Maigret’s Memoirs by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-03-17T15:13:13+00:00

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5

Dealing somewhat haphazardly with hobnailed socks, apaches, prostitutes, radiators, sidewalks, and railroad stations

A few years ago some of us talked of founding a sort of club, more likely a monthly dinner, which was to be called “The Hobnailed Socks Club.” We got together for a drink, in any case, at the Brasserie Dauphine. We argued about who should and who shouldn’t be admitted. And we wondered quite seriously whether those from the other branch, I mean from the Rue des Saussaies, should be considered eligible.

Then, as was only to be expected, things went no further. At that time there were still at least four of us, among the inspectors of the Police Judiciaire, who were rather proud of the nickname “hobnailed socks,” given to us once upon a time by satirical songwriters, and which certain young inspectors fresh from college sometimes used among themselves when referring to those of their seniors who had risen from the ranks.

In the old days, indeed, it took a good many years to win one’s stripes, and exams were not enough. An inspector, before hoping for promotion, had to have worn out his shoe soles in practically every branch of the service.

It is not easy to convey the meaning of this with any sort of precision to the younger generation.

“Hobnailed shoes” and “big mustaches” were the terms that sprang naturally to people’s lips when they spoke of the police.

And, in fact, for years I wore hobnailed shoes myself. Not from choice. Not, as caricaturists seemed to imply, because we thought such footwear was the height of elegance and comfort, but for more down-to-earth reasons.

Two reasons, to be exact. The first was that our salary barely enabled us to make ends meet. I often hear people talk of the gay, carefree life at the beginning of this century. Young people refer enviously to the prices current at that time, cigars at two sous, dinner with wine and coffee for twenty sous.

What people forget is that at the outset of his career a public servant earned somewhat under a hundred francs a month.

When I was a foot patrolman, I would cover during my day, which was often thirteen or fourteen hours, miles and miles of sidewalk, in all kinds of weather.

So that one of the first problems of our married life was the problem of getting my shoes soled. At the end of each month, when I brought my pay envelope to my wife, she would divide its contents into a number of small piles.

“For the butcher… For rent… For gas…”

There was hardly anything left to put in the last pile of small change.

“For your shoes.”

Our dream was always to buy new ones, but for a long time it was only a dream. Often I went for weeks without confessing to her that my soles, between the hobnails, absorbed the gutter water greedily.

If I mention this here it is not out of bitterness but, on the contrary, quite light-heartedly, because I think it is necessary to give an idea of a policeman’s life.

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