

  'One moment. On the one hand, to several of your neighbours you declared spontaneously and in the presence of witnesses, on Thursday morning, then on Thursday afternoon and on Friday, that your wife had left the town by the 7.10 bus.'

  'That is correct.'

  'She did take the bus?'

  'No. It is correct that I said so.'

  It was starting all over again. The huge sheets of official paper contained the report from Inspector Basquin, who must have, back in his office, reconstructed their conversation from memory.

  'On the other hand, when you were questioned afterwards by one of my colleagues, you changed your wife's departure to Wednesday evening.'

  As he was opening his mouth, a sharp rap of the glasses on the dossier interrupted him.

  'One moment, Monsieur Milk, I am bound to warn you first that we have been requested to start a search for her as a missing person.'

  Was it Louis who had come and asked for this? Or Angèle? Or Frédo? He didn't dare enquire, although he was burning to know.

  'These affairs are always delicate, especially when it concerns a woman, and even more so, a married woman. I summoned you to ask you a certain number of questions and I shall be obliged to go into somewhat intimate details. It is understood that I am not accusing you of anything and you have the right not to reply.'

  'I only ask to . . .'

  'Please let me do the talking. I shall first of all outline the position as briefly as possible.'

  He put on his spectacles, looked for another piece of paper on which he had apparently jotted down a few notes.

  'You are forty years old and your wife, better known under the name of Gina, is twenty-four. If I understand rightly, she did not pass for a model of virtue before she met you, and as a neighbour, you were aware of her conduct. Is that correct?'

  'That is correct.'

  Life, described thus, in official language, how odious it became!

  'Nevertheless you married her, in the full knowledge of the facts and, in order that the wedding should take place in church, a condition without which the Palestris would not have given their consent, you became converted to Catholicism and were baptized.'

  This was another shock, for it revealed that an intensive enquiry had been going on about him during the empty days he had just passed. Had they been to question the Abbé Grimault, and others as well, whose names were perhaps yet to emerge?

  'By the way, Monsieur Milk, I should like to ask you a question which has nothing to do with this matter. You are a Jew, I believe?'

  For the first time he replied as if he were ashamed of it:

  'Yes.'

  'You were here during the occupation?'

  'Yes.'

  'So you remember that at one time the German authorities made it compulsory for your co-religionists to wear a yellow star on their clothes?'

  'Yes.'

  'How is it that you never wore this star and yet did not get into trouble?'

  In order to remain calm he had to dig his nails into the palms of his hands.

  What could he reply? Was he to renounce his own people? He had never felt himself to be a Jew. He had never believed himself to be different from the people who surrounded him at the Old Market and they, just because of his fair hair and blue eyes, had never thought that he was of another race.

  It was not in order to deceive them that he had not worn the yellow star, at the risk of being sent to a concentration camp or condemned to death. He had taken the risk, naturally, because he wanted to remain like the others.

  The superintendent, who did not know him, had not found all this out on his own. Nor was it Basquin, who at the time was a prisoner-of-war in Germany.

  It had come from somebody else, from somebody at the market, one of the people who used to give him a friendly greeting every morning.

  'Did your wife know that you were a Jew?'

  'I never talked about it to her.'

  'Do you think that would have affected her decision?'

  'I don't think so.'

  As he said it, he thought bitterly of the Arab with whom she had once spent the night.

  'And her parents?'

  'It never occurred to me to wonder.'

  'Let's leave that on one side. Do you speak German?'

  'No.'

  'Russian, of course?'

  'I used to speak it once, with my parents, but I have forgotten it and I could hardly even understand it now.'

  What had t
his to do with the disappearance of Gina? Was he finally going to discover what they had against him?

  'Your father came to France as an emigré, at the time of the revolution.'

  'He was a prisoner in Germany and when the armistice was signed, in 1918. . .'

  'Let's call him an emigré, since at that time he did not return to Russia. I suppose he formed part of some White Russian group?'

  He seemed to remember that at first Shepilov had made him a member of some political society, but Constantin Milk had never been an active member and had dedicated himself entirely to his fishmonger's business.

  Without waiting for his answer, Superintendent Devaux went on:

  'Yet in 1930 he did not hesitate to go back to his country. Why?'

  'To find out what had become of my five sisters.'

  'Did you hear any news of him?'

  'Never.'

  'Not a letter, or by word of mouth, nor through friends?'

  'In no way at all.'

  'How is it, in that case, that your mother went off in her turn?'

  'Because she could not live without her husband.'

  'Have you ever indulged in political activities?'

  'Never.'

  'You don't belong to any group, or party?'

  'No.'

  Devaux put on his spectacles to consult his notes once again. He looked put out. One would have said that it was only with a certain reluctance that he was asking certain questions.

  'You carry on a considerable correspondence with foreign countries, Monsieur Milk.'

  Had they questioned the postman as well? Who else?

  'I am a philatelist.'

  'Does that call for such an extensive foreign correspondence?'

  'Given my method of work, yes.'

  He felt the desire to explain the mechanics of his operations, the research work among the raw material which he had sent to him from the four corners of the earth, for stamps with peculiarities which had escaped his colleagues.

  'We'll leave that on one side,' the superintendent said once again, apparently in a hurry to get to the end of the interview.

  Nevertheless he added:

  'How are your relations with your neighbours?'

  'Good. Very good. I mean up to the last few days.'

  'What has happened in the last few days?'

  'They have been avoiding me.'

  'You received, I believe, a visit from your brother-in-law, Alfred Palestri. known as Frédo?'

  'Yes.'

  'What do you think of him?' He said nothing. 'Are you on bad terms?'

  'I don't think he likes me.'

  'For what reason?'

  'Perhaps he wasn't pleased that I married his sister.'

  'And your father-in-law?'

  'I don't know.'

  After a glance at his notes, the superintendent resumed: 'It would appear that both of them were opposed to your marriage. Gina, at the time, was in your service, if I am not mistaken?'

  'She was working in my house as my servant.'

  'Did she sleep in the house?'

  'No.'

  'Did you have intimate relations with her?'

  'Not before we were married.'

  'The idea of starting a family never came to you before?'

  'No.'

  It was true. It had never occurred to him.

  'I am going, for my own guidance, to ask you another indiscreet question and you are perfectly entitled to refuse to answer. How did you manage?'

  He did not understand at once. The superintendent had to elucidate: 'A man has his needs . . .'

  Before the war there was a house, not far from the Town Hall, in the Rue du Pot-de-Fer to be precise, which Jonas visited regularly. The new laws had upset his arrangements for a time, then he had discovered a street corner, near the station, where four of five women walked their beat of an evening in front of a private hotel.

  He admitted to it, since he was in any case being forced to strip his soul bare.

  'According to what you said, you were not jealous of your wife?'

  'I didn't say that. I said I did not let her see it.'

  'I understand. So you were jealous?'

  'Yes.'

  'What would you have done if you had caught her in the arms of another man?'

  'Nothing.'

  'You wouldn't have been furious?'

  'I should have suffered.'

  'But you wouldn't have used violence, either against her or against her partner?'

  'Certainly not.'

  'Did she know that?'

  'She must have known it.'

  'Did she take advantage of the fact?'

  He felt like replying:

  'It's all written down in front of you!'

  But if he had already been overawed once when Inspector Basquin had interrogated him in his shop, which he had entered with the casual air of a customer, he was very much more so in this formal office where, on top of everything else, they had just touched on sensitive points, and left him as if he had been flayed alive.

  There were words, sentences, which went on resounding in his head and he had to make an effort to understand what was being said to him.

  'You never threatened her?'

  He started.

  'What with?'

  'I don't know. You never uttered any threat against her?'

  'Never in my life. It would never have occurred to me to do so!'

  'Not even during a quarrel at home, for example, or perhaps after a few drinks?'

  'We never had any quarrels and you must have been told that I only drink coffee.'

  The superintendent slowly lit his pipe, which he had been filling, and leant back in his armchair, his spectacles in his hand.

  'In that case, how can you explain that your wife is frightened of you?'

  He thought he had misheard him.

  'What did you say?'

  'I said "that she is frightened of you".'

  'Gina?'

  'Your wife, yes.'

  He started to his feet, overawed though he was by his surroundings. It was with some difficulty that he was able to pronounce clearly the words that came, in a confused torrent, to his lips.

  'But, Superintendent, she was never frightened of me.... Frightened of what? . . . When she came back, on the contrary, I ...'

  'Sit down.'

  He was twisting his hands together. It was meaningless, as if he was living one of his nightmares of the night before.

  'Afraid of me!' he repeated. 'Of me!'

  Whoever could be afraid of him? Not even the stray dogs of the market, or the cats. He was the most inoffensive being on the face of the earth.

  The superintendent, meanwhile, who had put his spectacles on again, ran his eyes over a report while his fingers underlined a passage.

  'On several occasions, your wife declared that you would end up by killing her.'

  'When? Who to? It's not possible.'

  'I am not at liberty, at present, to disclose the name of the person to whom she made these confidences, but I can assure you that she made them, and not just to one person.'

  Jonas was capitulating. It was too much. They had just gone too far. That the neighbours had turned against him he could endure, by gritting his teeth.

  But that Gina . . .

  'Listen, Superintendent. . .'

  He stretched out his hands in supplication, in a final outburst of energy.

  'If she was afraid of me, why . . .'

  What was the use? In any case, the words failed him. He had forgotten what he was going to say. It no longer mattered.

  Afraid of him!

  'Keep calm. Once again I am not accusing you of anything. An inquiry has been opened as a result of your wife's disappearance and it is my duty not to neglect anything, to listen to all the evidence.'

  Without realizing, he nodded his approval.

  'The fact is that for some mysterious reason, ever since the morning when your wife's disappearance was noted, you ha
ve been lying.'

  He did not protest, as he had done with Inspector Basquin.

  'Afraid of me!' he kept repeating to himself with bitter obstinacy.

  'This has inevitably given rise to certain rumours.'

  His head went on nodding affirmatively.

  'All I am asking is to clear the matter up with your help.'

  The face and outline of the superintendent suddenly danced in front of his eyes and he felt himself being overcome by a weakness which he had never known before.

  'You . . . you haven't a glass of water?' he had time to stammer.

  It was the first time in his life that he had fainted. It was very hot in the room. The superintendent rushed to the door and Jonas had time to hear water flowing from a tap.

  He could not have been unconscious for more than a few seconds, for when he opened his eyes, the glass was clinking against his teeth and the cold water was trickling down his chin.

  He looked without resentment, his eyes half-closed, at the man who had just caused him so much pain, who now stood bending over him.

  'Do you feel better?'

  He blinked his eyelids, as he did to greet the Widower, who was rather like the superintendent to look at. Perhaps after all the superintendent was a decent fellow and was sorry for him? 'Have another drink.'

  He shook his head. He was embarrassed. A nervous reaction made him suddenly feel like crying. He mastered himself, but it was a good minute before he was able to speak. Then it was to stammer: 'I am sorry.'

  'Relax and keep quiet.'

  The superintendent opened the window, suddenly letting in the noises from the street, went and sat down in his place again, not knowing what to do or say.

  VII

  'I DON'T think, Monsieur Milk,' the superintendent was saying, 'that you have quite grasped the point. Once again, for some reason or other, your wife has disappeared, and we have been asked to investigate. We have had no choice but to collect statements and check certain rumours which were circulating.'

  Jonas was calm again now, too calm, and the smile on his face looked as if an india-rubber could have wiped it away. He was looking at the other politely, his mind elsewhere; in actual fact he was listening to the crowing of a cock, which had just broken, strident and proud, into the noises from the street. At first it had surprised him so much that he had a feeling of unreality, of floating, until he recalled that just opposite the police station there was a man who dealt in birds and farmyard animals.