Maigret and the Tramp

by Georges Simenon

  ‘You’re forgetting that someone else had heard the tramp yelling. Willems hadn’t cried out, probably because he choked as soon as he hit the cold water. When it came to Doc, you took the precaution of knocking him out first. You assumed he was dead, or as good as, at any rate that he’d be unable to make it, given the strong current. You were unpleasantly surprised when you heard his cries for help. And you’d have let him yell as much as he liked if you hadn’t heard another voice, the skipper of the Poitou. He saw you standing on the deck of your boat. So you thought it wise to play the rescuer.’

  Jef merely shrugged.

  ‘When I told you a moment ago that you made a mistake, that’s not what I was referring to. I was thinking of your story. Because you saw fit to tell a story, in order to divert suspicion. It was a clever story you put together …’

  The insurance agent and his friend looked in awe at Maigret and the bargee in turn, realizing at last that a man’s head was at stake.

  ‘At eleven thirty, you weren’t busy working on your engine, as you claimed, you were in a place from which you could see the riverbank, either the cabin or somewhere on the deck of the boat. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have seen the red car. You were watching when the dog was thrown in the river. You remembered it when the police asked you what had happened. You assumed the car wouldn’t be traced, so you mentioned two men coming back from under Pont Marie.’

  ‘I’m letting you talk, right? They can tell whatever story they like. You can tell whatever story you like.’

  Maigret again walked over to the door.

  ‘Come in, Monsieur Goulet.’

  Once again, it was Lapointe who had gone to fetch the skipper of the Poitou, from which sand was still being unloaded on Quai des Célestins.

  ‘What time was it when you heard cries coming from the Seine?’

  ‘About midnight.’

  ‘Can you be more precise than that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But it was later than eleven thirty?’

  ‘Definitely. When it was all over, I mean by the time the body was hoisted on to the bank and the policeman arrived, it was twelve thirty. I think the policeman wrote the time down in his notebook. Well, it certainly hadn’t been more than half an hour since—’

  ‘What do you say to that, Van Houtte?’

  ‘Me? Nothing at all, right? He has his story.’

  ‘And the policeman?’

  ‘The policeman has his story, too.’

  By ten in the evening, the three witnesses had left, and another tray of sandwiches and beer had been brought up from the Brasserie Dauphine. Maigret went to the adjoining office and said to Lapointe:

  ‘All yours.’

  ‘What should I ask him?’

  ‘Anything you like.’

  It was routine. Sometimes three or four officers took turns during the night, asking more or less the same questions in a different way, gradually wearing down the suspect’s resistance.

  ‘Hello? Get my wife on the line, please.’

  Madame Maigret wasn’t yet in bed.

  ‘I’d advise you not to wait up for me.’

  ‘You sound tired. A tough one?’

  She sensed the discouragement in his voice.

  ‘He’ll deny it to the end and won’t give us anything to pin on him. He’s the finest specimen of a stubborn idiot I’ve ever dealt with.’

  ‘What about Doc?’

  ‘I’m going to inquire after him now.’

  His next call was indeed to the Hôtel-Dieu. He was put through to the night nurse from surgery.

  ‘He’s asleep. No, he’s in no pain. The professor dropped by to see him after dinner and says he’s out of danger.’

  ‘Has he said anything?’

  ‘Before going to sleep, he asked me for a drink.’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘No. He took his sedative and closed his eyes.’

  Maigret walked up and down the corridor for half an hour, letting Lapointe have a go. He could hear the murmur of the young inspector’s voice from behind the door. Then he went back into his office and found Jef Van Houtte at last sitting on a chair, his big hands folded on his lap.

  Lapointe’s expression was clear evidence that he had got nowhere, while Jef’s was one of mockery.

  ‘How long is this going on for?’ he asked, watching Maigret resume his seat. ‘Don’t forget you promised to get hold of the consul. I’ll tell him everything you’ve done, and it’ll be in the Belgian newspapers.’

  ‘Listen to me, Van Houtte.’

  ‘I’ve been listening to you for hours, but you keep repeating the same thing.’ He pointed to Lapointe. ‘And this one, too. Do you have others waiting behind the door to come in and ask me questions?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’ll give them the same answers.’

  ‘You’ve contradicted yourself several times.’

  ‘What if I have? Wouldn’t you contradict yourself if you were in my shoes?’

  ‘You heard the witnesses.’

  ‘The witnesses say one thing, I say another. That doesn’t mean I’m the one who’s lying. I’ve worked all my life. Ask any of the bargees what they think of Jef Van Houtte. Not a single one will have anything bad to say about me.’

  And Maigret started all over again, determined not to let go, recalling the case of a man as tough as Jef who had suddenly caved in at the sixteenth hour, just when he was about to give up.

  Tonight was one of his most exhausting nights. Twice, he went into the next office, and Lapointe took his place. By the end, there were no more sandwiches, no more beer, and they had the impression there were only the three of them left, like ghosts, in the deserted premises of the Police Judiciaire, where the cleaning women were sweeping the corridors.

  ‘It’s impossible for you to have seen the two men walk past your barge.’

  ‘The difference between us is that I was there and you weren’t.’

  ‘You heard them.’

  ‘Everyone talks.’

  ‘Not that I’m accusing you of premeditation.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’m not claiming you knew in advance that you were going to kill him.’

  ‘Who? Willems or the fellow I pulled out of the water? Because now there are two of them, right? And tomorrow, maybe there’ll be three, or four, or five. It’s easy enough for you to add more.’

  At three o’clock, an exhausted Maigret decided to give up. For once, it was he, and not the suspect, who was at the end of his tether.

  ‘Let’s call it a day,’ he grunted, getting to his feet.

  ‘So, can I go back to my wife?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Are you going to make me sleep in a cell?’

  ‘You’ll sleep here, on a camp bed in one of the offices.’

  While Lapointe led him there, Maigret left headquarters and walked the deserted streets with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t find a taxi until he got to Châtelet.

  He crept into the bedroom. Madame Maigret shifted in bed and mumbled in a sleepy voice:

  ‘Is that you?’

  As if it might have been someone else!

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Four o’clock.’

  ‘Has he confessed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you think it’s him?’

  ‘In all conscience, I’m sure it is.’

  ‘But you’ve had to let him go?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Would you like me to make you something to eat?’

  He wasn’t hungry, but he poured himself a glass of brandy before going to bed, despite which it took him a good half-hour to get to sleep.

  He wouldn’t forget the Belgian bargee in a hurry!

  8.

  It was Torrence who went with them that morning, because Lapointe had spent the rest of the night at Quai des Orfèvres. Previously, Maigret had had quite a long telephone conversation with Professor Magnin
.

  ‘I’m certain he’s been fully conscious since last night,’ the professor declared. ‘The only thing I ask is that you don’t tire him. Don’t forget he’s had a serious shock and will take some weeks to recover completely.’

  The three of them walked by the river in the sun, Van Houtte between Maigret and Torrence, and they might have been taken for friends out for a stroll and savouring a fine spring morning.

  For want of a razor, Van Houtte hadn’t shaved, and his face was covered in blond hairs that glistened in the sun.

  Opposite the Palais de Justice, they had stopped in a bar for coffee and croissants. Jef had scoffed seven of these as calmly as could be.

  He must have thought they were taking him to Pont Marie for some kind of reconstruction and was surprised to be led into the grey courtyard of the Hôtel-Dieu, then along the corridors of the hospital.

  Although he frowned from time to time, he seemed unperturbed.

  ‘Can we go in?’ Maigret asked the head nurse, who looked his companion up and down and eventually shrugged her shoulders. This was all too much for her, and she had given up trying to understand.

  For Maigret, it was the last chance. He was the first to walk into the ward, where, as had happened the previous day, the patients watched him. He was followed by Jef, whom he was partly hiding, while Torrence brought up the rear.

  Doc watched him coming without any evident curiosity. When he saw Jef, there was no change in his demeanour.

  As for Jef, he was no more flustered than he had been during the night. He stood there, looking with indifference at the sight of a hospital ward, which must have been unusual to him.

  The expected shock did not materialize.

  ‘Come forwards, Jef.’

  ‘What do you want me to do now?’

  ‘Come here.’

  ‘All right. And now?’

  ‘Do you recognize him?’

  ‘I suppose he’s the one who was in the water, right? Only, that night, he had a beard.’

  ‘But you recognize him anyway?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What about you, Monsieur Keller?’

  Maigret was almost holding his breath, his eyes fixed on the tramp, who was looking at him and only slowly made up his mind to turn to the bargee.

  ‘Do you recognize him?’

  Did Keller hesitate? Maigret would have sworn he did. There was a long moment of expectation, until the former doctor from Mulhouse again looked at Maigret without showing any emotion.

  ‘Do you recognize him?’

  He contained himself, almost furious suddenly with this man who, he knew now, had decided to say nothing.

  The proof of this was that there was something like the shadow of a smile on the tramp’s face, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

  His lips half opened, and he muttered:

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s one of the two bargees who took you out of the Seine.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he uttered in a barely audible voice.

  ‘I’m almost sure he was also the one who hit you on the head and threw you in the water.’

  Silence. Doc remained motionless, life only in his eyes.

  ‘Do you still not recognize him?’

  It was all the more impressive in that this exchange was being conducted in low voices, with two rows of patients in their beds spying on them and pricking up their ears.

  ‘You don’t want to talk?’

  Keller had still not moved.

  ‘You know, though, why he attacked you.’

  There was a touch more curiosity in the eyes now. The tramp seemed surprised that Maigret had learned as much as he had.

  ‘It goes back to two years ago, when you were still sleeping under Pont de Bercy. One night … Can you hear me?’

  He made a sign that he could hear.

  ‘One night in December, you witnessed a scene in which this man was involved.’

  Keller seemed to be wondering again what decision to take.

  ‘Another man, the skipper of the barge near which you were lying, was pushed into the river. That one wasn’t saved …’

  Silence still, followed finally by complete indifference on the tramp’s face.

  ‘Is that true? Seeing you again on Monday on Quai des Célestins, the killer was afraid you would talk.’

  The head moved slightly, with effort, just enough for Keller to be able to see Jef Van Houtte.

  But there was still no hate, no resentment in his eyes. The only thing visible in them was a certain curiosity.

  Maigret realized he wouldn’t get anything else from the tramp, and when the head nurse came and announced that they had stayed long enough, he didn’t insist.

  In the corridor, the bargee raised his head high.

  ‘That got you a long way, didn’t it?’

  He was right. He was the winner of this match.

  ‘I can also make up stories,’ he said triumphantly.

  And Maigret couldn’t help muttering under his breath:

  ‘Shut up!’

  While Jef waited with Torrence at Quai des Orfèvres, Maigret spent nearly two hours in Dantziger’s office. The magistrate had phoned the deputy prosecutor and asked him to join them, and Maigret told both men the whole story, in detail.

  Dantziger took notes in pencil, and when the account was over, he sighed:

  ‘To sum up, we don’t have a single shred of evidence against him.’

  ‘No, we don’t.’

  ‘Apart from the matter of the times not matching. Any good lawyer would wipe the floor with that argument.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you still have any hope of getting a confession?’

  ‘None at all,’ Maigret admitted.

  ‘The tramp will maintain his silence?’

  ‘I’m convinced he will.’

  ‘Why do you think he’s chosen to react in this way?’

  That was harder to explain, especially to people who had never known the small world of those who live under bridges.

  ‘Yes, for what reason?’ the deputy prosecutor cut in. ‘I mean, he almost died. In my opinion, he ought to …’

  In the opinion of a deputy prosecutor, who probably lived in an apartment in Passy with his wife and children, organized weekly bridge parties and was concerned about his own advancement and how much he earned compared with the others.

  Not in the opinion of a tramp.

  ‘After all, there is something called justice.’

  Indeed there was. But those who are not afraid to sleep under bridges in the middle of winter, wrapped in old newspapers to keep warm, didn’t bother with that kind of justice.

  ‘Do you understand him?’

  Maigret hesitated to answer yes, because they would probably have given him funny looks.

  ‘Well, he doesn’t believe that a court trial, speeches by the prosecution and the defence, a jury verdict and prison are such important things.’

  What would the two men have said if he had told them how he had slipped a marble into the tramp’s hand? Or if he had simply told them that the former Dr Keller, whose wife lived on Ile Saint-Louis and whose daughter had married a big manufacturer of pharmaceutical products, had glass marbles in his pockets like a ten-year-old boy?

  ‘Is he still demanding to see his consul?’

  They were talking about Jef again now.

  After a glance at the deputy prosecutor, the magistrate said hesitantly:

  ‘As the case currently stands, I don’t think I can sign an arrest warrant against him. From what you tell me, it wouldn’t be any use for me to question him myself.’

  Indeed not. What Maigret had been unable to obtain, the magistrate certainly wouldn’t.

  ‘Well?’

  Well, as Maigret had known when he arrived, the game was lost. All they could do was release Van Houtte, who might well demand an apology.

  ‘I’m sorry, Maigret, but as things stand …’

  ‘I know.’

/>   It was always an unpleasant process. This wasn’t the first time it had happened – and always with idiots!

  ‘I apologize, gentlemen,’ he said in a low voice as he left them.

  A little later, back in his office, he repeated:

  ‘I apologize, Monsieur Van Houtte. Or rather, I apologize as a matter of form. But I want you to know that my opinion hasn’t changed. I’m convinced you killed your employer, Louis Willems, and that you did everything you could to get rid of the tramp, who was an inconvenient witness. That said, there’s nothing to stop you from going back to your barge, your wife and your baby. Goodbye, Monsieur Van Houtte.’

  What happened, though, was that the bargee did not object, merely looked at Maigret with a certain surprise and, once he was at the door, held out his hand at the end of his long arm and muttered:

  ‘Anyone can make a mistake, right?’

  Maigret ignored the hand. Within five minutes, he was gritting his teeth and throwing himself back into other cases in progress.

  In the weeks that followed, they carried out painstaking searches, both in Bercy and around Pont Marie, questioned lots of people, and received reports from the Belgian police that were added, pointlessly, to other reports.

  As for Maigret, for three months he was often seen on Quai des Célestins, his pipe between his teeth, his hands in his pockets, as if out for a stroll. Doc had finally left hospital and had gone back to his corner under the arch of the bridge. He had been given back his things.

  Maigret sometimes stopped by him, as if by chance. Their conversations were brief.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Does your wound still hurt?’

  ‘I feel a little dizzy from time to time.’

  Even though they avoided talking about the case, Keller knew perfectly well what Maigret had come for, and Maigret knew he knew. It had become a kind of game between them.

  A little game that lasted until the height of summer, when, one morning, Maigret stopped in front of the tramp, who was eating a crust of bread and drinking red wine.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine!’

  Did François Keller decide that Maigret had waited long enough? He was looking in the direction of a moored barge, a Belgian barge that wasn’t the Zwarte Zwaan, but looked like it.