The Grand Banks Café

by Georges Simenon

  He gestured to receptacles full of blood, cotton-wool and disinfectant.

  ‘Believe me, it took a lot of damned hard work!’

  They were all in high good humour, surgeons, assistant-surgeons and theatre nurses. They had been brought a patient as near to death’s door as he could be, bloodstained, abdomen not only gaping but scorched too, with scraps of clothing embedded in his flesh.

  And now an ultra-clean body had just been carried out on a trolley. And the abdomen had been carefully stitched up.

  The rest would be for later. Maybe Le Clinche would regain consciousness, maybe not. The hospital did not even try to find out who he was.

  ‘Does he really have a chance of pulling through?’

  ‘Why not? We used to see worse than that during the War.’

  Maigret had phoned the Hôtel de la Plage at once, to set Marie Léonnec’s mind at rest. Now he set out to walk back by himself. The doors of the hospital closed behind him with the smooth sound of well-oiled hinges. It was dark. The street of small middle-class houses was deserted.

  He had only gone a few metres when a figure stepped away from the wall and the light of a street lamp illuminated the face of Adèle. In a mean voice she asked:

  ‘Is he dead?’

  She must have been waiting for hours. Her features were drawn, and the kiss-curls at her temples had lost their shape.

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Maigret in the same tone of voice.

  ‘Will he die?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

  ‘Do you think I did it on purpose?’

  ‘I don’t think anything.’

  ‘Because it’s not true!’

  The inspector continued on his way. She followed him and to do so she had to walk very quickly.

  ‘Basically, it was his own fault, you must see that.’

  Maigret pretended he wasn’t even listening. But she was stubborn and persisted:

  ‘You know very well what I mean. On board he nearly got to the point of asking me to marry him. Then once we’d docked …’

  She would not give up. She seemed driven by an overmastering need to talk.

  ‘If you think I’m a bad woman, it’s because you don’t know me. Only, there are times … Look, inspector, you’ve got to tell me the truth. I know what a bullet can do, especially in the belly from point-blank range. They performed a laparotomy on him, right?’

  She gave the impression that she was no stranger to hospitals, that she had heard how doctors talked and knew people who’d been shot more than once.

  ‘Was the operation a success? … I believe it depends on what the patient has been eating before …’

  Her distress was not acute. More a raw, stubborn refusal to take no for an answer.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say? But there, you know, don’t you, why I sounded off like that this afternoon. Gaston is a cheap crook. I never loved him. But the other one …’

  ‘He may live,’ said Maigret carefully, looking the girl straight in the eyes. ‘But if what happened on the Océan is not cleared up, it won’t do him much good.’

  He paused, expecting her to say something, to have a reaction. She dropped her eyes.

  ‘Of course, you think that I know everything … From the moment both men were my lovers … But I swear …! No, you don’t know what sort of man Captain Fallut was, so you’ll never understand … He was in love with me, it’s true. He used to come to Le Havre to see me. And falling, I mean really falling, for a woman at his age turned his brain … But that did not stop him being pernickety about everything, very controlled, very faddy about wanting everything just so … I still can’t work out why he ever agreed to let me hide on board … But what I do know is the minute we were out on the open sea he regretted it and because he regretted it he began to hate me … His character changed just like that.’

  ‘But the wireless operator hadn’t spotted you yet?’

  ‘No. That didn’t happen until the fourth night, like I told you …’

  ‘Are you quite sure that Fallut was already in a strange mood before then?’

  ‘Maybe not quite as strange. But afterwards there were days when it all got weird, and I wondered if he wasn’t actually mad.’

  ‘And you had no idea about what the reason for the change might have been?’

  ‘No. I thought about it. Sometimes I told myself there had to be some funny business going on between him and the wireless operator. I even thought they were involved in smuggling … Ah, you won’t ever get me to go anywhere near a fishing boat again! Can you believe that it went on for three months? And then for it to end like that! One is murdered as soon as he steps ashore and the other who … It is true, isn’t it, that he’s not dead?’

  They had reached the quays, and the young woman seemed reluctant to go any further.

  ‘Where is Gaston Buzier?’

  ‘Back at the hotel. He knows it’s not the moment to rub me up the wrong way, that I’d dump him if he says one word out of place.’

  ‘Are you going back to him now?’

  She gave a shrug, a gesture which signified: ‘Why not?’

  And then there was a glimpse of her flirtatious self. Just as she was taking her leave of Maigret, she murmured with an awkward smile:

  ‘Thank you so much, inspector. You’ve been ever so kind … I …’

  But she didn’t dare say the rest. It was an invitation. A promise.

  ‘All right, all right!’ he growled and walked on.

  He pushed open the door of the Grand Banks Café.

  Just as he reached for the latch, he clearly heard a hubbub coming from inside the bar, like a dozen men’s voices all talking at once. The moment the door opened, complete silence fell with brutal abruptness. Yet there were more than ten men there, in two or three groups, who must have been calling to each other from one table to the next.

  The landlord stepped forward to meet Maigret and shook his hand, though not without a certain unease of manner.

  ‘Is it true what they’re saying? That Le Clinche shot himself?’

  His customers toyed with their drinks in a show of indifference. Present were Louis, the black sailor, the chief mechanic from the trawler and a few others besides whom Maigret had finally got to know by sight.

  ‘Quite true,’ he said.

  He observed that the chief mechanic, looking suddenly very shifty, kept fidgeting on the oil-cloth of the bench seat.

  ‘Some voyage!’ muttered someone in a corner in a pronounced Norman accent.

  The words probably were a fair expression of the general opinion, for many heads dropped, a fist was brought down on a marble tabletop while one voice echoed the sentiment:

  ‘Yes! A voyage of the damned!’

  But Léon gave a cough to remind his customers to watch what they said and with a nod to them motioned towards a sailor in a red jerkin, who was drinking alone in a corner.

  Maigret sat down near the counter and ordered a brandy and soda.

  No one was talking now. Every man there was trying to look calm and unruffled. Léon, a practised master of ceremonies, called out to the group sitting around the largest table:

  ‘Want me to bring the dominoes?’

  It was a way of breaking the silence, of occupying hands. The black-backed dominoes were shuffled on the marble tabletop. The landlord sat down next to the inspector.

  ‘I shut them up,’ he said quietly, ‘because the fellow in the far corner, to your left, by the window, is the father of the boy … You know who I mean?’

  ‘What boy?’

  ‘The ship’s boy, Jean-Marie, the one who fell overboard on their third day out.’

  The man had his head on one side and was listening. If he hadn’t heard the words, he had certainly understood that they concerned him. He called to the serving girl to refill his glass and downed it in one, with a shudder of disgust.

  He was already drunk. He had bulging light-blue eyes which were now more sea-green. A quid of tobacco rais
ed a lump in his cheek.

  ‘Does he go out on the Grand Banks boats too?’

  ‘He used to. But now that he’s got seven kids, he goes out after herring in winter, because the periods away are shorter: a month to start with and then for increasingly shorter spells as the fish go south.’

  ‘And in summer?’

  ‘He fishes for himself, lays dragnets, lobster pots …’

  The man was sitting on the same bench-seat as Maigret, at the far end of it. But the inspector had a good view of him in a mirror.

  He was short, with wide shoulders. He was a typical northern sailor, squat, fleshy, with no neck, pink skin and fair hair. Like most fishermen, his hands were covered with scars of old ulcers.

  ‘Does he usually drink this much?’

  ‘They’re all hard drinkers. But he’s been really knocking it back since his boy died. Seeing the Océan again hit him hard.’

  The man was now staring at them, openly insolent.

  ‘What you after, then?’ he spluttered at Maigret.

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  All the mariners followed the scene without interrupting their game of dominoes.

  ‘Because you’d better out with it … A man’s not entitled to have a drink, is that it?’

  ‘Not at all!’

  ‘Go on, say it, say I’m not entitled to have a sup or two,’ he repeated with the obstinacy of a drunk.

  The inspector’s eye picked out the black armband he wore on one sleeve of his red jerkin.

  ‘So what you up to, then, sneaking around here, the pair of you, talking about me?’

  Léon shook his head, advising Maigret not to reply, and went over to his customer.

  ‘Easy now! Don’t go kicking up a fuss, Canut. The inspector’s not talking about you but about the lad who shot himself.’

  ‘Serve him right! Is he dead?’

  ‘No. Maybe they can save him.’

  ‘Too bad! I wish they’d all die!’

  The words had an immediate impact. All heads turned to stare at Canut, who felt the urge to shout it ever louder:

  ‘That’s right! The whole lot of you!’

  Léon was worried. He looked imploringly at everyone there, adding a gesture of helplessness in Maigret’s direction.

  ‘Go home. Go to bed. Your wife will be waiting up …’

  ‘Don’t give a damn!’

  ‘In the morning, you won’t feel like going out to clear your nets.’

  The drunk sniggered. Louis took the opportunity to call to Julie:

  ‘How much does it come to?’

  ‘Both rounds?’

  ‘Yes. Put it on the slate. Tomorrow I’ll get my advance pay before I sail.’

  He got to his feet. The Breton automatically followed his lead, as if he were his shadow. He tipped his cap. Then he did it again for Maigret’s particular benefit.

  ‘Bunch of chicken-hearts!’ muttered the drunk as the two men walked past him. ‘Cowards, the whole lot of them!’

  The Breton clenched his fists and was about to say something. But Louis dragged him away.

  ‘Go home to bed,’ Léon repeated. ‘Anyway, it’s closing time.’

  ‘I’ll go when everybody else goes. My money’s as good as the next man’s, right?’

  He looked around for Maigret. It was as if he was ready to start an argument.

  ‘It’s like the big fella there … What’s he trying to ferret out?’

  He was referring to the inspector. Léon was on tenterhooks. The last customers lingered, sure that something was about to happen.

  ‘Second thoughts, I think I’d rather go home. What do I owe you?’

  He fumbled beneath his jerkin and produced a leather wallet, threw a few greasy notes on the table, stood up, swayed and staggered to the door, which he had difficulty opening.

  He kept muttering indistinctly what might have been insults or threats. Once outside, he pressed his face to the window for a last look at Maigret, flattening his nose against the steamed-up glass.

  ‘It hit him real hard,’ sighed Léon, returning to his seat. ‘He had just the one son. All his other kids are girls. Which is to say they don’t count.’

  ‘What are they saying here?’ asked Maigret.

  ‘About the wireless operator? They don’t know anything. So they make things up. Fanciful tales …’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. They’re always on about the evil eye …’

  Maigret sensed that there was a keen eye watching him. It belonged to the chief mechanic, who was sitting at the table opposite.

  ‘Has your wife stopped being jealous?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘Given that we sail in the morning, I’d like to see her try to keep me stuck in Yport!’

  ‘Is the Océan leaving tomorrow?’

  ‘With the tide, yes. If you think the owners intend to let her fester in the harbour …’

  ‘Have they found a new captain?’

  ‘Some retired master or other who hasn’t been at sea for eight years. And on top of that, he was then skipper of a three-masted barque! It’ll be no fun!’

  ‘And the wireless operator?’

  ‘Some kid they’ve got straight out of college … Some big technical school, they said it was.’

  ‘And is the first mate coming back?’

  ‘They recalled him. Sent him a cable. He’ll be here in the morning.’

  ‘And the crew?’

  ‘The usual story. They take whatever’s hanging around the docks. It always works, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Have they found a ship’s boy?’

  The chief mechanic looked at him sharply.

  ‘Yes,’ he said curtly.

  ‘Glad to be off?’

  No reply. The chief mechanic ordered another grog. Léon, keeping his voice low, said:

  ‘We’ve just had news of the Pacific, which was due back this week. She’s a sister ship of the Océan. She sank in less than three minutes after splitting her seams on a rock. All hands lost. I’ve got the first mate’s wife staying upstairs. She came from Rouen to meet her husband. She spends every day down by the harbour mouth. She doesn’t know yet. The Company is waiting for confirmation before breaking the news.’

  ‘It’s the design of those boats,’ growled the chief mechanic, who had overheard.

  The black sailor yawned and rubbed his eyes but was not thinking of leaving just yet. The abandoned dominoes formed a complicated pattern on the grey rectangle of the tabletop.

  ‘So in a word,’ Maigret said slowly, ‘no one has any idea why the wireless operator tried to kill himself?’

  His words met with an obstinate silence. Did all the men there know why? Was this the freemasonry of seamen taken to an extreme, closing ranks against landlubbers who poked their noses into their business?

  ‘What do I owe you, Julie?’ asked Maigret.

  He stood up, paid, headed wearily to the door. Ten pairs of eyes followed him. He turned but saw only faces that were blank or resentful. Even Léon, for all his bar-keeper’s chumminess, stood shoulder to shoulder with his customers.

  It was low tide. All that could be seen of the trawler was the funnel and the derricks. The trucks had all gone. The quay was deserted.

  A fishing boat, with its white light swinging at the end of its mast, was slowly moving away towards the jetties, and the sound of two men talking could be heard.

  Maigret filled one last pipe, looked across the town and the towers of the Palais de la Bénédictine, at the foot of which were walls which were part of the hospital.

  The windows of the Grand Banks Café punctuated the quay with two rectangles of light.

  The sea was calm. There was a faint murmur of water lapping the shingle and the wooden piles of the jetties.

  The inspector stood on the edge of the quay. Thick hawsers, the ones holding the Océan fast, were coiled round bronze bollards.

  He leaned over. Men were battening down the hatches over the holds in
which salt had been stowed earlier that day. One of them was very young, younger than Le Clinche. He was wearing a suit and, leaning against the wireless room, was watching the sailors as they worked.

  It could only be the replacement for the wireless operator who not long since had put a bullet in his own belly. He was smoking a cigarette, taking shallow, nervous pulls on it.

  He’d come straight from Paris, fresh out of the National Technical School. He was apprehensive. Perhaps he dreamed of adventure.

  Maigret could not tear himself away. He was rooted there by a feeling that the mystery was close, within his grasp, that he had to make just one last effort.

  Suddenly, he turned, sensing a strange presence behind him. In the dark, he made out a red jerkin and a black armband.

  The man had not seen him, or at least was not paying him any attention. He was walking along the lip of the quayside, and it was a miracle that in the state he was in that he did not go over the edge.

  The inspector now had only a rear view of him. He had a feeling that the drunk, overcome by dizziness, was about to fall down on to the deck of the trawler.

  But no. He was talking to himself. He laughed derisively. He brandished a fist.

  Then he spat, once, twice, three times on the boat below. He spat to express his total and utter disgust.

  After which, doubtless having relieved his feelings, he wandered off, not in the direction of his house, which was in the fishermen’s quarter, but towards the lower end of town, where there was a bar still with its lights on.

  9. Two Men on Deck

  From the cliff side of the town came a silvery chime: it was the clock of the Palais de la Bénédictine, striking one.

  Maigret, his hands clasped behind him, was walking back to the Hôtel de la Plage. But the further he went the slower he walked until he finally came to a complete stop halfway along the quay.

  In front of him was his hotel, his room and his bed, a welcoming, comforting combination.

  Behind him … He turned his head. He saw the trawler’s funnel, from which smoke was gently rising, for the boilers had just been lit. Fécamp was asleep. There was a wide splash of moonlight in the middle of the harbour. The wind was rising, blowing in off the sea, raw and almost freezing, like the breath of the ocean itself.