Liberty Bar

by Georges Simenon

  ‘What did Joseph ask you to do this evening?’

  At first she seemed not to understand but looked at Maigret with her mouth full.

  ‘Ah yes! … The son …’

  ‘What did you go to tell him?’

  ‘To ask him to arrange to get them released, otherwise …’

  ‘Otherwise what?’

  ‘Oh! I know you won’t leave me in peace … But you’ll see that I’ve never done you wrong … I do everything I can! … I’ve got nothing to hide.’

  He guessed the reason for her volubility, her whining voice.

  On the way home, Jaja had stopped off in a few bars, for Dutch courage!

  ‘First off, it was me who held Sylvie back, who prevented her from getting too involved with Joseph … Then, when I found out just now that there was something …’

  ‘Well?’

  It was more comic than tragic. Still eating, she started to cry! It was a grotesque spectacle: this large woman in her mauve dressing gown crying like a baby into her plate of lentils.

  ‘Don’t try to rush me … Let me think! … If you think I’ve got anything to gain from this … Hang on! Give me a drink …’

  ‘Later!’

  ‘Give me a drink and I’ll tell you everything …’

  He gave in and poured her a small glass.

  ‘What do you want to know? … What was I saying? … I saw the twenty thousand francs … Was it William who had them in his pocket?’

  Maigret had to make an effort to keep a clear head for, little by little, things were getting disjointed, perhaps in part because of the atmosphere, but more because of Jaja’s speech.

  ‘William …’

  Then suddenly he grasped it! Jaja had believed that the twenty thousand francs were stolen from Brown when he was murdered!

  ‘Is that what you thought?’

  ‘I don’t know any more what I thought … Well, I’m not hungry any more … Do you have any cigarettes?’

  ‘I only smoke a pipe.’

  ‘There must be some somewhere … Sylvie always has some …’

  And she searched all the drawers in vain.

  ‘Do they still send them to Alsace?’

  ‘Who? … What? … What are you talking about?’

  ‘Women … What’s it called again … That prison … It begins with “Hau” … In my time …’

  ‘When you were in Paris?’

  ‘Yes … Everyone was talking about it … They say it’s so harsh all the prisoners try to kill themselves … And I read not so long ago in the paper that some are sent down for eighty years … I can’t find any cigarettes … Sylvie must have taken them with her …’

  ‘Is she frightened of going there?’

  ‘Sylvie? … I’ve got no idea … I was just thinking about it on the bus on the way home … There was this old woman in front of me and …’

  ‘Sit down …’

  ‘Yes … Don’t mind me … I’m shot … I’m all over the place … What were we talking about?’

  And with an expression of anguish in her eyes she wiped her hand across her forehead, dislodging a lock of russet hair over her cheek.

  ‘I’m sad … Give me something to drink, won’t you?’

  ‘When you’ve told me everything you know …’

  ‘But I don’t know anything! … What would I know? … I saw Sylvie first of all … Besides, there was a cop stood next to me, listening to what we were saying … I wanted to cry … Sylvie whispered to me as she hugged me that it was all Joseph’s fault …’

  ‘Then you went to see him?’

  ‘Yes … I already told you … He sent me to Antibes to warn Brown that …’

  She was trying to find the words. It was as if she were suffering sudden mental blanks, the way some drunks do. At those moments she looked at Maigret anxiously, as if she felt the need to cling to him.

  ‘I don’t know any more … Please don’t torture me … I’m just a poor woman … I’ve always tried to please everyone …’

  ‘No! Just wait …’

  Maigret pulled her hand away from the glass she was trying to grasp because he could see the possibility of her passing out, dead drunk.

  ‘Did Harry Brown receive you?’

  ‘No … Yes … He told me that, if I ever crossed his path again, he’d have me locked up …’

  Then suddenly, triumphantly:

  ‘Hossegor! … No! … Hossegor’s something else … It’s a novel … Haguenau … That’s it!’

  It was the name of the prison she had been talking about earlier.

  ‘They say that they’re not allowed to talk … Do you think that’s true?’

  Maigret had never seen her as flaky as this. It was almost as if she were regressing to her childhood.

  ‘Obviously, if Sylvie is an accomplice, she will go to …’

  Then, more than ever, and more quickly, she started talking, and her cheeks were flushed with fever.

  ‘But I learned a few things this evening … The twenty thousand francs, I now know it was Harry Brown, William’s son, who brought them to pay for …’

  ‘Pay for what?’

  ‘Everything!’

  And she looked at him triumphantly, defiantly.

  ‘I’m not as stupid as I look … When the son realized that there was a will …’

  ‘Excuse me! You know about the will?’

  ‘William told us about it last month … All four of us were here …’

  ‘You mean you, Sylvie and Joseph …’

  ‘Yes … We opened a good bottle, because it was William’s birthday … And we talked about all sorts of things … When he’d had a bit to drink, he told us things about Australia, his wife, his brother-in-law …’

  ‘And what did William say?’

  ‘That they would be stitched up when he died! He took the will out of his pocket and read us a part of it … Not all … He didn’t want to read out the names of the two other women … He said that some day soon he would file it with a notary …’

  ‘This was a month ago? Was it then that Joseph first met Harry Brown?’

  ‘You never know with that one … He knew lots of people, because of his profession …’

  ‘And you think he warned the son?’

  ‘I’m not saying that! I’m not saying anything … Only, you can’t help but think … Those rich people, they aren’t any better than the rest of us … Suppose Joseph did tell him everything … William’s son would have casually let slip that he’d be happy to lay hands on the will … But since William could easily write another one, it would be better if William were to die as well …’

  Maigret had taken his eye off her. She poured herself another drink. He wasn’t quick enough to stop her draining her glass. When she started talking again, he caught the foul smell of her drink-sodden breath full in the face.

  She was bending forwards, coming close to him, adopting a mysterious, serious air.

  ‘Die as well … Is that what I said? … So they discussed money … For twenty thousand francs … And maybe another twenty thousand paid later … You never know … These things aren’t usually paid for in one instalment … As for Sylvie …’

  ‘She knew nothing?’

  ‘I swear to you that no one said anything to me! … Was that a knock at the door?’

  She suddenly stiffened with fear. To reassure her, Maigret had to go to check. When he came back, he noticed that she had taken advantage of his absence and helped herself to another drink.

  ‘I didn’t say anything … I don’t know anything … Do you understand? … I’m just a poor woman! A poor woman who has lost her husband and …’

  And she burst into tears again; it was even more pitiful than before.

  ‘As far as you know, Jaja, what did William do that day between two and five o’clock?’

  She looked at him without replying and didn’t stop crying. However, her sobs sounded a bit more fake.

  ‘Sylvie left a few mom
ents before him … Do you think that they maybe could have …’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sylvie and William …’

  ‘Could have what?’

  ‘I don’t know! … Met up somewhere … Sylvie is pretty … She’s young … And William …’

  He didn’t take his eyes off her. He feigned indifference:

  ‘They met some place where Joseph could see them and do the deed …’

  She said nothing. Rather, she looked at Maigret with a frown, as if she were making a huge effort to understand. And no wonder it was an effort. Her eyes were cloudy and her brain too was no doubt not quite in focus.

  ‘Harry Brown, who is now fully informed concerning the will, orders the crime … Sylvie lures William to a suitable location … Joseph does the deed … Then Harry Brown is invited to give the money to Sylvie, in a hotel in Cannes …’

  She didn’t move. She listened, bewildered or simply drink-sodden.

  ‘When Joseph was arrested, you let Harry know that unless he helps to free him he will talk …’

  She literally cried out:

  ‘That’s right! … Yes, that’s right …’

  She had stood up. She was panting for breath. She seemed torn between the need to cry and the need to burst out laughing.

  Suddenly, she grabbed her head with both hands in a convulsive gesture, pulled at her hair, stamped her feet.

  ‘That’s right! … And I … I …’

  Maigret stayed sitting, watching her with some surprise. Was she about to break down, pass out?

  ‘I … I …’

  Outside the two doors there was only the gleam of the streetlamp and the sound of the waiter across the road closing the shutters. The trams had been silent for a while now.

  ‘I don’t want that, do you understand?’ she yelped. ‘No! … Not that! … I don’t want that … It’s not true … It’s …’

  ‘Jaja!’

  But the sound of her name did little to calm her. She was at a pitch of frenzy, and as quickly as she had seized the bottle she bent down, picked something up and cried:

  ‘Not Haguenau … It’s not true … Sylvie didn’t …’

  Never in his working life had Maigret witnessed a scene as wretched as this. She had picked up a shard of glass and, as she talked, slashed her wrist, right over the artery …

  Her eyes were bulging. She seemed mad.

  ‘Haguenau … I … Not Sylvie!’

  Blood spurted out just as Maigret managed to grab both her arms. It splashed on to his hand and tie.

  For a few seconds Jaja, bewildered, out of control, looked at this flow of red blood that belonged to her. Then she went limp. Maigret held her up for a moment, then let her slide to the ground and tried to seal the artery with his finger.

  He needed a tourniquet. He looked around frantically. There was an electric cable attached to a flat-iron. He pulled it out. All this time, the blood was flowing freely.

  He went back to Jaja, who wasn’t moving any more, wound the wire round her wrist and pulled it as tight as he could.

  In the street the only light now was the gas lamp. The bar across the street was shut.

  He went out, walking unsteadily, and felt the warm night air. He headed for the most brightly lit street, which was two hundred metres away.

  From there he could see the floodlights of the casino, the cars, the chauffeurs in a group near the harbour. And the masts of yachts, barely stirring.

  There was a policeman stationed in the middle of the crossroads.

  ‘A doctor … To the Liberty Bar … Quickly …’

  ‘Isn’t that the bar that …?’

  ‘Yes! The bar that!’ Maigret bellowed impatiently. ‘Get a move on, for God’s sake!’

  10. The Divan

  The two men climbed the stairs carefully, but the body was heavy, and the gangway was narrow, with the result that Jaja, who was being held by the shoulders and the feet, bent in two, sometimes bumped against the banister or the wall or scraped against the stairs.

  The doctor, as he waited in turn to go upstairs, looked around him with curiosity, while Jaja moaned softly, like an unconscious animal. It was such a feeble moan, at such a strange pitch, that, although it filled the house, it was hard to pinpoint its source, as if it were uttered by a ventriloquist.

  In the low room on the mezzanine Maigret made the bed then helped the police officers to lift Jaja up, for she was heavy and lifeless, even though she had the appearance of a large rag doll.

  Was she conscious of all these peregrinations? Did she know where she was? Every now and again she opened her eyes, but she didn’t look at anything or anyone. She continued to moan but did not screw up her face.

  ‘Is she in much pain?’ Maigret asked the doctor.

  He was a kindly little old man, very meticulous, somewhat dismayed to find himself in such surroundings.

  ‘She shouldn’t be suffering any pain at all. She must be very delicate. Or maybe she’s frightened …’

  ‘Is she aware of what’s going on?’

  ‘By the look of her, I doubt it. Yet …’

  ‘She’s dead drunk!’ sighed Maigret. ‘I was just wondering whether the pain had sobered her up …’

  The two policemen awaited instructions and they too looked around with curiosity. The curtains hadn’t been closed. Maigret could see in the window opposite the pale halo of a face in the unilluminated room. He pulled down the blind and summoned one of the officers over from the corner.

  ‘Bring me the woman that I had locked up earlier on. A certain Sylvie. But not the man.’

  And to the other:

  ‘Wait for me downstairs.’

  The doctor had done all he could. Having applied haemostatic clips, he had stapled the artery closed. Now he was giving this fat woman, who was still groaning, a bored look. For appearances’ sake, he took her pulse, felt her forehead and checked her hands.

  ‘Come over here, doctor!’ said Maigret, who was leaning his back against one corner of the room. Then, in a whisper:

  ‘I’d be grateful if you would use this opportunity to give her a general examination … The vital organs, of course …’

  ‘If you wish! If you wish!’

  The little doctor was getting more and more bewildered, and he must have been wondering whether Maigret was related to Jaja. He selected some instruments from his case and, unhurriedly but with no great conviction, started to take her blood pressure.

  Not liking what he found, he checked it three times in all, then bent over her chest, opened her dressing gown and looked for a clean towel to spread out between his ear and Jaja’s bosom. There wasn’t one to be had in the bedroom. He used his own handkerchief.

  When he stood upright again, he looked somewhat sour-faced.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘She hasn’t got long to go! Her heart is worn out. On top of that it is hypertrophied, and her blood pressure is off the scale …’

  ‘So how long does she have …?’

  ‘That is a different question … If she were one of my patients I’d prescribe complete rest, in the country, with a very strict regime …’

  ‘No alcohol, presumably!’

  ‘Especially no alcohol! Complete abstinence!’

  ‘And you’d be able to save her?’

  ‘I didn’t say that! Let’s just say it might buy her another year …’

  As he spoke he cocked an ear, because they had both noticed that it had gone very quiet. There was something missing, and that something was Jaja’s groans.

  When they turned to the bed they saw her, her head raised on one arm, her face set hard, her chest heaving.

  She had heard. She had understood. And she seemed to be holding the little doctor responsible for her state.

  ‘Feeling any better?’ the doctor asked, just to say something.

  But with a suspicious look she lay back down without a word and closed her eyes.

  The doct
or was unsure whether he was needed any more. He set about sorting his instruments back into his case and he must have been having a conversation with himself, for every now and again he nodded his head in a sign of approval.

  ‘You can go now,’ Maigret said when he was ready. ‘I suppose there is nothing else to fear?’

  ‘Not immediately, at least …’

  When he had left, Maigret sat down on a chair at the foot of the bed and filled a pipe, for the pharmaceutical smell was making him feel sick. Likewise, he hid the basin he had used to wash the wound under the wardrobe, not knowing where else to put it. He felt calm and heavy. He looked steadily at Jaja’s face, which seemed more swollen than usual. Perhaps that was because her hair, which was swept back, was quite thin and revealed a domed forehead marked by a small scar above the temple.

  To the left of the bed, the divan.

  Jaja was not asleep. He was sure of that. Her breathing was quite irregular. Her closed eyelashes kept quivering.

  What was she thinking about? She knew that he was there, watching her. She knew now that her engine had broken down and that she didn’t have long to live.

  What was she thinking? What images were there behind that domed forehead?

  Then suddenly she sat up, frantic, in a single movement, looked at Maigret with her bewildered eyes and cried out:

  ‘Don’t leave me! … I’m afraid! … Where is he? … Where’s the little man? … I don’t want to …’

  He drew nearer to calm her down, and it was in spite of himself that he said:

  ‘Be quiet, old lady.’

  She was indeed old! A poor fat old woman sodden with drink, with her ankles so swollen that she walked like an elephant.

  And she must have covered hundreds of kilometres, back home, next to Porte Saint-Martin, continually treading the same stretch of pavement!

  She allowed him to lay her head back on the pillow. She can’t have been drunk any more. They could hear the police officer downstairs, who had found a bottle and had poured himself a drink, all alone in the back room. Suddenly, craning to hear, she asked anxiously:

  ‘Who is it?’