The Little Man From Archangel

by Georges Simenon

  By rising from his chair he could have seen the cages piled on top of one another on the pavement, hens, cocks and pedigree ducks underneath, then on top, parakeets, canaries and other birds, some bright red, others blue, whose names he did not know. To the right of the door, a parrot stood on its perch and passers-by were constantly amazed that it was not attached.

  In the Square a woman with a shrill voice, a costermonger, was calling on the world at large to buy her fine salads and the intervals in her monotonous cry were roughly regular, so that he ended up by waiting for it.

  'I went about it a bit brutally, perhaps, and I am sorry . . .'

  Jonas shook his head as if to say that all was well.

  Gina was frightened of him. The rest did not matter. He could stand up to anything now, and the superintendent had no need to approach the question in a roundabout way.

  'I will not conceal from you that there is another somewhat disturbing piece of evidence. On Wednesday, shortly before midnight, a woman was leaning out of her window, in the Rue du Canal, a quarter of a mile from where you live. She was waiting for her husband who, for reasons that need not concern us, had not returned home at the usual time. Anyway, she saw a rather small man, about your size, who was carrying a large sack on his shoulder, heading towards the lock and keeping close to the wall.'

  'Did she recognize me?'

  He was not angry, or indignant.

  'I did not say that, but clearly it is a coincidence.'

  'Do you think, Superintendent, that I would have had the strength to carry my wife from the Place du Vieux-Marché to the canal?'

  If Gina was very little bigger than he was, she was heavier and he was not a strong man.

  Monsieur Devaux bit his lips. Since Jonas had fainted, he was less at his ease and was minding how he went, without realizing that it was no longer necessary. Isn't there a moment when the intensity of pain brings on insensitivity? Jonas had passed that crisis and, while he listened to what was being said, he was concentrating on the noises from the street.

  It wasn't the same sound as in his quarter. The cars were more frequent, the pedestrians in more of a hurry. The light itself was different, and yet it was not ten minutes' walk from here to the Vieux-Marché.

  The cupboards, behind the superintendent, were made of mahogany like the desk, with green baize cloth stretched behind gold-coloured lattice work, and above, in a wooden frame, could be seen a photograph of the President of the Republic.

  'I thought of that objection, Monsieur Milk. But you are not unaware, if you read the papers, that this problem has often, alas, been overcome.'

  He did not understand straight away.

  'You cannot have failed to read or hear stories of dismembered bodies being found in rivers or waste land. Once again, I am not accusing you.'

  He was not being accused of cutting Gina into pieces and carrying them into the canal!

  'What we have to do now, unless your wife reappears or we find her, is to exculpate you from the affair, and therefore to study all the possibilities calmly.'

  He was replacing his spectacles in order to cast an eye over his notes.

  'Why, after her disappearance, were you in such a hurry to take your washing and hers to the laundry?'

  They knew his slightest acts, as if he had been living in a glass cage.

  'Because it was laundry day.'

  'Was it you who normally counted the washing and made up the parcel ?'

  'No.'

  No and yes. Which proved how difficult it is to express an absolute truth. It was among Gina's duties, as in other households, and Gina usually attended to it. Only she never knew which day of the week it was and sometimes Jonas reminded her, while she was doing their room:

  'Don't forget the laundry.'

  It was also a habit of theirs to put the pillow-case with it under the counter, so as not to hold up the van driver, who was always in a hurry.

  Gina lived in disorder. Indeed, had she not forgotten, before leaving, to wash the pan in which she had cooked the herrings? Jonas, who had lived alone a long time and had not always had a maid, had kept up the habit of thinking of everything and often, when Gina was away, of doing the chores she ought to have taken on.

  'Your wife has just disappeared, Monsieur Milk. You told me a short while ago that you were in love with her. Yet you took the trouble to devote yourself to a job which men do not normally do.'

  He could only repeat:

  'It was laundry day.'

  He felt that the other was examining him curiously. Basquin, too, had looked at him like that at certain moments, as a man who is trying to understand, but without success.

  'You were not trying to hide compromising traces?'

  'Traces of what?'

  'On the Friday or the Saturday, you also turned out your kitchen.'

  How often this had happened before Gina's day, when the maid was ill, and even after his marriage!

  'These are details of no significance individually, I agree, but which added together are nothing if not disturbing.'

  He nodded in agreement, a submissive schoolboy.

  'You have no idea what liaisons your wife may have formed of late?'

  'None.'

  'Has she been away more often than usual?'

  'No.'

  As always, in the morning, she would roam about the market, preferably in dressing-gown and slippers. In the afternoon she would probably dress, powder her face, put on scent and go and do her shopping in the town, or see one of her girl friends.

  'Hasn't she received any letters either?'

  'She never has had any letters at the house.'

  'Do you think she received them somewhere else, at the poste restante, for example?'

  'I don't know.'

  'What you must admit is curious, seeing that you are an intelligent man, is that she should have gone off without taking any clothes, not even a coat and, according to your own statement, almost without any money. She didn't take a bus, nor the train, we have confirmed that.'

  In the end he felt it better to mention the stamps. He was tired, he was in a hurry to get outside this office, and not have to listen to any more of these questions which had so little relation to reality.

  'My wife,' he said, smarting at being finally driven to it, and with a sense of betrayal, 'had premeditated her departure.'

  'How do you know, and why didn't you say so to Inspector Basquin?'

  'In the wardrobe with the looking-glass in our bedroom there is a box which used to contain my rarest stamps.'

  'Did she know about it?'

  'Yes.'

  'Are these stamps of any great value?'

  'Several million francs.'

  He wondered if he had been wise to speak, for the superintendent's reaction was not what he had expected. He was being looked at, not with incredulity, but with a hint of suspicion.

  'You mean that you possessed several million francs' worth of stamps?'

  'Yes. I began collecting them at school, when I was about thirteen, and I have never given it up.'

  'Who, apart from your wife, has seen these stamps you possess?'

  'Nobody.'

  'So that you cannot prove that they were in the cupboard?'

  He had become calm, patient, detached almost, as if it were no longer anything to do with Gina and himself, and that was perhaps because he was on professional ground.

  'I can prove, as far as most of them are concerned, that I acquired them at a particular moment, either by purchase or by exchange, some of them fifteen years ago, some two or three years ago. Philatelists form a fairly small circle. It is nearly always known where the rarer specimens are to be found.'

  'Excuse my interrupting you, Monsieur Milk. I know nothing about philately. I am trying, at present, to put myself in the position of a jury. You are saying that while still living in a manner which I would, with all due respect, describe as very modest, and I hope I don't offend you, you say that you had several millions'
worth of stamps and that your wife has taken them away with her. You go on to say that as far as most of them are concerned, you are able to establish that they came into your possession a number of years ago. Is that correct?'

  He nodded his head, listening to the cock, which was crowing once more, and the superintendent, exasperated, got up to close the window.

  'Do you mind?'

  'As you wish.'

  'The first question that will arise is whether, last Wednesday, these stamps were still in your possession, for there was nothing to stop you from reselling them a long time ago. It is possible for you to prove this was not so?'

  'No.

  'And can you prove that you have not still got them?'

  'They are no longer in the box.'

  'We are still in the realms of theory, aren't we? What was there to prevent you from having put them somewhere else?'

  'Why should I?'

  In order to incriminate Gina, that is what the superintendent was thinking. To make it seem that she had gone off taking his fortune with her.

  'Do you see now how difficult and delicate my task is? The inhabitants of your neighbourhood, for some reason unknown to me, seem to have a grudge against you.'

  'Up to these last few days, they have been very nice to me.'

  The superintendent was studying him closely and Jonas found the explanation in his eyes. He did not understand either. Human beings of all sorts had been in and out of his office and he was accustomed to the most unusual kinds of confidences. But Jonas baffled him, and he could see him pass from sympathy to irritation, amounting at times to aversion, only to start again and try to find a fresh point of contact.

  Had it not been the same with Basquin? Didn't that go to prove that he was not like other men? Would it have been different in the country where he was born, at Archangel, among the people of his own race?

  All his life he had sensed it, intuitively. Even at school he made himself inconspicuous, as if in order to be forgotten, and he had been uncomfortable when, against his will, he came top in his class.

  Hadn't they encouraged him to consider himself at home in the Vieux-Marché? Hadn't they suggested, at one moment, that he should join a shopkeeper's defence committee, and even become the treasurer? He had refused, feeling that it was not his place.

  It was not without good reason that he had shown such humility. He could only assume that he had not shown enough, since they were turning against him.

  'When did these stamps disappear, according to your story?'

  'Normally I keep the key to the box in my pocket, with the key to the front door and the one for the till.'

  He displayed the silver chain.

  'On Wednesday morning I dressed as soon as I got up, but the day before I went down in my pyjamas.'

  'So that your wife would have taken the stamps on the Tuesday morning?'

  'I presume so.'

  'Are they easy to sell?'

  'No.'

  'Well?'

  'She doesn't know it. As I told you, dealers know one another. When a rare specimen is brought to them, they usually make enquiries about its origin.'

  'Have you alerted your colleagues?'

  'No.'

  'For what reason?'

  He shrugged his shoulders. He was beginning to sweat, and missed the noises from the street.

  'So your wife went off without a coat, without luggage, but with a fortune she will not be able to realize. Is that right?'

  He nodded.

  'She left the Old Market on Wednesday evening, over a week ago now, and no one saw her go, no one saw her in the town, she didn't take the bus, nor the train: in short, she melted into thin air without leaving the slightest trace. Where, in your opinion, would she have the best chance of selling the stamps?'

  'In Paris, obviously, or in a big city like Lyons, Bordeaux, Marseilles. Abroad, too.'

  'Can you furnish me with a list of the stamp dealers in France?'

  'The principal ones, yes.'

  'I will send them a circular letter warning them. Now, Monsieur Milk . . .'

  The superintendent rose to his feet, hesitated, as if he had not yet discharged the most disagreeable part of his task.

  'It remains to me to ask your permission to instruct two of my men to accompany you and pay a visit to your house. I could obtain a search warrant but, at this stage of the affair, I prefer to keep matters on a less official footing.'

  Jonas had also risen to his feet. He had no reason for refusing since he had nothing to hide and since, in any case, he was not the stronger of the two.

  'Now?'

  'I should prefer it that way, yes.'

  To prevent him from covering up traces?

  It was at once laughable and tragic. All this had stained with an innocent little remark:

  ' She has gone to Bourges.'

  It was Le Bouc who, innocently too, had asked:

  'On the bus?'

  From there, little by little, there had grown ripples, then waves, which had invaded the market and finally reached as far as the police station, in the centre of the town.

  He was no longer Monsieur Jonas, the bookseller in the Square whom everybody greeted cheerfully. For the superintendent, and in the reports, he was Jonas Milk, born at Archangel, Russia, on the 21st of September, 1916, naturalized French on the 17th of May, 1938, exempted from military service, of Jewish origin, converted to Catholicism in 1954.

  There remained one more facet of the affair to be revealed, which he was far from expecting. They were standing up. The conversation, or rather the interrogation, seemed to be at an end. Monsieur Devaux was playing with his spectacles, which now and then caught a ray from the sun.

  'Anyway, Monsieur Milk, you have a simple way of establishing that these stamps were in your possession.'

  He looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  'They amount, you said, to a capital value of several million francs. They were bought from your income, and consequently, it must be possible to find, in your income tax returns, a record of the sum you invested. Naturally this does not concern me personally, and it falls in the province of the Direct Taxation authorities.'

  They would corner him there, too, he knew in advance. He wouldn't be able to get them to accept a perfectly simple truth. He had never bought a stamp for fifty thousand francs, or a hundred thousand, or three hundred thousand, even though he had possessed stamps of that value. He had discovered some by examining them with his magnifying glass, stamps whose rarity other people had failed to spot, and some of the others he had acquired by a series of exchanges.

  As the superintendent had said, he lived very modestly.

  What was the use of worrying about it, in the state he was already in? Only one thing counted. Gina was afraid of him. And, in the doorway of the office, he in his turn timidly asked a question.

  'She really said I would kill her one day?'

  'That is what emerges from the evidence.'

  'To several people?'

  'I can assure you so.'

  'She didn't say why?'

  Monsieur Devaux hesitated, reclosed the door, which he had just opened.

  'Do you insist on my replying?'

  'Yes.'

  'You will note that I made no allusion to it during the course of the conversation. Twice, at least, when talking about you, she declared:

  'He's vicious.'

  He turned scarlet. The was the last word he had been expecting.

  'Think about it, Monsieur Milk, and we will resume the discussion another day. For the present, Inspector Basquin will accompany you with one of his men.'

  The superintendent's statement did not shock him, and he finally felt he was beginning to understand. Often Gina had watched him stealthily when he was busy, and when he raised his head, she had seemed confused. The look on her face was similar then to certain of Basquin's and the superintendent's looks.

  All the same she lived with him. She saw him in all his behaviour, day and nigh
t.

  Despite this, she had not grown used to it, and he remained an enigma to her.

  She must have wondered, when she was still working with him as a maid, why he did not treat her as other men used to treat her, including Ancel. She was never over-dressed and there was a wanton freedom in her movements which might have been taken as a provocation.

  Had she thought him impotent, at that time, or did she attribute special tastes to him? Had she been the only one during the years, to think so?

  He could picture her, serious-faced, preoccupied, when he had spoken of marrying her. He could picture her undressing the first evening and calling to him as, fully dressed, he was pacing about the room without daring to look at her.

  'Aren't you going to undress?'

  It was almost as if she was expecting to discover something abnormal about him. The truth was that he was ashamed of his over-pink, plump body.

  She had turned down the bed, lain down with her knees apart, and watching him undress, as he was approaching awkwardly, she had exclaimed with a laugh, which in reality was perhaps just uneasiness:

  'Are you going to keep your glasses on?'

  He had taken them off. All the time he had lain upon her, he had felt that she was watching him, and she had not taken part, nor made any pretence at taking part in his pleasure.

  'You see!' she had said.

  What exactly did that mean? That, in spite of everything, he had got what he wanted? That, despite appearances, he was almost a normal man?

  'Shall we go to sleep?'

  'If you like.'

  'Good-night.'

  She had not kissed him and he had not dared to do so either. The superintendent forced him to reflect that in two years they had never kissed. He had tried twice or three times and she had turned her head away, not abruptly, with no apparent revulsion.

  Although they slept in the same bed, he approached her as seldom as possible, because she did not participate, and when, towards morning, he would hear her panting near to him, finally subsiding in the depths of the bed with a sigh that almost rent her in two, he used to keep his eyes closed and pretend to be asleep.