The Grand Banks Café

by Georges Simenon

  He had liked the boy, more precisely the part of him that was distant, withdrawn.

  As he passed a shop, he ran into Louis, who was holding a pair of gumboots in his hand.

  ‘And where are you off to?’

  ‘To sell these. Do you want to buy them? It’s the best thing they make in Canada. I defy you to find anything as good in France. Two hundred francs …’

  Even so Louis seemed a touch jittery and was only waiting for the nod to be on his way.

  ‘Did you ever get the idea that Captain Fallut was crazy?’

  ‘You don’t see much down in a coal bunker, you know.’

  ‘But you do talk. So?’

  ‘There were weird stories going round, of course.’

  ‘What stories?’

  ‘All sorts! … Something and nothing! … It’s hard to put your finger on it. Especially when you’re back on dry land again.’

  He was still holding the boots in his hand, and the owner of the ship’s chandler’s shop who had seen him coming, was waiting for him in his doorway.

  ‘Do you need me any more?’

  ‘When did those stories start exactly?’

  ‘Oh, straight away. A ship is in good shape or it’s in poor shape. I tell you: the Océan was sick as a dog.’

  ‘Handling errors?’

  ‘And how! What can I say? Things that don’t make any sense, though they happen right enough! The fact is we had this feeling we’d never see port again … Look, is it true that I won’t be bothered again over that business with the wallet?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  The port was almost empty. In summer, all the boats are at sea off Newfoundland, except the smaller fishing vessels which go out after fresh fish in coastal waters. There was only the dark shape of the Océan to be seen in the harbour, and it was the Océan that filled the air with a strong smell of cod.

  Near the trucks was a man in leather gaiters. On his head was a cap with a silk tassel.

  ‘The boat’s owner?’ Maigret asked a passing customs man.

  ‘Yes. He’s head of French Cod.’

  The inspector introduced himself. The man looked at him suspiciously but without taking his eyes off the unloading operation.

  ‘What do you make of the murder of your captain?’

  ‘What do I think about it? I think that there’s 800 tons of cod that’s off, that if this nonsense goes on, the boat won’t be going out again for a second voyage, that it’s not the police who’ll sort out the mess or cover the losses!’

  ‘I assume you had every confidence in Captain Fallut?’

  ‘Yes. And?’

  ‘Do you think the wireless operator …?’

  ‘The wireless operator is neither here nor there: it’s a whole year down the chute! And that’s not counting the nets they came back with! Those nets cost two million francs, you know! Full of holes, as if someone has been having fun fishing up rocks! On top of which, the crew’s been going on about the evil eye! … Hoy, you there! What do you think you’re playing at? … God give me strength! Did I or did I not tell you to finish loading that truck first?’

  And he started running alongside the boat, swearing at all the hands.

  Maigret stayed a few moments more, watching the boat being unloaded. Then he moved off in the direction of the jetty, where there were groups of fishermen in pink canvas jerkins.

  He’d been there only a moment when a voice behind him said:

  ‘Hoy! Inspector!’

  It was Léon, the landlord of the Grand Banks Café, who was trying to catch him up by pumping his short legs as fast as he could.

  ‘Come and have a drink in the bar.’

  He was behaving mysteriously. It seemed promising. As they walked, he explained:

  ‘It’s all calmed down now. The boys who haven’t gone home to Brittany or the villages round about have just about spent all their money. I’ve only had a few mackerel men in all morning.’

  They walked across the quays and went into the café, which was empty except for the girl from behind the bar, who was wiping tables.

  ‘Half a mo’. What’ll you have? Aperitif? … It’s almost time for one … Not that, as I told you yesterday, I encourage the boys to drink too much … The opposite! … I mean, when they’ve had a drop or three, they start smashing the place up, and that costs me more than I make out of them … Julie! Pop into the kitchen and see if I’m there!’

  He gave the inspector a knowing wink.

  ‘Your very good health! … I saw you in the distance and since I had something to tell you …’

  He crossed the room to make sure the girl was not listening behind the door. And then, looking even more mysterious and pleased with himself, he took something out of his pocket, a piece of card about the size of a photo.

  ‘There! What do you make of that!’

  It was indeed a photo, a picture of a woman. But the face was completely hidden, scribbled all over in red ink. Someone had tried to obliterate the head, someone very angry. The pen had bitten into the paper. There were so many criss-crossed lines that not a single square millimetre had been left visible.

  On the other hand, below the head, the torso had not been touched. A pair of large breasts. A light-coloured silk dress, very tight and very low cut.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  More knowing winks.

  ‘Since there’s just the two of us, I can tell you … Le Clinche’s sea-chest doesn’t fasten properly, so he’d got into the habit of sliding his girlfriend’s letters under the cloth on his table.’

  ‘And you used to read them?’

  ‘They were of no interest to me … No, it was luck … When the place was searched, nobody thought of looking under the tablecloth. It came to me last night, and that’s what I found. Of course, you can’t see the face. But it’s obviously not the girlfriend, she isn’t stacked like that! Anyway, I’ve seen a photo of her. So there’s another woman lurking in the background.’

  Maigret stared at the photo. The line of the shoulders was inviting. The woman was probably younger than Marie Léonnec. And there was something extremely sensual about those breasts.

  But also something vulgar too. The dress looked shop-bought. Seduction on the cheap.

  ‘Is there any red ink in the house?’

  ‘No! Just green.’

  ‘Did Le Clinche never use red ink?’

  ‘No. He had his own ink, on account of having a fountain pen. Special ink. Blue-black.’

  Maigret stood up and made for the door.

  ‘Do you mind excusing …?’

  Moments later he was on board the Océan, searching first the wireless operator’s cabin and then the captain’s, which was dirty and full of clutter.

  There was no red ink anywhere on the trawler. None of the fishermen had ever seen any there.

  When he left the boat, Maigret came in for sour looks from the man in gaiters, who was still bawling at his men.

  ‘Do you use red ink in any of your offices?’

  ‘Red ink? What for? We’re not running a school …’

  But suddenly, as if he’d just remembered something:

  ‘Fallut was the only one who ever wrote in red ink, when he was working at home, in Rue d’Étretat. But what’s all this about now? … You down there, watch out for that truck! All we need now is an accident! … So what are you after now with your red ink?’

  ‘Nothing … Much obliged.’

  Louis reappeared bootless and a few sheets to the wind, with a roughneck’s cap on his head and a pair of scuffed shoes on his feet.

  3. The Headless Photograph

  … and that no one could tell me to my face and that I’ve got savings, which are at least the equivalent of a captain’s pay.

  Maigret left Madame Bernard standing on the doorstep of her small house in Rue d’Étretat. She was about fifty, very well preserved, and she had just spoken for a full half-hour about her first husband, about being a widow, about the captain
, whom she had taken as her lodger, about the rumours which had circulated about their relationship and, finally, about an unnamed female who was beyond a shadow of a doubt a ‘loose woman’.

  The inspector had looked round the whole house, which was well kept but full of objects in rather bad taste. Captain Fallut’s room was still as it had been arranged in readiness for his return.

  Few personal possessions: some clothes in a trunk, a handful of books, mostly adventure yarns, and pictures of boats.

  All redolent of an uneventful, unremarkable life.

  ‘… It was understood though not finally settled, but we both knew that we would eventually get married. I would bring the house, furniture and bed linen. Nothing would have changed, and we would have been comfortably off, especially in three or four years’ time, after he got his pension.’

  Visible through the windows were the grocer’s opposite, the road that ran down the hill and the pavement, where children were playing.

  ‘And then this last winter he met that woman, and everything was turned upside down. At his age! How can a man lose his head over a creature like that? And he kept it all very secret. He must have been going to see her in Le Havre or somewhere, for no one here ever saw them together. I had a feeling that something was going on. He started buying more expensive underwear. And once, even a pair of silk socks! As there wasn’t anything definite between us, it was none of my business, and I didn’t want to look as if I was trying to defend my interests.’

  The interview with Madame Bernard cast light on one whole area of the dead man’s life. The small, middle-aged man who returned to port after a long tour on a trawler and spent his winters living like an upstanding citizen, with Madame Bernard, who looked after him and expected to marry him.

  He ate with her, in her dining room, under a portrait of her first husband, who sported a blond moustache. Afterwards, he would go to his room and settle down with an exciting book.

  And then that peace was shattered. Another woman burst on to the scene. Captain Fallut went to Le Havre frequently, took more care of his appearance, shaved more closely, even bought silk socks and hid it all from his landlady.

  Still, he wasn’t married, he had made no promises. He was free and yet he had never appeared once in public in Fécamp with his unknown woman.

  Was it the grand passion, his belated big adventure? Or just a sordid affair?

  Maigret reached the beach, saw his wife sitting in a red-striped deckchair and, just by her, Marie Léonnec, who was sewing.

  There were a few bathers on the shingle, which gleamed white in the sun. A drowsy sea. And further on, on the other side of the jetty, the Océan at her berth, and the cargo of cod that was still being unloaded, and the resentful sailors exchanging veiled comments.

  He kissed Madame Maigret on the forehead. He nodded politely to the girl and replied to her questioning look:

  ‘Nothing special.’

  His wife said in a level voice:

  ‘Mademoiselle Léonnec has been telling me her story. Do you think that her young man is capable of doing such a thing?’

  They walked slowly towards the hotel. Maigret carried both deckchairs. They were about to sit down to lunch when a uniformed policeman arrived, looking for the inspector.

  ‘I was told to show you this, sir. It came an hour ago.’

  And he held out a brown envelope, which had been already opened. There was no address on it. Inside was a sheet of paper. On it, in a tiny, thin, cramped hand, was written:

  No one should be accused of bringing about my death, and no attempt should be made to understand my action.

  These are my last wishes. I leave all my worldly goods to Madame Bernard, who has always been kind to me, on the condition that she sends my gold chronometer to my nephew, who is known to her, and that she sees to it that I am buried in Fécamp cemetery, near my mother.

  Maigret opened his eyes wide.

  ‘It’s signed Octave Fallut!’ he said in a whisper. ‘How did this letter get to the police station?’

  ‘Nobody knows, sir. It was in the letterbox. It seems that it’s his handwriting right enough. The chief inspector informed the public prosecutor’s department immediately.’

  ‘Despite the fact that he was strangled! And that it is impossible to strangle yourself!’ muttered Maigret.

  Close by, guests who had ordered the set menu were complaining loudly about some pink radishes in a hors d’oeuvres dish.

  ‘Wait a moment while I copy this letter. I imagine you have to take it back with you?’

  ‘I wasn’t given any special instructions but I suppose so.’

  ‘Quite right. It must be put in the file.’

  A moment or two later, Maigret, holding the copy in his hand, looked impatiently round the dining room, where he was about to waste an hour waiting for each course to arrive. All this time, Marie Léonnec had not taken her eyes off him but had not dared interrupt his grim reflections. Only Madame Maigret reacted, with a sigh, at the sight of pale cutlets.

  ‘We’d have been better off going to Alsace.’

  Maigret stood up before the dessert arrived and wiped his mouth, eager to get back to the trawler, the harbour, the fishermen. All the way there, he kept muttering:

  ‘Fallut knew he was going to die! But did he know he would be killed? Was he trying in advance to save his killer’s neck? Or was it just that he intended to commit suicide? Then again, who dropped the brown envelope in the station’s postbox? There was no stamp on it, no address.’

  The news had already got out, for when Maigret had nearly reached the trawler, the head of French Cod called out to him with aggressive sarcasm:

  ‘So, it seems Fallut strangled himself! Who came up with that bright idea?’

  ‘If you’ve got something to say, you can tell me which of the Océan’s officers are still on board.’

  ‘None of them. The first mate has gone on the spree to Paris. The chief mechanic is at home, at Yport and won’t be back until they’ve finished unloading.’

  Maigret again looked round the captain’s quarters. A narrow cabin. A bed with a dirty quilt over it. A clothes press built into the bulkhead. A blue enamel coffee-pot on an oilcloth-covered table. In a corner, a pair of boots with wooden soles.

  It was dark and clammy and permeated with the same acrid smell which filled the rest of the ship. Blue-striped knitted pullovers were drying on deck. Maigret nearly lost his footing as he walked across the gangway, which was slippery with the remains of fish.

  ‘Find anything?’

  The inspector gave a shrug, took yet another gloomy look at the Océan, then asked a customs officer how he could get to Yport.

  Yport is a village built under the cliffs six kilometres from Fécamp. A handful of fishermen’s cottages. The odd farm round about. A few villas, most let furnished during the summer season, and one hotel.

  On the beach, another collection of bathing costumes, small children and mothers busily knitting and embroidering.

  ‘Could you tell me where Monsieur Laberge lives?’

  ‘The chief mechanic on the Océan or the farmer?’

  ‘The mechanic.’

  He was directed to a small house with a small garden round it. As he came up to the front door, which was painted green, he heard the sound of an argument coming from inside. Two voices: a man’s and a woman’s. But he could not make out what they were saying. He knocked.

  It all went quiet. Footsteps approached. The door opened and a tall, rangy man appeared looking suspicious and cross.

  ‘What is it?’

  A woman in housekeeping clothes was quickly tidying her dishevelled hair.

  ‘I’m from the Police Judiciaire and I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  A little boy was crying, and his father pushed him roughly into the adjoining room, in which Maigret caught sight of the foot of a bed.

  ‘You can leave us to it!’ Laberge snapped at
his wife.

  Her eyes were red with crying too. The argument must have started in the middle of their meal, for their plates were still half full.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘When did you last go to Fécamp?’

  ‘This morning. I went on my bike. It’s no fun having to listen to the wife going on all day. You spend months at sea, working your guts out, and when you get back …’

  He was still angry. However, his breath smelled strongly of alcohol.

  ‘Women! They’re all the same! Jealous don’t say the half of it! They imagine a man’s got nothing else on his mind except running after skirts. Listen to her! That’s her giving the kid a hiding, taking it out on him!’

  The child could be heard yelling in the next room, and the mother’s voice getting louder.

  ‘Stop that row, you hear! … Just stop it!’

  Judging by the sounds, the words were accompanied by slaps and thumps, for the crying started up again, with interest.

  ‘Ah! What a life!’

  ‘Had Captain Fallut told you he was worried about anything in particular?’

  Laberge scowled at Maigret, then moved his chair.

  ‘Who made you think he had?’

  ‘You’d been sailing with him for a long time, hadn’t you?’

  ‘Five years.’

  ‘On board you took your meals together.’

  ‘Except this last time! He got the idea that he wanted to eat alone, in his cabin … But I’d rather not talk any more about that damned trip!’

  ‘Where were you when the crime was committed?’

  ‘In the café, with the others … They must have told you.’

  ‘Do you think the wireless operator had any reason for attacking the captain?’

  Suddenly, Laberge lost his temper.

  ‘Where are all these questions leading? What do you want me to say? Look, it wasn’t my job to keep everybody in order, was it? I’m fed up to the back teeth, fed up with this business and all the rest of it! So fed up that I’m wondering if I’m going to sign up for the next tour!’