Maigret Goes to School

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Old man Piedbœuf, from Gros-Chêne, came knocking at the door, and Monsieur Gastin went with him to the village hall after telling us to wait quietly.’

  ‘Does that often happen?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur. Rather often.’

  ‘Do you all wait quietly?’

  ‘Not all of us.’

  ‘Do you, personally, remain quiet?’

  ‘Most of the time.’

  ‘When had that happened before?’

  ‘Also on the day before, Monday, during the funeral. Someone came to get a paper signed.’

  ‘What did you do, Tuesday?’

  ‘At first I stayed in my seat.’

  ‘Did your classmates start misbehaving?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur. Most of them.’

  ‘What were they doing, exactly?’

  ‘They were pretending to fight, for laughs – throwing things at one another’s heads, erasers, pencils.’

  ‘After that?’

  If he sometimes hesitated before answering, it wasn’t from uneasiness, but like someone trying to find the right words.

  ‘I went to the window.’

  ‘Which window?’

  ‘The one through which you see the courtyards and kitchen gardens. That’s always the one I look out of.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s the one closest to my bench.’

  ‘It wasn’t because you’d just heard a shot that you went to that window?’

  ‘No, monsieur.’

  ‘If there had been a shot outside, you would have heard it?’

  ‘Maybe not. The others were making a lot of noise. And at the forge, they were busy shoeing a horse.’

  ‘Do you have a .22 rifle?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur. I took it to the village hall yesterday like the others did. They asked everyone who has a rifle to take it there.’

  ‘While the teacher was gone, you didn’t leave the classroom?’

  ‘No, monsieur.’

  Maigret was speaking in a calm, encouraging voice. Madame Sellier had discreetly gone to tidy the shop while her husband, glass in hand, was watching Marcel with satisfaction.

  ‘Did you see the teacher cross the yard?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur.’

  ‘Did you see him go to the tool shed?’

  ‘No, monsieur. He was coming back from it.’

  ‘You saw him coming out of the shed?’

  ‘I saw him shutting the door. Then he crossed the yard, and I whispered to the others, “Watch out!” Everyone returned to their seats. Me, too.’

  ‘Do you play a lot with your classmates?’

  ‘Not a lot, no.’

  ‘You don’t like to play?’

  ‘I’m too fat.’

  He blushed saying that, and glanced at his father as if in apology.

  ‘Don’t you have any friends?’

  ‘Mostly I have Joseph.’

  ‘Who is Joseph?’

  ‘The Rateaus’ son.’

  ‘The mayor’s son?’

  Now Julien Sellier spoke up.

  ‘We have many Rateaus in Saint-André and hereabouts,’ he explained, ‘almost all of them cousins. Joseph is the son of Marcellin Rateau, the butcher.’

  Maigret drank a swallow of wine and relit the pipe he had let go out.

  ‘Was Joseph near you, at the window?’

  ‘He wasn’t in school. For a month he’s had to stay home because of his accident.’

  ‘He’s the boy who was knocked down by a motorbike?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur.’

  ‘You were with him when that happened?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur.’

  ‘Do you go to see him often?’

  ‘Almost every day.’

  ‘Did you go there yesterday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The day before?’

  ‘Not then either.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of what happened. Everyone was busy with the crime.’

  ‘I suppose you would not have dared lie to the police lieutenant?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Are you pleased that the teacher is in prison?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Do you realize that he is there because of your statement?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘If you had not said that you’d seen him leaving the tool shed, he would probably not have been arrested.’

  Abashed, the boy said nothing, shifting from one leg to the other, glancing again at his father.

  ‘If you really did see him, you were right to tell the truth.’

  ‘I told the truth.’

  ‘Didn’t you like Léonie Birard?’

  ‘No, monsieur.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because, when I went by, she would shout nasty words at me.’

  ‘At you more than at the others?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘Because she’s angry at Mama for having married my father.’

  Maigret half-closed his eyes, looking for another question to ask, found none and decided to empty his glass. He stood up rather heavily, for he had already drunk a fair amount of white wine that morning.

  ‘Thank you, Marcel. If you had something further to tell me, if you were to remember a detail you had forgotten, for example, I would like you to come and see me right away. You’re not afraid of me?’

  ‘No, monsieur.’

  ‘Another?’ asked the father, reaching for the bottle.

  ‘No, thank you. I don’t want to keep you from your lunch any longer. Your son is a smart boy, Monsieur Sellier.’

  The tinsmith blushed with pleasure.

  ‘We’re raising him the best we can. I don’t think he often lies.’

  ‘On that point, when did he speak to you about the teacher going to the shed?’

  ‘Wednesday evening.’

  ‘He said nothing on Tuesday, when the whole village was talking about Léonie Birard’s death?’

  ‘No. I think he was intimidated. At dinner, on Wednesday, he seemed different and suddenly he said to me, “Papa, I think I saw something.” He told me about it and I went to repeat it to the police lieutenant.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Something was bothering him, he didn’t quite know what. Outside, he went first to the Bon Coin, where he saw the substitute teacher eating near the window while reading a book. He remembered that he had intended to call his wife, went on to the post office, which was in a different group of houses, and was served by a young woman of about twenty-five wearing a black smock.

  ‘Will it take a long time to get through to Paris?’

  ‘Not at this hour, Monsieur Maigret.’

  While waiting for his call, he watched her doing her accounts and wondered if she were married, if she would get married one day, if she would turn into someone like the old Birard woman.

  He spent about five minutes in the booth, and all that the young woman heard through the door was:

  ‘No, no oysters … Because there aren’t any … No … The weather is splendid … Not chilly at all …’

  He decided it was lunchtime. The teacher was still at Louis’ place, and Maigret found himself sitting at the table opposite his. The entire village already knew who he was. Although they were not greeting him, they followed him with their eyes in the street and, as soon as he had passed, began to talk about him. The teacher looked up from his book three or four times. As he was leaving, he seemed to hesitate. Perhaps he wanted to tell him something? It was unclear. In any case, when he went past, he gave Maigret a nod that could have been taken for an involuntary twitch.

  Thérèse was wearing a fresh white apron over her black dress. Louis was eating in the kitchen, where he could sometimes be heard, calling her. When he had finished, he came over to Maigret, his lips still greasy.

  ‘So, what did you think of it, that rabbit?’

  ‘It was excellent.’


  ‘A spot of brandy, to wash it down? On the house.’

  He had a protective way of looking at the inspector as if, without him, Maigret would have been lost in the jungle of Saint-André.

  ‘He’s quite a character!’ he rumbled as he sat down, spreading his knees to accommodate his belly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Théo. I don’t know anyone shrewder than he is. He’s always managed to enjoy life without lifting a finger.’

  ‘So you believe that no one else heard that gunshot?’

  ‘First off, out here in the country nobody pays any attention to a rifle going off. If it had been a shotgun, everyone would have noticed. Besides, those things don’t make much noise, and we’ve got so used to them now that all the kids have them …’

  ‘Théo was in his garden and supposedly didn’t see a thing?’

  ‘In his garden, or in his wine storeroom, because what he calls gardening is mostly going off to draw a glass from the barrel. Mind you, if he did see something, he probably won’t say anything.’

  ‘Even if he saw someone fire the shot?’

  ‘Especially then.’

  Pleased with himself, Louis was filling the little glasses.

  ‘I warned you that you wouldn’t understand a thing.’

  ‘Do you think that the teacher tried to kill the old woman?’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘No,’ said Maigret firmly.

  Louis looked at him, smiling as if to say: ‘Neither do I.’

  But he did not say it. Perhaps they were each feeling as sluggish as the other, after all they had eaten and drunk. They sat for a moment in silence, looking out at the square cut in two by the sun, the greenish windows of the cooperative, the stone portal of the church.

  ‘What’s the priest like?’ asked Maigret, just to say something.

  ‘He’s a priest.’

  ‘Is he on the teacher’s side?’

  ‘Against.’

  Maigret finally stood up, hesitated for a moment in the centre of the room, then took the lazy way out and headed for the stairs.

  ‘Wake me in an hour,’ he told Thérèse.

  He should not have been so informal with her. The men of the Police Judiciaire had the habit of treating women like her that way, and it did not escape Louis, who frowned. The green shutters of the room were closed; only thin shafts of sunlight came through. He did not undress, merely took off his jacket and shoes and stretched out on the bedspread.

  A little later, when he was just dozing, he thought he heard the rhythmic sound of the sea – was it possible? – then fell completely asleep, waking only at the knock on his door.

  ‘It’s been an hour, Monsieur Maigret. Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  He still felt heavy, groggy, unsure of exactly what he wanted to do. When he crossed the room downstairs, four men were playing cards, including Théo and Marcellin, the butcher, still in his work clothes.

  The inspector continued to sense that some detail was amiss, but could not tell which one. He’d first had that feeling during his questioning of the Sellier boy. At precisely which moment of their conversation?

  He began to walk, first towards Léonie Birard’s house, the key to which was in his pocket. He went inside, sat down in the front room and read all the letters he had seen there that morning. He found nothing important in them and simply became familiar with certain names: the Dubards, Cornus, Gillets, Rateaus, Boncœurs.

  Leaving the house, he intended to follow the road all the way to the sea but a little further along he saw the cemetery and turned in there, where he read on the gravestones more or less the same names he had found in the letters.

  He could have pieced together the history of these families, proving that the Rateaus had been allied with the Dubards for two generations and that a Cornu had married a Piedbœuf who died at the age of twenty-six.

  As he walked two or three hundred metres further along the road, the sea remained invisible; the meadows sloped gently upwards, while in the distance he saw only a glistening mist, which he gave up trying to reach.

  The villagers encountered him in the streets and alleys, his hands in his pockets, stopping sometimes for no reason to look at some façade or passer-by.

  Before going to the village hall, he could not resist having a white wine. The four men were still playing cards, and Louis, straddling a chair, was looking on.

  The front steps of the village hall were in the sun, and at the end of the corridor, out in the kitchen gardens, he could see the caps of the two policemen. No doubt they were still hunting for the cartridge case?

  The windows of the teacher’s house were closed. In the classroom, the children’s heads were all in rows.

  He found the lieutenant annotating in red pencil the official report of an interrogation.

  ‘Come in, sir. I’ve seen the examining magistrate. He questioned Gastin this morning.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Like a man who has just spent his first night in prison. He was worried that you might already have left.’

  ‘I suppose that he still denies everything?’

  ‘More than ever.’

  ‘Has he a theory of his own?’

  ‘He doesn’t believe that anyone tried to kill the postmistress. He thinks it was an act of harassment instead, which proved fatal. People often played mean tricks on her.’

  ‘On Léonie Birard?’

  ‘Yes. Not just the children, the adults as well. You know how it goes when villagers target someone they dislike. Whenever there was a dead cat, it would be tossed into her garden, if not through a window of her house. Two weeks ago, she found her door smeared with excrement. According to the teacher, someone shot at her to scare or infuriate her.’

  ‘And the shed?’

  ‘He continues to claim that he never set foot there on Tuesday.’

  ‘Did he do any gardening on Tuesday morning, before school?’

  ‘Not Tuesday, but Monday. He gets up at six every morning, that’s the only time he has a moment to himself. Did you see the Sellier boy? What do you think of him?’

  ‘He answered my questions without any hesitation.’

  ‘Mine, too, without once contradicting himself. I questioned his classmates, who all affirm that he did not leave the classroom after playtime. I assume that, if he were lying, someone would certainly have somehow given him away.’

  ‘I think so too. Do we know who inherits?’

  ‘We still haven’t found a will. Madame Sellier seems the likely heir.’

  ‘Have you determined what her husband was doing all Tuesday morning?’

  ‘He was busy in his workshop.’

  ‘Has anyone confirmed that?’

  ‘His wife, first of all. Then the blacksmith, Marchandon, who went to speak to him.’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘He isn’t exactly sure. Before eleven, he says. He claims they chatted for at least fifteen minutes. That doesn’t prove a thing, obviously.’

  He riffled through his papers.

  ‘All the more so in that young Sellier himself says that the forge was in use at the moment when the teacher left the classroom.’

  ‘So his father might therefore have gone out?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t forget that everyone knows him. He would have had to cross the square and go into the gardens. If he had gone by with a rifle, people would have noticed him all the more.’

  ‘But they might not mention it.’

  In short, nothing was certain. There was no solid foundation aside from two contradictory statements: the one from Marcel Sellier, who claimed to have seen from the school window the teacher leaving the tool shed, and the other from Gastin, who swore he had never set foot in it that day.

  These were recent events. The questioning of the villagers had begun by Tuesday evening and continued throughout Wednesday. Everyone’s memories were fresh.

  If the teacher had not fired the shot, what reason would he have to
lie? And above all, what reason did he have to kill Léonie Birard?

  Marcel Sellier had no more reason to invent the story about the shed, either.

  Théo, for his part, grumpily stated that he had heard a shot but seen nothing.

  Had he been in his kitchen garden? In his wine storeroom? There was no way to rely on the times mentioned by any of them because country people don’t pay much attention to the time, unless it’s time to eat. Maigret had no confidence either in accounts of this or that person passing by in the street at a particular moment. People used to seeing others ten times a day in the same familiar places no longer pay attention and can, in complete good faith, confuse one encounter with another, or affirm that something took place on Tuesday when it had happened on Monday.

  The wine was making him feel hot.

  ‘What time is the funeral?’

  ‘At nine. Everyone will be there. It isn’t every day you have the pleasure of burying the village shrew. Have you thought of something?’

  Maigret shook his head, drifted around the office, fiddled with the rifles, the cartridges.

  ‘You did tell me that the doctor isn’t sure about the time of death?’

  ‘He puts it between ten and eleven that morning.’

  ‘So that, without young Sellier’s testimony …’

  They always came back to that. And each time, Maigret had the same impression that he was narrowly missing the truth, that he had been on the verge, at one point, of discovering it.

  Léonie Birard did not interest him. What did he care whether someone had wanted to kill or simply frighten her, or whether it had been an accident that the bullet had entered her left eye?

  It was Gastin’s situation that fascinated him and, therefore, the Sellier boy’s statement as well.

  He went to the courtyard and was halfway across when the children were let out of school, emerging less boisterously than at playtime and heading for the exit in small groups. Brothers and sisters could be spotted; some bigger girls were holding smaller kids by the hand, and some children would have to cover more than two kilometres to get home.

  Only one boy greeted him, aside from Marcel Sellier, who politely removed his cap. The others went by eyeing him with curiosity.

  The teacher was in the doorway. Maigret went over, and the young man stepped aside for him, stammering:

  ‘Do you want to speak to me?’

  ‘Not particularly. Had you already come to Saint-André before?’