The Man Who Watched the Trains Go By

by Georges Simenon

  He laughed to himself, without knowing why. It was hilarious wasn’t it, this family drama ending with a gunshot – or rather perhaps with a wedding. Since Popinga was not sure that ‘Germaine H—’ had not set it all up on purpose.

  The next thing was to find out whether Julius de Coster the Younger had replied to his notice, that is if he had not forgotten to read the Morning Post every day. Popinga took the bus, since he had to cross Paris to reach Bureau 42, Rue de Berri. He marched up to the counter for poste restante and showed his two envelopes addressed to M. Smitson.

  Without making any difficulty, the clerk went to look under ‘S’ and passed him an envelope with a typewritten address.

  He retreated into a corner to open it. It felt thick. He brought out four one-pound notes, then a sheet of paper with a few lines, also typed:

  Sorry I can’t send you any more, but the beginning is always the hardest bit and this is all I had on me. Keep me posted and if necessary I’ll try my best.

  J.

  And that was all! It was as if Julius de Coster was not even astonished at what Popinga had been up to. It was as if nobody was the slightest bit surprised, and the only word they could find to describe him meant nothing:

  Paranoiac.

  It was true that Mama had come up with another word: amnesia.

  10.

  In which Kees Popinga changes his shirt, while the police and chance, failing to play by the rules, combine in a conspiracy of spitefulness

  He was not discouraged, no. That would have been too pleasing to those gentlemen. But he could not help, when he bought a newspaper, or saw the billboards outside the kiosks, giving a bitter smile.

  Nobody realized what he was up against, alone, facing everyone else, bravely playing the game, nor did they take account of the fact that certain details of everyday life made things very complicated for someone in his shoes.

  So the first time he changed his shirt – in the washroom of a café, a place that held an important position in his wandering life – he had come out of the lavatory with the dirty shirt in one hand, and had then dropped it into an outdoor urinal on the street.

  And then what had happened? – he had almost been caught! A policeman had seen the garment fall and, as Kees was walking away, had gone inside the street convenience, so that Kees had had to take to his heels!

  Now that, for the second time, he was putting on a clean shirt, he preferred to throw the old one into the Seine, but it was more complicated than one might think to find somewhere to carry out this task without being seen. Always, at the last moment, he would glimpse an angler, a tramp, a pair of lovers, or a lady walking her dog.

  And who would ever suspect these difficulties of everyday life? Not the newspapers, at any rate! He had provided them not only with a topic, but with plenty of free copy. And in spite of that, none of them had expressed the slightest sympathy towards him.

  He was not asking that people should publicly take his side. Nor for two columns on the front page every day. But he knew what he meant. There is a way of presenting events of this kind so as to render the hero of them appealing or repellent. And in France, individuals caught up in mysteries or crimes are almost always presented with some sympathy.

  So why was it different for him? Was this some plan on the part of Chief Inspector Lucas?

  He had not stolen anything from anyone – that ought to reassure the bourgeoisie. And if Pamela was dead, well, he had not meant to kill her. And both times, he had attacked only women of a certain background, which should be enough to dispel any fears on the part of respectable wives.

  Landru, the serial killer, who was ugly to boot, had had half the newspaper-reading public on his side!

  Why? And why was there this unacknowledged hostility from the press – that is, when it was not blanking out any new developments, merely printing uninteresting pieces of information such as:

  Dr Linze, whose opinion on the Dutchman’s case we had hoped to report, has informed us that despite his wish to help, he does not feel qualified, simply on the basis of a single letter, to advance a diagnosis concerning such a serious affair.

  And this was what it had come to! Trivial disputes, marginal to his life, or to his freedom. The very next day, Professor Abram, feeling that he was the target of this comment by his colleague, wrote pompously to the paper to protest:

  Words have been placed in my mouth about an affair which is in any case of little importance. It is true that in the course of conversation, I may have indicated that I considered Kees Popinga to be a paranoiac of the banal kind, but at no time was I putting forward this off-the-cuff opinion as a diagnosis.

  So even the psychiatrists seemed to be losing interest in him! Even Saladin, the journalist who had written the best articles about him at first, was now simply publishing press releases without comment. Kees did not know the man. He had no idea whether he was young or old, cheerful or gloomy, and yet the journalist’s silence gave him a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  What interest could there be in printing paragraphs of this kind, dry as dust:

  The experts who have studied the accounts of the firm of Julius de Coster, working over the Christmas holiday, have made a preliminary report, declaring that their inquiries will require several more weeks. It seems indeed that this affair is much more considerable than first appeared, not only because of a spectacular bankruptcy, but because of a string of embezzlements committed under cover of an honourable façade.

  In another development, the Wilhelmine Canal has been dragged for the last few days. The body of Julius de Coster has not been found, and it does not seem possible that he was carried away by a boat.

  The prevailing opinion is that this is a case of fake suicide, and that the businessman has escaped abroad.

  But what was that to Popinga? Then, on the other hand, they seemed to delight in publishing brief reports like the following:

  Chief Inspector Lucas went to Lyon yesterday, admitting that this was in connection with an investigation, but refusing to say whether it was the Popinga case, or whether on the contrary this concerned drug traffickers, several of whom are already in custody.

  Why Lyon? And why did they keep harping on about some drug-dealing that was of no interest to anyone? Why did it seem as if a hidden mastermind was taking care to lay false trails?

  The mastermind could only be Chief Inspector Lucas. It must be he who, one way or another, was preventing the journalists from doing the investigative reporting they usually carried out.

  Because as a rule, every newspaper would pursue its own little inquiry, they would each have their theory, some kind of lead, they would ask questions and inform their readers of what they had learned.

  But as of now, nobody had thought of interviewing Jeanne Rozier. There wasn’t a word about her state of health! It was impossible to find out whether she had recovered, and whether she was back working at Picratt’s. Nor was there anything about Louis, no report of his trip to Marseille or his return.

  Didn’t it seem as though they were pursuing a petty vendetta? And how credible was it that nobody had gone to the police to declare they had met Popinga! Because if they had, why was it being kept quiet?

  In order to drive him into a corner, that must be it. He knew what they were up to! He shrugged and sighed scornfully, feeling that they wanted to isolate him in a kind of vacuum.

  All the same, he took care over his behaviour. When he was walking in the street, he avoided looking at passers-by with a quizzical or ironic air. He avoided prostitutes, preferring to sleep badly or stay awake half the night, sometimes suffering from palpitations.

  He had just had a new experience. Chance had taken him to the Javel neighbourhood, and to a very down-at-heel hotel. He had thought it would be wise to change the type of place he stayed in. That was a mistake. He was wearing the wrong kind of clothes to be staying the night in one of these poor doss-houses, and he had noticed that the people there had stared at him in
surprise.

  So, keep away from the extremes, aim not too high, and not too low. And now he had just twelve hundred francs left and sometime soon, he would have to get hold of some more money. He was starting to think about that. There was still time, but it was best to have a plan in mind.

  The night at Javel had been that of 7 to 8 January, and Popinga, after throwing his latest used shirt into the Seine, decided to change district before reading the papers. It was raining. For other people, a minor inconvenience. For him, since he had to spend much of the day walking the streets and had no spare clothes, it assumed great importance, and it was as if nature had joined the conspiracy of spite against him.

  Still, if spite was to be his lot!

  It was near the Madeleine, in a comfortable brasserie, that he almost burst out into angry laughter as he read, in the newspaper where Saladin was a reporter:

  Police release car thief.

  The worst of it was that for some days now, he had been expecting something of the kind. He had not been wrong in thinking there was a catch in all this somewhere. As for imagining . . .

  . . . Yesterday at five p.m. we happened to be present outside the Police Judiciaire when one of the car thieves arrested last week was released.

  As this man, known as Louis, emerged from Chief Inspector Lucas’s office, we tried to obtain some information from an official source, but we met a wall of resolute silence.

  We can therefore only communicate the results of our personal inquiries and put forward some suggestions.

  First of all, no press release was issued when, on the night of 1 to 2 January, Chief Inspector Lucas, who normally does not handle this kind of case, supervised in person the arrest of a gang of car thieves.

  Why was it kept so quiet? And why, since then, has nothing been heard about this affair, when four men and one woman have been held in custody?

  We believe we can answer these questions, because we know the identity of the leader of the so-called ‘Juvisy gang’ – it was in that suburb that stolen cars were disguised overnight before being sold off in the provinces.

  And the leader of the gang is none other than this same Louis, a former drug dealer, and the lover of Jeanne Rozier.

  We have not forgotten that she . . .

  Kees Popinga could have written the rest of the article himself, better than his friend Saladin. Never had his smile held so much scorn for the newspapers, for Lucas and indeed the whole human race.

  Now we can see why Chief Inspector Lucas intervened personally in the Juvisy affair. The gang was all arrested, including a certain Rose, former chambermaid in a house of ill repute and sister of the garage-owner Charlie Goin, and all these individuals were being held for prolonged questioning without the press being kept informed.

  If Louis has now been released, are we to believe that this is because he has established his innocence? We do not think so. And we confess that, for want of any official word from Quai des Orfèvres, we have proceeded to question a number of persons in the milieu who are acquainted with Louis and this kind of affair.

  If Louis has been released, they told us, that’s because he’s going to do someone a favour, mark our words.

  As if to confirm this opinion, last night Louis was observed calling in at several bars in Paris and issuing mysterious instructions to his friends.

  Let us simply say, not to anticipate too far, that it appears that Kees Popinga, the attacker of Jeanne Rozier, is being hunted not only by the police, but by the entire criminal underworld, which has turned against him.

  Which can only mean, we think, that an arrest is imminent. Unless by some accident . . .

  This time, looking at himself in the mirror across the room, Popinga became aware that his face was pale and his lips unable to shape a smile, even a sarcastic one.

  Events had confirmed his fears, and without Saladin, whom he now disliked much less, he would not have known a thing! He would have continued to come and go, without suspecting the web being woven round him.

  It was after all very simple! The Juvisy stakeout had been successful and the gang had been arrested, but Lucas, instead of proclaiming this from the rooftops, had fobbed the press off with references to morphine and heroin.

  He must have shown Louis the letter Popinga had written, denouncing everyone. And he had not hesitated, it was now clear, to offer him a shameful deal.

  Yes, that was what had happened. The police were doing deals with Louis. They had let him go, in order that he could finish Popinga off. In other words, the police had been unable to catch him unaided!

  And now Kees was filled not only with scorn, and bitterness, but a deep and profound disgust. He asked for some paper, took out his fountain-pen, but as he prepared to write, he shrugged his shoulders with weariness. Who could he write to? Saladin? Just to confirm what he said in his article? To Lucas, to congratulate him ironically? To whom, then? And what was the use?

  Because Louis had joined the chase, they now thought it was all but over and were boasting of victory. What would happen? All the streetwalkers in Paris, all the tramps, all the proprietors of suspect bars and shoddy hotels would have their eyes open and would be ready and waiting to alert the police.

  The police might not ever have clapped eyes on Kees, but Louis knew very well what he looked like.

  ‘Waiter! My bill, please.’

  He paid for his drink, but did not leave his table. He did not quite know why. He suddenly felt all the accumulated fatigue of his hours of walking through Paris. He stayed sitting on the long moleskin seat, vaguely looking out at the streets where umbrellas were bobbing past.

  The truth was that a car thief, a convicted criminal, who lived on the proceeds of prostitution, was being given preference over him. Because that was the long and short of it. Nobody could deny it. And no doubt if Louis was successful, the authorities would close their eyes to the doings of the Juvisy gang!

  ‘Waiter!’

  He was thirsty. Too bad. He needed to think, and a glass of something alcoholic would help.

  Basically, after the incident with Jeanne Rozier, he had been wrong to stop. Oh, he was clear-headed about it. He was beginning to understand the way public opinion operated. It would have been better if next day they had been able to read in the papers:

  Killer strikes again! Kees Popinga attacks a young woman in a train . . .

  And so on, something new every day, to keep the public breathless with interest and to become a legend.

  Would anyone have cared a fig about Landru’s fate if he had killed only one or two women?

  And perhaps he had been wrong to write what he really thought, instead of lying. What if, for instance, he had led them to believe that in Groningen, where he had passed for a model citizen, he had already been carrying out secret attacks?

  He re-read Saladin’s article, which confirmed him in his view: the central focus of this story was no longer Popinga; it was already Louis who was becoming the leading character.

  By tomorrow, Jeanne’s lover would have been transformed into a folk hero. The public would become enthralled in this manhunt through the Paris underworld, led by a common criminal with the tacit consent of the police!

  Discouraged, no, he did not want to admit to that, and he would not allow himself at any price to lose heart. He had a perfect right to feel tired and to react to the injustice of which he was the victim. How many people were after him now? Hundreds? Thousands?

  Which did not prevent him drinking his glass of brandy and gazing out dispassionately at the rain falling. Let them look! Let them scrutinize every passer-by. A man alone is always stronger than the crowd, if he can only maintain a cool head. And Popinga would keep his.

  He had been wrong in one respect: he ought to have considered everyone his enemy right from the start. Since he had not done so, nobody had taken him seriously. They had not been frightened of him. They had regarded him almost as a grotesque figure of fun.

  A paranoiac!

 
Well, so what? Did that prove anything? Did it stop him taunting the whole of Paris, as he sat in the warmth of a brasserie in front of his second brandy? Would that prevent him doing what he wanted to, something he would decide on, this very day, something enormous, something that would make them all quake in their shoes, the lot of them, including the car thieves, the good-time girls and Louis’ thugs.

  He didn’t yet know what. There was still time. Better not to rush into it, wait for inspiration and go on watching the people walk past in the street like a stupid flock of sheep. Some of them were even running, as if that would do them any good. And over there was a gendarme in his cape, serious as a judge and thinking himself indispensable, wielding his whistle and his white baton. Wouldn’t it be more intelligent of him, instead of parading around like that, to come and check Popinga’s identity papers?

  If he had, it would all have been over. No more Popinga affair, no need of Louis or anyone else, or of Chief Inspector Lucas, who must be thinking he was the most subtle of men.

  Proof that he wasn’t as subtle as all that, was that Kees, without access to any information, had for several days sensed this blow coming, and had had the courage to sleep alone.

  Who knows? Perhaps from now on, he would no longer sleep alone. But in any case, his companions would not be able to tell the tale . . .

  His head was throbbing. He looked at himself in the mirror once more and wondered if he had really thought what he had just thought. Why not? What was stopping him?

  He turned his head, since someone had spoken to him in English, a man who had been sitting at the next table for a few minutes, writing.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said with a smile, ‘do you by any chance speak English?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you perhaps English yourself?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’