‘She’s a bit wild once she gets going …’
The inspector looked at his companion, unable to tell whether he was being angry or affectionate.
At that moment someone shouted:
‘They’re off to the bridal chamber! … Take your places, everyone! … Where’s the bridegroom? …’
The bridal chamber was a small outhouse at the end of the lean-to. Someone got the door open, someone else went to find the bridegroom at the end of the garden.
Maigret was observing the real husband, who was smiling.
‘First the garter!’ someone shouted.
It was Monsieur Basso who removed the garter, cut it up into small pieces and distributed them among the crowd. The bride and groom were bundled into the outhouse and the door locked behind them.
‘She’s enjoying herself …’ murmured Maigret’s companion. ‘Are you married yourself?’
‘Oh, yes …’
‘Is your wife here?’
‘No … she’s on holiday.’
‘Does she like being with young people too?’
Maigret couldn’t tell if he was being serious or teasing. He took advantage of a lapse in conversation to cross the garden, passing close to the factory worker and his girlfriend, who were pressed up against a tree.
In the kitchen James was talking pleasantly with the old woman while drying glasses, and emptying them.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked Maigret. ‘Have you seen my wife?’
‘I haven’t noticed her.’
‘Hard to miss her, surely.’
The night wound down quickly. It must have been around one in the morning. Some people started talking about making a move. Someone was being sick by the river. The bride had regained her freedom. Only the younger members of the group were still dancing.
The carriage driver came up to James.
‘Do you think it’ll be much longer? The old woman’s been waiting for me for an hour …’
‘You’re married too?’
So James rounded everyone up. In the carriages, some people started nodding off to sleep, while others were trying to keep the party spirit going, singing and laughing with varying degrees of conviction.
They passed a line of sleeping barges. A train whistled in the distance. They slowed down when they reached the bridge.
The Bassos got out at their villa. The haberdasher had already left the group at Seine-Port. A woman was whispering to her husband, who was drunk:
‘I’ll tell you tomorrow what you got up to! … Shut up! … I’m not listening! …’
The sky was sprinkled with stars, which were reflected in the water of the river. At the Vieux-Garçon, everyone was asleep. Handshakes all round.
‘Are you coming sailing tomorrow?’
‘We’re going fishing.’
‘Goodnight.’
A row of bedrooms. Maigret asked James:
‘Is one of these for me?’
‘Take your pick! … See if you can find an empty one … If not, you can always sleep in my room.’
Lights went on in a few windows. The sound of shoes being dropped on the floor. The squeak of bedsprings. A couple whispered loudly in one of the rooms. Perhaps the woman who had a thing or two to say to her husband?
It was eleven o’clock in the morning. Now they all looked like themselves. It was hot and sunny. The waitresses dressed in black and white bustled round the terrace, laying tables.
The group began to reassemble. Some were still in pyjamas, others in sailors’ outfits, others still in flannels.
‘Hung over?’
‘Not too bad … And you?’
Some had already set off to go fishing, or had already returned. There were some small sailing-dinghies and canoes.
The haberdasher was wearing a well-tailored grey suit. Clearly a man who liked to appear well-groomed in public. He spotted Maigret and came over.
‘Allow me to introduce myself: Monsieur Feinstein … I mentioned my shop yesterday … My professional name is Marcel.’
‘Did you sleep well?’
‘No, I didn’t! As I thought, my wife had made herself ill … It’s always the same … She knows she doesn’t have a robust constitution …’
Why did he seem so interested in Maigret’s reaction?
‘Have you seen her this morning?’
He looked around and finally spotted her in a sailing-boat with four or five people in bathing costumes. Monsieur Basso was at the helm.
‘Is this your first visit to Morsang? … It’s very nice. You’ll want to come back, you’ll see … We’ll have the place to ourselves … Just the usual crowd, friends … Do you play bridge?’
‘Oh … a bit …’
‘We’ll be having a game later … Do you know Monsieur Basso? … One of the biggest coal merchants in Paris … A splendid chap! … That’s his dinghy coming in now … Madame Basso is very sporty.’
‘And James?’
‘Already on the booze, I shouldn’t wonder. It’s all he lives for. And he’s still a young man, he could be doing something with his life. He’d rather take it easy. He works for an English bank in Place Vendôme. He’s been offered loads of jobs, turned them all down. He insists on finishing work at four so he can hit the bars in Rue Royale.’
‘And that young man over there – the tall one?’
‘The son of a jeweller.’
‘And the man over there fishing?’
‘Runs a plumbing business. He’s the keenest fisherman in Morsang. Some of us play bridge, others like fishing, others prefer sailing. It all makes for a good crowd. Some people have their own villas out here.’
In the distance, at the first bend in the river, stood the tiny white house. One could just make out the lean-to with its mechanical piano.
‘Does everyone go to the Two-Penny Bar?’
‘It’s been our haunt for the last two years. James was the one who discovered it. Before that it was just used by workers from Corbeil, who came here to dance on Sundays. James used to slip off there for a quiet drink when things got too boisterous around here. One day the gang went with him, had a bit of a dance, and that’s how it all started. We’ve pretty much taken over the place … the former clientele has more or less drifted away.’
A waitress walked by with a tray full of aperitifs. Someone dived into the river. A frying smell came from the kitchen.
And there was smoke rising from the chimney of the Two-Penny Bar. A face came to Maigret’s mind: thin, dark moustache, pointed teeth, quivering nostrils … Jean Lenoir pacing up and down to hide his fear, talking about the Two-Penny Bar.
‘There are others who deserve this, and I wish they were going down with me!’
But the next day, at the crack of dawn, he was alone. No one from the bar was there with him.
Despite the heat, Maigret felt a sudden chill. And he looked at this dapper haberdasher with his gold-tipped cigarette with fresh eyes. Then he turned to where the Bassos’ boat was being moored at the bank, half-naked people leaping ashore to greet their friends with handshakes.
‘May I introduce you to our friends?’ said Monsieur Feinstein. ‘Monsieur …?’
‘Maigret. I’m a civil servant.’
The introductions were very proper: short bows, exchanges of ‘Pleased to meet you’ and ‘The pleasure is all mine’.
‘You were there yesterday evening, weren’t you? I thought the whole thing went splendidly. Are you playing bridge with us this afternoon?’
A thin young man came up to Monsieur Feinstein, took him to one side and spoke to him in a low voice. None of this was lost on Maigret. He saw Feinstein frown; he looked somewhat alarmed. He inspected Maigret from head to foot before adopting his normal demeanour.
The group went up to
the terrace to find a table.
‘Pernods all round? Hey, where’s James?’
Monsieur Feinstein was edgy, despite his efforts to remain calm. He paid particular attention to Maigret.
‘What are you drinking?’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘You …’
His sentence tailed off, and he pretended that something else had caught his attention. After a pause, he tried coming from a different angle:
‘It’s odd that you should have landed up at Morsang …’
‘Yes, very strange …’ the inspector agreed.
The drinks were served. Everyone was talking over each other. Madame Feinstein had placed her foot on Monsieur Basso’s, and her bright eyes were fixed on his.
‘Such a lovely day. What a shame that the water is too clear for fishing.’
The air was clammy and still. Maigret remembered a shaft of sunlight penetrating a high white cell.
Lenoir walking and walking to forget that he wouldn’t be walking for much longer.
And Maigret’s gaze rested heavily on each face in turn: Monsieur Basso, the haberdasher, the businessman, James, who had just arrived, the young men and women …
He tried to picture each of them in turn, by the Canal Saint-Martin at night, carrying a corpse ‘like a shop dummy and trying to make it look like it’s your friend walking next to you’.
‘Your good health,’ said Monsieur Feinstein, maintaining his fixed smile for as long as he could.
3. The Two Boats
Maigret had lunch on his own on the terrace of the Vieux-Garçon. The rest of the group sat at adjoining tables, and the conversation flowed between them.
He had now established the social background of this crowd: tradesmen, owners of small businesses, an engineer, two doctors. They were people who owned their own cars, but who only had Sundays off for unwinding in the countryside.
They all owned boats – either motor-boats or small dinghies. They were all keen on fishing.
They lived here for twenty-four hours every week, dressed in their sailing gear, wandering around barefoot or in sandals. Some of them affected the rolling gait of old sea-dogs.
More couples than young people. They displayed the rather deep familiarity of people who have been spending every Sunday together for years.
James was everyone’s favourite, the person who bound them all together. With his casual manner, his ruddy complexion and his dreamy eyes, he only had to make an appearance to put everyone in a good mood.
‘How’s the hangover, James?’
‘I never get hangovers. If I feel queasy, I find a couple of Pernods usually sort it out.’
They started reliving the night before. They had a laugh about someone who had been sick, and another who had almost fallen into the Seine on the way back. Maigret was part of the group without really belonging. The previous evening, everyone had talked to him like an old friend; now they eyed him a little more cautiously, occasionally involving him in the conversation out of politeness.
‘Do you like fishing?’
The Bassos were having lunch at home. The Feinsteins too, and a few others who had their own villas. Thus the group fell into two classes: those who owned villas and those who stayed at the inn.
Around two o’clock the haberdasher came to fetch Maigret; he seemed to have taken him under his wing.
‘We’re waiting for you to come and play bridge.’
‘At your place?’
‘At the Bassos’! We were supposed to play at my place today, but the maid is sick, so we’ll be better off at the Bassos’ … Are you coming, James?’
‘I’ll come in the boat.’
The Bassos’ villa was a kilometre upstream. Maigret and Feinstein went on foot, while the rest went by dinghy or canoe.
‘Basso’s a fine fellow, don’t you think?’
Maigret couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not. He was a strange one. Neither one thing nor the other: neither old nor young, neither good-looking nor ugly; maybe without a single original thought in his head, yet maybe full of secrets.
‘I expect we’ll be seeing you every Sunday from now on?’
They came across groups of people picnicking, as well as fishermen every hundred metres or so along the river bank. It was getting hotter. The air was extraordinarily still and oppressive.
In the Bassos’ garden wasps buzzed around the flowers. There were three cars parked there already. The young boy was playing by the riverbank.
‘You’re joining our game?’ the coal merchant asked Maigret as he greeted him cordially. ‘Excellent! In which case we don’t need to wait for James. He’ll never get any wind in his sail on a day like today.’
Everything was brand new. The villa was like a city dweller’s fantasy: a profusion of red-checked curtains, old Norman furniture and rustic pottery.
The card table was set up in a living room that opened on to the garden through a large bay window. Bottles of Vouvray were chilling in an ice bucket frosted with condensation. Bottles of liqueur were set out on a tray. Madame Basso, dressed in a nautical outfit, did the honours.
‘Brandy, quetsche, mirabelle? Unless you’d rather have a Vouvray?’
There were vague introductions to the other players, not all of whom had been present the night before, but who were still part of the Sunday crowd.
‘Monsieur … er …’
‘Maigret.’
‘Monsieur Maigret, who plays bridge …’
It was almost like the set of a light opera, so vivid and spruce was the décor. Nothing to remind you of the serious business of life. The child had clambered into a white-painted canoe, and his mother called out:
‘Be careful, Pierrot!’
‘I’m going to meet James!’
‘A cigar, Monsieur Maigret? If you prefer a pipe, there is some tobacco in this pot. Don’t worry, my wife is used to it.’
Directly opposite on the other bank stood the Two-Penny Bar.
The first part of the afternoon passed uneventfully. Maigret noticed, however, that Monsieur Basso wasn’t playing and that he appeared a little more on edge than this morning.
He didn’t look like the nervous type. He was tall and well built and seemed to ooze vitality through every pore. A man who loved life, a rough and ready sort from sturdy working-class stock.
Monsieur Feinstein played bridge like a real aficionado and called Maigret to task on more than one occasion.
At around three o’clock the Morsang crowd began to fill the garden, and then the room where they were playing. Someone put on a record. Madame Basso poured out the Vouvray, and fifteen minutes later there were half a dozen couples dancing around the bridge players.
At that moment Monsieur Feinstein, who had seemed completely absorbed by the game, murmured:
‘Hey, what’s happened to our friend Basso?’
‘I think I saw him get into a boat!’ someone said.
Maigret followed the haberdasher’s gaze to the opposite bank of the river, where a small boat had just arrived right next to the Two-Penny Bar. Monsieur Basso climbed out of it and walked up towards the inn. He returned a short while later, looking preoccupied, despite his ostensible air of good humour.
Another incident which passed almost unnoticed. Monsieur Feinstein was winning at cards. Madame Feinstein was dancing with Basso, who had just come back. James, a glass of Vouvray in his hand, joked:
‘Some people couldn’t lose if they tried.’
The haberdasher didn’t flinch. He dealt out the cards. Maigret was watching his hands, and they were as steady as ever.
Another hour or two went past. The dancers were getting tired. Some of the guests had gone for a swim. James, who had lost at cards, stood up and muttered:
‘How about a change of scen
e? Anyone for the Two-Penny Bar?’
He bumped into Maigret on the way out.
‘Come with me.’
He had reached that level of drunkenness that he never went beyond, no matter how much he drank. The others all stood up. A young man cupped his hands around his mouth and called out:
‘Everyone to the Two-Penny Bar!’
‘Careful you don’t fall!’
James helped the inspector to climb into his six-metre sailing boat, pushed off with a boat-hook and sat down in the stern.
There wasn’t a breath of wind. The sail flapped. They struggled against the current, even though it was virtually non-existent.
‘We’re not in any hurry!’
Maigret saw Marcel Basso and Feinstein get into the same motor-boat, cross the river in no time and step out in front of the bar.
Then came the dinghies and the canoes. Though it had set out first, James’s boat soon brought up the rear, because of the lack of wind, and the Englishman seemed reluctant to use the oars.
‘They’re a good bunch,’ James suddenly murmured, as if following his own line of thought.
‘Who?’
‘All of them. They have such boring lives. But what can you do about that? Everyone’s life is boring.’
It was ironic, for as he lolled in the back of the boat with the sun glinting off his bald pate, he looked supremely content.
‘Is it true you’re a policeman?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I can’t remember. I heard someone mention it. Hey, it’s just a job like any other.’
James tightened the sail, which had caught a breath of wind. It was six o’clock. The Morsang clock was striking, and was answered by the one at Seine-Port. The bank was obstructed by reeds, which were teeming with insects. The sun was beginning to turn red.
‘What do you …’
James’s question was cut short by a sharp crack. Maigret leapt to his feet, almost overturning the boat.
‘Look out!’ his companion shouted. He threw his weight over to the other side, then grabbed an oar and started rowing. His brow was furrowed, his eyes wide with anxiety.
‘It’s not the hunting season yet.’
The Two-Penny Bar Page 3
