Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 26, No. 4. Whole No. 143, October 1955
The Little Doctor and the Slipper Fiend
by Georges Simenon
Translated by Frances Frenaye
We have given you our own high opinion of Georges Simenon’s work so often that we think the time has come to tell you what others say and feel about the man who has already written more than 350 books. For example, here is an American critic’s shrewd appraisal and comments: John K. Hutchens of the “New York Herald Tribune” wrote: Are we not all agreed that “this astonishing, prolific, many-sided writer is an artist?... with a swift, austere, impersonal style precisely suited to the demands made upon it... They now call his stories simenons, and that’s eminence for you — a writer’s name as a generic term for his work... his observer’s eye for detail, weather, clothes, customs, food, all the revealing ‘little facts,’ as Stendhal called them, is wonderfully true.”
And now let us hear from an anonymous critic on the “London Sunday Times”: “Ordinary readers buy Simenon’s books ‘as they buy their daily bread’ [certainly more true, we would say, in France than in America, or even in England]... in recent years eminent literary men have saluted his incisive style, and the clear-sighted, compassionate humanity which informs his writing.”
And now we bring you one of Simenon’s Little Doctor stories — one never previously published in the United States. You won’t penetrate easily to the real secret in this story — not until the end, or very near it.
For this tale not only reveals Simenon’s individual style, his grasp of telling detail, and his compassion for people, it also demonstrates his flair for plot; indeed, this story of a private investigator who gets “into a dead man’s skin” is one of Simenon’s most ingenious detective puzzles.
He always came at a quarter past 6 — a pot-bellied little man with beads of perspiration on his forehead which he wiped with a colored handkerchief as he made his preliminary round of the shoe-and-slipper section of the department store. It was a big store, near the Opéra, and at this hour a great mass of people surged out onto the sidewalks, while the streets were packed with jerkily advancing cars, ten abreast.
Inside, elevators darted ceaselessly up and down and customers bumped against one another, each one trying to get waited on before closing time. Only this one placid little man, who looked as if he must live off a modest pension of some kind, failed to share the general excitement and seemed unaware that at half-past 6 shopping hours were over. The slipper section was near the C entrance, and when the little man sat down, Gaby the shoe clerk gave a resigned sigh.
“What will it be today?” she asked, trying to maintain the appearance of a polite sales transaction, although it was time to freshen her make-up and prepare to go home rather than try slippers on a customer who was unquestionably a lunatic.
“A soft slipper, something in brown...”
“The same as yesterday, is that it?”
“No, the ones you showed me yesterday had too thick a sole.”
Every day for the past week things had gone on this same way. The customer looked at Gaby with the disarming shyness of a man in love. As she brought over a pile of boxes he pulled off his left shoe.
“How about these?”
“The color’s a bit light... Haven’t you anything darker?”
By now Gaby — and the other girls too — knew that it would continue like this until the very last minute. He would try on a dozen or more pairs of slippers before making a final choice. Then, just as the closing bell rang, he would go over to the cash register, with the box under his arm. Gaby had even thought up a trick to discourage him once and for all. She asked Antoinette, who worked in the adjacent leather-goods section, to come over and say audibly:
“I just saw your fiancé walking by...” And Antoinette had added, out of her own head: “Is he as jealous as ever?”
But the pot-bellied little customer did not bat an eyelash. He remained a model of patience and good nature. And another stratagem, which was considerably more cruel, had the same lack of effect. When Gaby forced his feet, with the aid of a shoehorn, into a pair of slippers far too small for him, he only winced but did not say a word. It seemed as if he would keep coming in for weeks and months, perhaps even for years — to buy a pair of slippers every day just before it was time for the store to close.
There were tears in Gaby’s eyes as she looked at the chair where her admirer always sat, and she said to the Little Doctor:
“It was the day before yesterday... I didn’t know what other slippers to show him... And meanwhile a grouchy woman with a little boy was waiting for me to take care of her. I stooped to pick up some boxes underneath this counter. Without raising my head I took his foot in one hand, while I held a blue slipper in the other. Then suddenly I had a funny feeling. I raised my head and my first thought was that he had fallen asleep, because his chin was resting on his chest. I leaned over and shook him and his full weight fell onto my shoulders. He collapsed like a sack of potatoes... I screamed and people rushed over. The watchman said: ‘Air! Fresh air! Probably it’s his heart! Because people do have heart attacks here every once in a while. But that wasn’t it at all. As they were loosening his tie and collar they saw blood on his shirt and realized that a bullet had gone into his chest... Yes, right here, in this crowded store! And nobody even heard a gun! He must have been dead while I was trying on the slipper... It made me sick, I tell you. I’ve asked to be transferred to another section. Every time I look at that chair...”
When the Little Doctor — Dr. Jean Dollent, to give him his proper name — had arrived in Paris that morning, Inspector Lucas had already made an on-the-spot investigation. He took the Little Doctor first to the toy department on the third floor. This department was located near the rail of the balcony, overlooking the ground-floor department of shoes and slippers.
“The shot was fired from here,” the Inspector explained. “Down there — two floors down — is the chair where the victim was sitting. I’ve questioned the clerks and they remember noticing a young man wandering about among the toys. In fact, one of the clerks asked if he could serve him and the young man answered: ‘I’m waiting for my wife!’ It was about a quarter past 6, and the fellow seemed to be interested in toy weapons. He picked up several ‘Eureka’ pistols... Now, do you see how he did it? He must have had in his pocket, or in a brief case or parcel of some kind, a compressed-air pistol of deadly accuracy, perhaps with a silencer attached. Because no revolver could kill a person at this distance, and a rifle would have been too noticeable. There are pistols, you know, which at 50 yards are quite deadly... And so the murderer handled the toys with an innocent air. Even when he was pretending to aim a gun, no one was surprised, or really paid any attention. The bell that rings to announce closing-time is very powerful and sets off a certain amount of confusion among both clerks and customers.
“No one heard the shot of an air-pistol or one with a silencer... The management of the store is terribly upset and anxious to do all that is humanly possible to catch the culprit. That is why we were asked to recommend a private detective able to conduct an investigation supplementing our own. I gave your name and address, which goes to show that I’m not too jealous of the honors you’ve won... Now go to it, Doctor, and good luck to you!”
The young general manager of the store strode nervously up and down his office, shooting an occasional doubtful glance in the direction of Doctor Dollent. Why in the world didn’t the Little Doctor build up people’s confidence by adopting some mannerism peculiar to himself alone, such as wearing a monocle or smoking cigarettes of an exotic brand? His small stature, tight-fitting clothes, and the youthful way with which he bore his 30-odd years made him seem more like a college student than an experienced crime investigator.