Liberty Bar

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Hey, you’re not going to arrest him before he pays me, are you?’

  Maigret forgot to smoke. He stood there a moment quite still, staring at the taxi’s old-fashioned bonnet, then suddenly, struck by the thought that the couple might have left the hotel already, he dashed back to the Beauséjour.

  The baker’s wife saw him arrive and called her husband, who emerged from the back of the shop and came to the window, his face white with flour.

  Too bad! Now Maigret was having a laugh at their expense.

  ‘Room 7.’

  He looked up at the façade, trying to work out which of the windows with drawn curtains corresponded to room number 7. He didn’t dare celebrate yet.

  And yet … No! This wasn’t a coincidence … On the contrary, it was the first time that he had found a link between two elements of this case …

  Sylvie and Harry Brown together in a rented room near the harbour!

  Twenty times he was able to cover the hundred metres to the corner of the quay. Twenty times he saw the taxi in the same spot. As for the driver, he had come to stand at the end of the street as if he wanted to keep an eye on his customer himself.

  Finally, the glass door at the end of the corridor opened. Sylvie came out quickly on to the pavement and almost bumped into Maigret.

  ‘Good day,’ he said.

  She froze. He had never seen her look so pale. And when she opened her mouth to speak, no sound came out.

  ‘Is your companion getting dressed?’

  Her head swung this way and that like a weathervane. She dropped her bag, which Maigret picked up. She literally snatched it back off him as if she were afraid of nothing more than to see him open it.

  ‘One moment!’

  ‘Excuse me … I’m expected somewhere … You can walk with me if you like …’

  ‘I don’t want to walk … Especially not that way …’

  She was winsome rather than pretty, because of her large eyes, which darted over his whole face. It was obvious she was in a nervous state; her anxiety was making her breathless.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  She seemed to be on the point of running away. To prevent her, Maigret took her hand and held it in his, a gesture that the bakers opposite might have interpreted as one of affection.

  ‘Is Harry still here?’

  ‘I don’t understand …’

  ‘Fine! We’ll wait for him together … Be careful! … Don’t do anything stupid … Let go of the bag …’

  For Maigret had made another grab for it. Through the silky material he could feel what seemed to be a wad of banknotes.

  ‘Don’t make a scene! … There are people watching us …’

  And passers-by too. They must have thought that Maigret and Sylvie were simply haggling over the price.

  ‘I beg you …’

  ‘No!’

  Then, more quietly:

  ‘If you don’t calm down, I’ll use the handcuffs!’

  She looked at him, eyes still wide with fright, then, whether discouraged or subdued, she lowered her head.

  Harry didn’t seem to be in any hurry to come down …

  She didn’t say a word, didn’t attempt to deny or explain.

  ‘Did you know him before?’

  They were standing in full sun. Sylvie’s face was perspiring.

  She seemed to be desperately looking for some inspiration that eluded her.

  ‘Listen …’

  ‘I’m listening!’

  No, she changed her mind! She didn’t say another word. She bit hard on her lip.

  ‘Is Joseph waiting for you somewhere?’

  ‘Joseph?’

  She was panicking. Steps could be heard on the hotel staircase. Sylvie was trembling. She dared not look into the dark interior.

  The steps approached, resounding on the floor tiles. The glass door opened and closed again, and then time seemed to stand still.

  Harry Brown, barely distinguishable in the gloom, had spotted the couple.

  It was a brief moment. He started walking again. He had a lot of nerve. He walked past, his body held straight, acknowledging Maigret with a brief nod.

  Maigret was still holding Sylvie’s limp hand. To catch up with the receding figure of Brown he would have to let her go.

  What a farcical scene that would be for the audience in the bakery …

  ‘Come with me,’ he said to his companion.

  ‘Are you arresting me?’

  ‘Don’t bother your head about that …’

  He had to make a phone call urgently. He didn’t want to leave Sylvie on her own at any price. There were some cafés nearby. He went into one and dragged the young woman into the cabin with him.

  A few moments later he had Inspector Boutigues on the line.

  ‘Run to the Hôtel Provençal. Ask Harry Brown, politely but firmly, not to leave Antibes until I get there. If necessary, prevent him from leaving …’

  And Sylvie listened to this, slumping. Her spirit was broken, she didn’t have the slightest inclination to rebel.

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked her, when they got back to the table.

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  He kept his eye on the handbag. The waiter observed them, aware that something unusual was going on. A young girl went from table to table offering bouquets of violets; Maigret took one, handed it to his companion, searched through his pockets with a distracted air and then, when she was least expecting it, grabbed the bag.

  ‘Do you mind? … I have no change …’

  He did it so quickly and in such a matter-of-fact way that she didn’t have time to protest. Nothing more than a fleeting grasp of her fingers on the handle.

  The young flowerseller waited patiently, choosing another bouquet from her basket. Maigret looked for some loose change beneath a fat wad of thousand-franc notes.

  ‘Right, let’s go,’ he said, standing up.

  He was agitated too. He was in a hurry to be somewhere else, to not have all these curious eyes directed at him.

  ‘Shall we go and say hello to dear old Jaja?’

  Sylvie followed him docilely. She was ground down. And there was nothing to distinguish them from any other couple who walked past, except for the fact that Maigret was holding his companion’s handbag.

  ‘You go first!’

  She went down one step into the bar and made her way to the glass door at the back. Behind the net curtain could be seen a man’s back; he jumped to his feet when the pair of them arrived.

  It was Yan, the Swedish steward, who blushed to the roots of his hair when he recognized Maigret.

  ‘You again? … Well, then, my friend, would you be so kind as to go for a walk …?’

  Jaja didn’t understand. Sylvie’s face told her that there was something unusual going on. So she would not be displeased to see the sailor make himself scarce.

  ‘Are you coming tomorrow, Yan?’

  ‘I don’t know …’

  Standing with his cap in hand, he wasn’t sure how to get away, troubled as he was by the inspector’s glowering look.

  ‘Yes … It’s OK … Bye …’ the latter said impatiently, opening the door to usher him out.

  He locked the door with a brusque turn of the key. He said to Sylvie:

  ‘You can take your hat off.’

  Jaja hazarded, in a timid voice:

  ‘You bumped into each other …’

  ‘Exactly. We bumped into each other.’

  She didn’t even dare offer him a drink, so aware was she of the heavy atmosphere in the room. To keep her composure, she picked a newspaper off the floor, folded it up and then went to check something on her stove.

  Maigret filled a pipe, quite gently. He went to the stove himself and, rolling up a piece of newspaper, lit it in the grate.

  Sylvie stayed standing next to the table. She had taken off her hat and placed it in front of her. Then Maigret sat down, opened the bag and began counting out the ban
knotes, which he lined up between the dirty glasses.

  ‘Eighteen … Nineteen … Twenty … Twenty thousand francs!’

  Jaja had turned round in one movement and was looking at the money with bewilderment. She was struggling to make sense of it.

  ‘What is this …?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, really!’ Maigret growled. ‘Sylvie found herself a lover more generous than most, that’s all! And do you know his name? Harry Brown …’

  He had made himself at home, his elbows resting on the table, his pipe in his mouth, his bowler hat pushed back on his head.

  ‘Twenty thousand francs for a “short stay”, as they call it at the Hôtel Beauséjour …’

  Trying to appear unfazed, Jaja wiped her chubby hands on her apron. She didn’t dare say a thing. She was completely flabbergasted.

  And Sylvie, drained of blood, her features drawn, didn’t look at anyone but just stared into space; she could see nothing ahead but the cruellest blows of fate.

  ‘You can sit down,’ Maigret barked.

  She obeyed automatically.

  ‘You too, Jaja … Wait … First find some clean glasses …’

  Sylvie sat in the same place she had sat the previous day, when she had eaten with her dressing gown gaping open, her bare breasts just a few centimetres from her plate.

  Jaja placed a bottle and some glasses on the table and sat down on the very edge of her seat.

  ‘Right then, girls, I’m waiting …’

  The smoke from his pipe rose slowly to the rectangular window, which now had a bluish tinge, as the sun no longer penetrated. Jaja looked at Sylvie …

  And the latter continued to stare at nothing, absent or subdued.

  ‘I’m waiting …’

  He could have said it a hundred times, waited ten years. The only sound was Jaja’s sigh as she buried her chin in her bosom:

  ‘My God … If only I knew …’

  As for Maigret, he could barely contain himself. He got up. He paced up and down. He grumbled:

  ‘I should really …’

  The statue infuriated him. Once, twice, three times he walked past Sylvie, who remained frozen.

  ‘I have plenty of time … But …’

  On the fourth occasion he couldn’t take it any more. It was mechanical. His hand grabbed the young woman’s shoulder and he wasn’t aware how tightly he was gripping it.

  She raised a hand in front of her face, like a little girl afraid of being hit.

  ‘Well?’

  She gave in, under the pain. She cried out, bursting into tears:

  ‘You bully! … You filthy bully! … I’ll say nothing … Nothing! … Nothing!’

  It was making Jaja feel ill. Maigret, with a stubborn frown, let himself slide on to a chair. And Sylvie continued crying without covering her face, without wiping her eyes, crying as much from rage as from pain.

  ‘Nothing!’ she repeated in her mechanical fashion between two sobs.

  The door of the bar opened – something that happened no more than ten times a day. A customer sat at the zinc counter and turned the handle on the fruit machine.

  7. The Order

  Maigret stood up impatiently and, to forestall any potential trick on the part of the two women – the customer could be a messenger from Joseph, for example – he decided to go into the bar himself.

  ‘What do you want?’

  The man seemed so taken aback that, in spite of his bad mood, Maigret almost burst out laughing. He was a middle-aged fellow, dull complexion, grey hair, who no doubt had crept furtively through the sidestreets in pursuit of some dream of unbridled sex, only to have the surly Maigret pop up behind the bar!

  ‘A bock …’ he stammered, letting go of the slot-machine handle.

  Behind the curtain, the inspector could see the two women in a huddle. Jaja was asking questions, and Sylvie was replying wearily.

  ‘There’s no beer!’

  At least, Maigret couldn’t see any within reach!

  ‘Then whatever you like … A port maybe …’

  Maigret poured some liquid or other in the first glass he could find. The man barely sipped it.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Two francs.’

  Maigret alternately observed the street, still bathed in warm sunshine, the small bar opposite, where he could see moving shapes, and the back room, where Jaja had sat down again.

  The customer left, wondering what sort of place he had landed up in, and Maigret returned to the back room and sat down astride his chair.

  Jaja’s demeanour had changed somewhat. Earlier, she had looked worried, and it was obvious she didn’t know what to think. Now, her anxiety seemed more focused. She looked at Sylvie pensively, a look of pity with a barb of rancour. She seemed to be saying: ‘It’s a fine mess that you have got yourself into! It won’t be easy to find a way out of it!’

  She said out loud:

  ‘You know, inspector … Men can be strange …’

  Her words lacked conviction, and she knew it. As did Sylvie, who shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘He saw her at the funeral this morning and he must have desired her … He is so rich that …’

  Maigret sighed, lit another pipe and let his gaze wander to the window.

  There was an ominous atmosphere in the room. Sylvie was keeping her mouth shut for fear of making things worse. She wasn’t crying, wasn’t moving, just waiting for who knows what.

  Only the small alarm clock kept working, pushing its black hands, which seemed too heavy for it, laboriously round its pale clock face.

  Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock …

  Jaja was not made for such dramas. She got up and went to fetch a bottle of alcohol from the cupboard. As if nothing were going on, she filled three glasses and slid one across to Maigret, another to Sylvie, without saying a word.

  The twenty thousand francs were still on the table, next to the handbag.

  Tick tock, tick …

  And so it went on, for an hour and a half! An hour and a half of silence, interspersed only by Jaja’s sighs. As she drank, her eyes became glassy.

  Occasionally some children would play and shout out in the street. At other times there was the insistent sound of a tram bell somewhere in the distance. The door of the bar opened. An Arab poked his head through the gap and called out:

  ‘Peanuts?’

  He waited a moment then, receiving no response, closed the door again and left.

  It was six o’clock before the door opened again, and this time the stir it created in the back room suggested that this was the moment Maigret had been waiting for. Jaja was about to get up to run to the bar, but a look from him stopped her in her tracks. Sylvie turned her head away, feigning indifference.

  The second door opened. Joseph came in. He saw Maigret’s back first of all, then the table, the glasses, the bottle, the open handbag, the banknotes.

  The inspector turned round slowly, and the new arrival, quite motionless, merely muttered:

  ‘Damn!’

  ‘Close the door … Take a seat …’

  The waiter closed the door, but he didn’t sit. He scowled, looked annoyed, but he didn’t lose his cool. Quite the opposite: he went up to Jaja and kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘Hello …’

  Then he did the same to Sylvie, who didn’t raise her head.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  From that moment Maigret realized that he was on the wrong track. But, as always in such situations, he pressed on even more stubbornly as he felt himself become more entangled.

  ‘Where have you come from?’

  ‘Guess!’

  And he took a wallet from his pocket and took out a small card, which he handed to Maigret. It was an identity card, the sort given to foreigners resident in France.

  ‘I was late … I went to renew it at the Préfecture …’

  The card did indeed bear today’s date, the name: ‘Joseph Ambrosini, born Milan, profession: hotel employee’.
>
  ‘Did you meet Harry Brown?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Did you meet him for the first time last Tuesday or Wednesday?’

  Joseph looked at him, smiling, as if to say: ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Come on, Ambrosini. I assume you will not deny that you are Sylvie’s lover …’

  ‘Depends what you mean by that … Something happened …’

  ‘No! No! You are what is euphemistically known as her “protector” …’

  Poor Jaja! She had never been so unhappy in her life. The alcohol was skewing her view of the situation. Every now and again she opened her mouth to try to make some conciliatory remark, and it was obvious what she was trying to say: ‘Come on, everyone! Let’s make up! Is it really worth all this strife? Let’s all have a drink together and …’

  As for Joseph, it was obvious that this wasn’t his first run-in with the police. He was guarded. He remained cool, didn’t overplay his hand.

  ‘Your information is incorrect …’

  ‘And I suppose you don’t know anything about these twenty thousand francs?’

  ‘I guess Sylvie must have earned it … She’s a good-looking girl …’

  ‘Enough!’

  Maigret was on his feet again. He was pacing up and down in the small room. Sylvie was looking at her feet. Joseph, however, never lowered his gaze.

  ‘Will you have something?’ asked Jaja, for whom this was just another opportunity to have a drink.

  Maigret couldn’t quite make his mind up. He stood there for a while, in front of the alarm clock, which was showing a quarter past six. When he turned round, he said:

  ‘Very well! You two will accompany me … I am arresting you!’

  Ambrosini didn’t flinch, but merely murmured, with the faintest hint of irony:

  ‘As you wish!’

  The inspector put the twenty thousand-franc notes in his pocket and handed Sylvie her hat and bag.

  ‘Do I need to cuff you, or will you give me your word …’

  ‘I won’t try to escape. Let’s go!’

  Jaja was sobbing in Sylvie’s arms. The latter was trying to free herself. They had great trouble preventing the fat woman from following the group into the street.

  Lights were coming on. It was that mild hour of the day again. They passed near the street where the Hôtel Beauséjour was. But Joseph didn’t glance in that direction.