The Little Man From Archangel

by Georges Simenon

  'The bookseller?'

  'Yes.'

  'I haven't heard anything about him this morning. But it doesn't concern me. Wait a second.'

  His voice came back, a little while later:

  'No one here knows anything about it. The superintendent's out to lunch, but Basquin, who's here, would have heard.'

  'His door's closed.'

  'So what?'

  'I don't know. No one's seen him this morning.'

  'I'd better put you on to the inspector. Hang on.' Another pause, and it was Basquin's voice: 'Jouve tells me Jonas hasn't been seen today?'

  'Yes. His shop's shut. There's nothing going on inside.'

  'Do you think he would have gone?'

  That was not what Fernand had in mind, but he preferred not to volunteer any opinion.

  'I don't know. It seems odd to me. He's a queer chap.'

  'I'll be right round.'

  When he arrived ten minutes later, several people emerged from the bar and walked over to Jonas' shop.

  The inspector knocked at the door, normally at first, then louder and louder, finally called out, looking up towards the open window on the first floor:

  'Monsieur Jonas!'

  Angèle, who had come up, had lost her habitual caustic wit. At Fernand's, Louis, who was gulping down two glasses of grappa one after the other, growled:

  'I'll bet he's gone to earth in some corner, like a rat.' He didn't believe it. He was blustering, uneasiness reflected in his red-rimmed eyes.

  'Is there a locksmith nearby?' asked Basquin, who had tried shaking the door in vain.

  'Old Deltour. He lives in . . .'

  Madame Chaigne interrupted the woman who was speaking.

  'It's not worth the trouble of forcing the door. You only have to get over the wall of the yard by climbing on a chair. Follow me, Inspector.'

  She led him through her shop, then through the kitchen where a stew was simmering, as far as the yard, which was littered with barrels and crates.

  'It's Jonas!' she called out as she passed her husband, who was hard of hearing. Then:

  'Look! A barrel will do even better than a chair.'

  She remained standing, in her white apron, her hands on her hips, watching the inspector hoisting himself onto the wall.

  'Can you get down the other side?'

  He did not reply at once, for he had just found the little man from Archangel hanging from the branch which grew out over the yard. The kitchen door was open with, on the wax tablecloth, a cup containing the remains of some coffee, and a blackbird crossed the doorstep, coming from inside the house, and flew off to the top of the lime-tree where it had its nest.

  'Golden Gate',

  Cannes.

  29 April, 1956.

  Table of Contents

  Title page

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX