Maigret Goes to School

by Georges Simenon

  The three uniformed men standing near the exit did not move. Lieutenant Daniélou was still young, with thick eyebrows, a dark little moustache. Only when Maigret and his companion were a few metres away did he step forwards, holding out his hand with military formality.

  ‘It’s an honour, detective chief inspector.’

  Noticing that one of the sergeants was pulling a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, Maigret murmured to the lieutenant:

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’

  The lieutenant signalled to his subordinate. A few heads, not many, had turned in their direction. People were moving in a herd towards the exit, laden with their suitcases, walking diagonally across the waiting room.

  ‘I have no intention, lieutenant, of interfering with your case in any way. I hope you have understood me. I am not here in any official capacity.’

  ‘I know. The examining magistrate and I have discussed this.’

  ‘He is not displeased, I trust?’

  ‘On the contrary, he’s glad to have any help you might bring us. At present, we are obliged to take this man into custody.’

  One metre away, pretending not to listen, Joseph Gastin could not help overhearing them.

  ‘In any case, it’s in his own interest. He’ll be safer in prison than anywhere else. You’re not unfamiliar with how people behave in small towns and villages.’

  All this was a bit strained. Maigret himself was rather ill at ease.

  ‘Have you had dinner?’

  ‘On the train, yes.’

  ‘Are you planning on staying in La Rochelle tonight?’

  ‘I’m told there’s an inn at Saint-André.’

  ‘Will you allow me to invite you for a drink?’

  Maigret did not say yes, or no, so the lieutenant went to give instructions to his men, who walked over to the teacher. Having nothing to say to Gastin, the inspector simply looked at him solemnly.

  ‘You heard him,’ he seemed to apologize, ‘there’s no avoiding it. I’ll do my best.’

  Gastin looked back at him and, a few moments later, turned around for another glance before finally going out the door between the two officers.

  ‘We’d be best off in the station restaurant,’ murmured Daniélou. ‘Unless you’d prefer to come to my place?’

  ‘Not tonight.’

  A few travellers were eating in the poorly lit buffet.

  ‘What will you have?’

  ‘I don’t know. A brandy.’

  They sat down in a corner, at a table still set for a meal.

  ‘You’re not eating anything?’ asked the waitress.

  They shook their heads. Only after their drinks arrived did the lieutenant ask, in some embarrassment:

  ‘Do you believe he’s innocent?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Before we heard the schoolboy’s testimony, we could let him remain at liberty. Unfortunately for Gastin, that testimony is categorical, and the boy seems sincere, has no reason to lie.’

  ‘When did he speak up?’

  ‘This morning, when I questioned the entire class for the second time.’

  ‘He hadn’t said anything yesterday?’

  ‘He was scared. You’ll see him. If you want, when I go there tomorrow morning, I’ll give you the file. I spend most of my time at the village hall.’

  There was some lingering awkwardness. The lieutenant appeared intimidated by the inspector’s imposing form and reputation.

  ‘You’re used to the affairs and people of Paris. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the atmosphere of our little villages.’

  ‘I was born in a village. And you?’

  ‘Toulouse.’

  He managed a smile.

  ‘Would you like me to drive you over there?’

  ‘I think I’ll find a taxi.’

  ‘If you prefer. There are some in front of the station.’

  They separated at the door of the taxi, which drove off along the harbour road, and Maigret craned his neck to make out the fishing boats in the darkened port.

  He was disappointed to have arrived at night. When they turned away from the sea and left La Rochelle, it was to cross countryside that looked like any other, and two villages later the car was already stopping, in front of a lighted window.

  ‘This is it?’

  ‘You asked for the Bon Coin, right?’

  A very fat man came to look through the glass door panel and, without opening it, followed all Maigret’s movements as he took out his suitcase, set it down, paid the fare and finally headed towards the inn.

  Some men were playing cards off in a corner. The inn smelled of wine and stew, and smoke drifted around the two lamps.

  ‘Do you have a room available?’

  Everybody was looking at him. A woman came to observe him from the kitchen door.

  ‘For the night?’

  ‘Maybe for two or three nights.’

  He was studied from head to toe.

  ‘Have you got your identity card? The police come by every morning, and we must keep our register in order.’

  The four card players were no longer playing, but listening. Maigret held out his card at the counter covered with bottles, and the innkeeper put on his glasses to read it. When he looked up again, he winked slyly.

  ‘You’re the famous inspector, hey? I’m Paumelle, Louis Paumelle.’

  He turned towards the kitchen to call out:

  ‘Thérèse! Carry the inspector’s suitcase to the front room.’

  Without paying particular attention to the woman, who must have been about thirty, Maigret had the impression that he had seen her somewhere before, but the thought struck him only afterwards, as with the people he would glimpse when walking past Purgatory. The woman had appeared to give a little start, too.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Whatever you’ve got. A brandy, if you like.’

  The others, to keep up appearances, had gone back to their game of belote.

  ‘Are you here because of Léonie?’

  ‘Not officially.’

  ‘Is it true that they found the teacher in Paris?’

  ‘He’s now in the prison at La Rochelle.’

  It was hard to guess what Paumelle thought of this. Innkeeper though he was, he looked more like a peasant on his farm.

  ‘You don’t believe it was him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I suppose, if you had a mind he was guilty, you wouldn’t have gone to this trouble. Am I wrong?’

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  ‘Here’s to you! There’s a man here who heard the shot. Théo! Isn’t that right, you heard the shot?’

  One of the card players – sixty-five or perhaps older, unshaven, reddish hair flecked with white, evasive and malicious eyes – turned towards them.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I have heard it?’

  ‘It’s Inspector Maigret, who’s come from Paris to …’

  ‘The lieutenant told me about him.’

  He did not get up, made no greeting, held his soiled cards in fingers with black nails.

  ‘The deputy mayor,’ explained Paumelle quietly.

  Maigret replied, equally brief:

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Don’t mind him. At this hour …’

  He tossed back an imaginary drink.

  ‘And you, Ferdinand, what did you see?’

  The fellow called Ferdinand had only one arm. His face was that ruddy brown of a man who spends his days in the sun.

  ‘The postman,’ explained Louis. ‘Ferdinand Cornu. What did you see, Ferdinand?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘You saw Théo in his garden.’

  ‘I even brought him a letter.’

  ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘He was planting out onions.’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘It was exactly ten o’clock at the church. I could see the time on the bell-tower, up over the houses … Belote! Rebelote! N
ine trumps it … Ace of spades, king of diamonds, takes the lot …’

  He slammed his cards down on the table, covered in wet rings from their drinks, and looked defiantly at the other players.

  ‘And to hell with those who come looking to cause us trouble!’ he added, getting to his feet. ‘You’re on the hook, Théo.’

  His movements were clumsy, his gait wobbly. He went to claim his postman’s cap from a peg and headed for the door, grumbling under his breath.

  ‘Is he like that every evening?’

  ‘Just about.’

  Louis Paumelle was going to refill their two glasses when Maigret stayed his hand.

  ‘Not now … I assume you won’t be closing right away and I’ve time to go for a walk before bed?’

  ‘I’ll wait for you.’

  The room was dead silent as he left. Before him lay a public square that was neither square nor round, with the dark mass of the church to the right, while facing him was a shop, its lights out, over which he still managed to discern the words ‘Coopérative Charentaise’.

  There was a light in the grey stone house on the corner, on the third storey. Walking over to the three front steps, Maigret spied a brass plate, lit a match and read:

  Xavier Bresselles

  Doctor of Medicine

  At a loose end, not sure where to begin, he almost rang, then realized with a shrug that the doctor was probably getting ready for bed.

  Most of the houses were dark. He recognized the village hall, a single storey, from its flagpole. It was quite a small building, and in the courtyard, on the second storey of what was probably Gastin’s house, a lamp was glowing.

  He continued along the road, turned right, passed gardens and house fronts, and in a little while encountered the deputy mayor coming the other way. The man grunted by way of ‘Good evening’.

  Maigret could not hear the sea, could not see it anywhere. The sleeping village seemed like any other little country town and did not fit the image he had had of oysters and white wine on a terrace overlooking the water.

  He was disappointed, for no specific reason. The lieutenant’s welcome at the train station had already dampened his enthusiasm. He couldn’t hold it against Daniélou. The man knew the area, where he had probably been posted for years. A tragedy had occurred, which he had done his best to resolve, and then Maigret had arrived out of the blue from Paris, apparently convinced that he had things wrong.

  The examining magistrate was probably not happy, either. Neither man would dare show it: they would be polite, would let him see their files. But Maigret was still a nuisance, intruding into what was none of his business, and he began to wonder what had made him abruptly decide to make this trip.

  He heard steps, voices: probably the other two card players going home. Then, further along, a yellowish dog brushed past his legs, and Maigret jumped, startled.

  When he pushed open the door of the Bon Coin, only one lamp was still lit, and the innkeeper, behind his counter, was putting away glasses and bottles. He wore neither waistcoat nor jacket. His dark trousers hung low at his bulging belly, and his rolled-up sleeves revealed fat, hairy arms.

  ‘Found out anything?’

  He thought he was clever, probably considered himself the most important person in the village.

  ‘A nightcap?’

  ‘Provided it’s on me.’

  Ever since that morning Maigret had been longing for some local white wine, but, feeling it no longer suited the late hour, he had another brandy.

  ‘Here’s to you!’

  ‘I thought,’ murmured the inspector as he wiped his lips, ‘that Léonie Birard was not very popular.’

  ‘She was the worst shrew on earth. She’s dead. God keep her soul – or, rather, the devil – but she was without any doubt the nastiest woman I’ve known. And I knew her when she still had plaits down her back and we were in school together. She was … hold on … three years older than me. Right. I’m sixty-four. So she was sixty-seven. At twelve, she was already a horror.’

  ‘What I don’t understand …’ Maigret began.

  ‘There are lots of things you won’t understand, clever though you may be, let me warn you.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ continued Maigret, as if talking to himself, ‘why, when she was so hated, everyone is hounding the teacher. Because after all, even if he did kill her, you’d think that instead …’

  ‘Everyone would say, “Good riddance!” That’s what you think, isn’t it?’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘Only you’re forgetting that Léonie, well, she was from here.’

  He refilled the glasses without being asked.

  ‘It’s like in a family, you see. We’ve the right to hate one another among ourselves and we exercise it often. Let a stranger butt in, and that’s a whole different story. We hated Léonie. We hate Gastin and his wife even more.’

  ‘His wife as well?’

  ‘His wife most of all.’

  ‘Why? What did she do?’

  ‘Here, nothing.’

  ‘Why, “here”?’

  ‘In the end people find out everything, even in a back-of-beyond like ours. And we don’t like being sent people who aren’t wanted any more somewhere else. This isn’t the first time the Gastins have been mixed up in a drama.’

  It was interesting to watch him, leaning on his counter. He obviously wanted to talk but, with each sentence, he studied Maigret’s face to judge the effect produced, ready to backtrack, even contradict himself, like a peasant haggling over a pair of oxen at a fair.

  ‘In short, you arrived without knowing anything?’

  ‘Only that Léonie Birard was killed by a bullet in the left eye.’

  ‘And you came all this way!’

  He was making fun of Maigret, in his own way.

  ‘You weren’t curious enough to stop off at Courbevoie?’

  ‘Should I have?’

  ‘They’d have told you a fine story. It took some time to make it out here. It was only two years ago that the people of Saint-André heard the news.’

  ‘What news?’

  ‘The Gastin woman was a teacher, along with her husband. They worked in the same school, she on the girls’ side, he on the boys’.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Have you also heard about Chevassou?’

  ‘Who’s Chevassou?’

  ‘A town councillor over there, a handsome fellow, tall and strong, black hair, with a southern accent. There was also a Madame Chevassou. One fine day, when school was letting out, Madame Chevassou shot at Madame Gastin from the street, hit her in the shoulder. Can you guess why? Because she’d found out that her husband and the Gastin woman had been going at it like rabbits. It seems she was acquitted. After which, the Gastins had to leave Courbevoie. They found they had a taste for country life.’

  ‘I don’t see the connection to the death of Léonie Birard.’

  ‘Perhaps there isn’t any connection.’

  ‘From what you’ve told me, Joseph Gastin hasn’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘He’s a cuckold.’

  Louis was smiling, delighted with himself.

  ‘There are others, of course. Our village is full of them. Good luck! One last round?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Thérèse will show you your room. Tell her what time you’d like your hot water brought up.’

  ‘Thank you. Goodnight.’

  ‘Thérèse!’

  She went up the uneven steps of the staircase ahead of him, turned into a corridor with flowered wallpaper, opened a door.

  ‘Would you wake me at around eight o’clock,’ he said.

  She didn’t move, stood there looking at him as if she wanted to confide in him about something. He considered her more carefully.

  ‘I’ve met you before, haven’t I?’

  ‘Do you remember?’

  He didn’t admit that he recalled only vaguely.

  ‘I’d like you not to talk abo
ut it here.’

  ‘You’re not from these parts?’

  ‘Yes, I am, but I left at fifteen to work in Paris.’

  ‘Did you really work there?’

  ‘For four years.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘Since you saw me there, you know already. Inspector Priollet will tell you that I didn’t take the wallet. It was my pal Lucile, and I didn’t even know about it.’

  An image came to mind, and he realized where he’d seen her. One morning, as he often did, he had walked into the office of his colleague Priollet, superintendent of the Vice Squad. Sitting on a chair was a brunette with dishevelled hair, wiping her eyes and sniffling. There had been something in her pale, sickly face that had appealed to him.

  ‘What did she do?’ he had asked Priollet.

  ‘The usual story. A little servant girl who began picking up men on Boulevard Sébastopol. Day before yesterday, a shopkeeper from Béziers complained he’d been robbed and gave us a description that for once was fairly close. Last night we picked her up in a dance hall in Rue de Lappe.’

  ‘It wasn’t me!’ stammered the girl between two gasping sobs. ‘I swear to you, on my mother’s life, it’s not me who took the wallet.’

  The two men had winked at each other.

  ‘What do you think about this, Maigret?’

  ‘She’s never been arrested before?’

  ‘Not until now.’

  ‘Where is she from?’

  ‘Somewhere in Charente.’

  They often played a little scene of this sort.

  ‘Have you found her friend Lucile?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why don’t you send this one back to her village?’

  Priollet had turned solemnly to the girl.

  ‘Do you want to go home to your village?’

  ‘As long as they don’t know about this, back there.’

  It was strange to run into her again now, five or six years older, still pale, with big dark eyes that pleaded with the inspector.

  ‘Is Louis Paumelle married?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Widower.’

  ‘You share his bed?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Does he know what you were doing in Paris?’

  ‘No. He mustn’t find out. He always promises to marry me. He’s been promising for years and one of these days he’ll make up his mind.’

  ‘Thérèse!’ called the innkeeper from the bottom of the stairs.