The Two-Penny Bar

by Georges Simenon

  The next day – Thursday – he plodded on with the inquiry with the same lack of enthusiasm.

  He waded through files dating back ten years but found nothing relating to the information Jean Lenoir had given.

  He looked through the legal registers. He rang around the hospitals and sanatoriums in the vague hope of finding Victor, Lenoir’s friend with tuberculosis.

  There were lots of Victors, but not the right one!

  By midday, Maigret had a splitting head but no appetite. He had lunch in Place Dauphin, in a little restaurant popular with police officers. Then he phoned Morsang, where policemen had been posted outside the Bassos’ villa.

  No sign. Madame Basso was carrying on with life as normal with her son. She read all the papers. The villa didn’t have a telephone.

  At five o’clock, Maigret came out of the apartment block on the Avenue Niel. He had come on the off chance of digging something up, but hadn’t found anything.

  Then mechanically, as if he’d already been doing it for years, he headed off to the Taverne Royale, where he was greeted by James, and sat down beside him.

  ‘What’s new?’ James asked him, then before he could answer called out: ‘Two Pernods!’

  The storm was behind schedule today. The streets remained bathed in sunlight. Coachloads of tourists drove past.

  ‘The most straightforward hypothesis,’ Maigret murmured, as if to himself, ‘the one the newspapers seem to favour, is that Basso was attacked by his companion for some reason or another, grabbed hold of the gun that was pointed at him and shot the haberdasher …’

  ‘Which is rubbish.’

  Maigret looked at James, who also seemed to be talking to himself.

  ‘Why do you say it’s rubbish?’

  ‘Because if Feinstein had wanted to kill Basso, he’d have been a bit more calculating than that. He was a cool customer, a skilful bridge player.’

  The inspector couldn’t help smiling at the serious tone in which James said this.

  ‘So what’s your theory?’

  ‘I don’t exactly have a theory. Just that Basso should never have got involved with Mado. You can tell just by looking at her that she’s not the sort of woman who lets a man go easily, once she’s got her claws into him.’

  ‘Had her husband shown any signs of being jealous?’

  ‘What, him?’

  And James gave Maigret a curious look. There was an ironic twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  James shrugged his shoulders and murmured:

  ‘It’s none of my business. Besides, if he was the jealous type, then most of the Morsang gang would be dead by now.’

  ‘You mean they were all …?’

  ‘Well, not all. Let’s not exaggerate. Let’s just say that Mado danced with everyone, and when you danced with Mado, you could end up disappearing into the bushes.’

  ‘Including you?’

  ‘I don’t dance,’ James replied.

  ‘If what you say is true, then Feinstein must have known.’

  The Englishman sighed.

  ‘I don’t know! But he did owe all of them money.’

  At first sight, James came across as a drunken oaf. But there was a lot more to him than met the eye.

  Maigret whistled.

  ‘Well, well.’

  ‘Two Pernods! Two!

  ‘Yes. Mado didn’t even have to know. It was all very discreet. Feinstein tapped his wife’s lovers for money, without letting on that he knew, but leaving the implication hanging in the air …’

  They didn’t talk much after that. The storm still hadn’t broken. Maigret drank his Pernods, his eyes fixed on the crowds flowing past in the street outside. He was comfortably ensconced in his chair, turning over in his mind this new complexion on the case.

  ‘Eight o’clock! …’

  James shook his hand and set off, just at the moment the storm was beginning to break.

  By Friday it had become a daily habit. Maigret headed for the Taverne Royale almost without realizing it. At one point, he couldn’t resist asking:

  ‘Don’t you ever go home after work? Between five and eight you seem to …’

  ‘You have to have a little bolt-hole to call your own,’ James sighed.

  And James’s bolt-hole was a café terrace, a marble-topped table, a cloudy aperitif; his view was the columns of the Madeleine, the waiters’ white aprons and the crowds and traffic in the street.

  ‘How long have you been married?’

  ‘Eight years.’

  Maigret didn’t dare ask him whether he loved his wife. In any case, James would probably say yes. Only after eight o’clock! After the bolt-hole!

  Maigret wondered whether they were starting to become friends.

  Today they didn’t discuss the case. Maigret drank his three Pernods. He needed to blot out the hard day he’d had. His life was clogged up with trivial problems.

  It was the holidays, and he was having to fill in for several absent colleagues. And the examining magistrate in the Two-Penny Bar case never gave him a moment’s peace. He had sent him to interrogate Mado Feinstein for a second time, told him to examine the haberdasher’s books and to question Basso’s employees.

  The police were already short-handed, and a number of officers were pinned down watching the places where the fugitive was likely to show up. This all put the chief in a bad mood.

  ‘Haven’t you got this one sorted out yet?’ he had asked that morning.

  Maigret agreed with James. He sensed that Basso was in Paris. But how had he been able to get hold of money? And if he hadn’t, how was he living? What was he hoping for? What was he expecting to happen? What was he doing with himself?

  His guilt had not been proven. If he had stayed in custody and hired a good lawyer he could have hoped, if not for acquittal, then at least a light sentence. After which he could return to his business, his wife and his son. Instead of that, he was running away, in hiding, and thus giving up all his former life.

  ‘He must have his reasons,’ James had said in his usual philosophical way.

  Don’t let us down. Will be at station. Love.

  It was Saturday. Madame Maigret had sent an affectionate ultimatum. Her husband wasn’t yet sure how to reply. But at five o’clock he was at the Taverne Royale, shaking James’s hand. James ordered as usual:

  ‘Pernod!’

  As on the previous Saturday, there was a rush to the stations – a continuous stream of taxis piled high with luggage, the bustle of people getting away on holiday.

  ‘Are you going to Morsang?’

  ‘Yes, as usual.’

  ‘It’ll be a strange atmosphere.’

  The inspector wanted to go to Morsang himself. On the other hand, he wanted to see his wife, to go trout fishing in the rivers of Alsace, to breathe in the lovely smells of his sister-in-law’s house.

  He couldn’t make his mind up. He vaguely observed James get up and head to the back of the bar.

  There was nothing unusual in this. He thought nothing of it and barely registered the fact that his companion returned after a few moments and sat down again.

  Five, ten minutes went past. A waiter approached.

  ‘Is one of you two gentlemen Monsieur Maigret?’

  ‘That’s me. What is it?’

  ‘A phone call for you …’

  Maigret stood up and went to the back of the bar, frowning; despite his inebriation, he could smell something fishy. When he went into the box, he turned round to see James looking at him from the terrace.

  ‘Strange,’ he muttered. ‘Hello! … Hello! … This is Maigret … Who’s calling? …’

  He started to snap his fingers impatiently. Finally there was a woman’s voice at the other end of the line.
<
br />   ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Hello … who’s there?’

  ‘This is the operator. Which number do you require?’

  ‘But you called me, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Not so, monsieur. This number hasn’t been rung for at least ten minutes. Please hang up.’

  He bashed the door open with his fist. Outside, in the shade of the terrace, there was a man standing next to James. It was Marcel Basso. He looked different in new, ill-fitting clothes. He was keeping an anxious eye on the door of the phone box.

  He saw Maigret at the same moment the latter spotted him. Maigret saw his lips move – a few quick words – then he dashed off into the crowds outside.

  ‘How many calls?’ the cashier asked the inspector.

  But Maigret was running. The terrace was crowded, he had to weave his way through, and by the time he reached the street there was no way of knowing in which direction Basso had fled. There were dozens of taxis out on the street – had he hopped into one of them? Or even leaped on to a passing bus? …

  Maigret returned to his table, scowling. He sat down without a word, without looking at James, who hadn’t moved a muscle. A waiter approached.

  ‘The cashier would like to know how many calls you made.’

  ‘Damn!’

  He noticed a smile on James’s lips and said crossly:

  ‘Congratulations!’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘How long did it take you to hatch this little scheme?’

  ‘It was pretty much off the cuff. Waiter, two Pernods! And some cigarettes!’

  ‘What did he say to you? What did he want?’

  James leaned back in his chair and merely sighed, as if he couldn’t see the point of this conversation.

  ‘Money? And where did he get hold of that suit he was wearing?’

  ‘He can’t be expected to walk round Paris in white flannels!’

  That was indeed what Basso was wearing when he ran away at Seine-Port station. James forgot nothing.

  ‘Have you contacted him prior to today?’

  ‘He contacted me!’

  ‘And you have nothing to say?’

  ‘You’d do the same as me. I’ve been a guest at his house hundreds of times. He’s never done me any harm!’

  ‘Did he want money?’

  ‘He’s been watching us for half an hour. I thought I saw him yesterday across the road. He just didn’t dare come over.’

  ‘So you had me summoned to the phone.’

  ‘He seemed tired.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘It’s weird how different clothes can change a man …’ James sighed, evading the question.

  Maigret observed him out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘Are you aware that, by rights, you could be arrested for aiding and abetting?’

  ‘There are lots of things you can do by rights. But rights aren’t always right.’

  He was clowning around as usual.

  ‘Waiter, where are those Pernods?’

  ‘Coming!’

  ‘Are you coming down to Morsang? Because if you are, we may as well get a taxi. It’s only a hundred francs, and the train costs …’

  ‘What about your wife?’

  ‘She always comes by taxi, with her sister and her friends. Five of them, that works out at twenty francs a head, whereas the train costs …’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Coming or not?’

  ‘I’m coming. Waiter, how much is that?’

  ‘Excuse me. Separate bills, as usual.’

  It was a matter of principle. Maigret paid for his own drinks, James for his. He added ten francs for the ‘phone call’.

  In the taxi, James appeared preoccupied. When they reached Villejuif, he revealed what was on his mind:

  ‘I wonder where we’ll be playing bridge tomorrow afternoon.’

  It was time for the storm. The first drops of rain began to streak the windscreen.

  5. The Doctor’s Car

  They might have expected to find a different atmosphere at Morsang. It had only been the previous Sunday that the events had taken place. One of the group was now dead, another was a wanted murderer.

  Nevertheless, when James and Maigret arrived, they found a group of people standing around a new car, admiring it. They had exchanged their weekday clothes for their sports gear. Only the doctor was still dressed in a suit.

  It was his car, and he was giving it its first outing. Everyone was asking questions, and he was extolling its special features.

  ‘Yes, it does guzzle more gas, but …’

  Almost everyone had a car. The doctor’s was brand new.

  ‘The engine purrs, just listen to this …’

  His wife was sitting contentedly inside the car, happy to let the confab take its course. Doctor Mertens was about thirty, skinny as a rake, as limp-wristed as a sickly young girl.

  ‘Is that your new car?’ James asked, bursting into the conversation.

  He strode around it, muttering to himself inaudibly.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind taking it for a spin tomorrow. Is that all right with you?’

  One would have thought that Maigret’s presence would disturb them. They hardly noticed he was there! They all felt so at home at the inn, they came and went as they pleased.

  ‘Your wife not with you, James?’

  ‘She’s coming with Marcelle and Lili.’

  They took their canoes out of the garage. Someone was repairing a fishing-rod with some silk cord. They all did their own thing until dinnertime. There wasn’t much conversation during the meal, just the odd exchange here and there.

  ‘Is Madame Basso at home?’

  ‘What a week she must have had!’

  ‘What are we doing tomorrow?’

  Maigret was like a spare part. Everyone avoided him, without making it too obvious. When James wasn’t with him, he would wander the terrace or the riverbank alone. When night fell he slipped off to check with the officers who were guarding the Bassos’ villa.

  There were two of them on duty. They took it in turn to take their meals in a bistro in Seine-Port, two kilometres away. When the inspector arrived, the one who was off duty was fishing.

  ‘Anything to report?’

  ‘Not a thing. She keeps herself to herself. Every now and again she takes a tour round the garden. The tradesmen have been calling as usual: the baker at nine, the butcher a short while later, then the greengrocer comes by with his cart around eleven.’

  There was a light on on the ground floor. They could make out the silhouette of the boy drinking his soup with a serviette tied around his neck. The policemen were stationed in a little wood on the riverbank. The one who was fishing said:

  ‘This place is teeming with rabbits. If we weren’t on a job …’

  Opposite, the Two-Penny Bar, where two couples – probably workers from Corbeil – were dancing to the strains of the mechanical piano.

  A Sunday morning like any other at Morsang, with anglers all along the banks, others sitting immobile in green-painted dinghies anchored at both ends, canoes, a couple of sailing-boats.

  It was a well-ordered routine that nothing was going to disrupt.

  The countryside was pretty, the sky was clear, everyone was at peace. Perhaps that’s why the scene was as sickly as an overly sweet dessert.

  Maigret found James dressed in a blue-and-white-striped sweater, white trousers and espadrilles, with an American sailing cap perched on his head. He was sipping a large glass of brandy and water by way of breakfast.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’

  Maigret noticed one amusing detail: in Paris, he always addressed Maigret with the formal vous. Here in Morsang, he used the familiar tu for everyone, includin
g the inspector, without even realizing.

  ‘What are you up to this morning?’

  ‘I think I’ll drop in on the Two-Penny Bar.’

  ‘I’ll see you there. Apparently we’ve arranged a get-together there for pre-lunch drinks. Do you want to borrow a canoe?’

  Maigret was the only one in dark city clothes. He was given a small flat-bottomed boat which he had great trouble keeping steady. When he arrived at the Two-Penny Bar, it was ten o’clock in the morning, and there wasn’t a customer in sight.

  Or rather, there was one, in the kitchen munching on a hunk of bread and a fat sausage. The old woman was saying to him:

  ‘You want to take better care. One of my lads didn’t look after himself properly and it killed him. And he was bigger and stronger than you!’

  At that moment the customer had a coughing fit and couldn’t swallow his mouthful of bread. As he was coughing, he noticed Maigret standing at the door and he frowned.

  ‘A bottle of beer!’ said the inspector.

  ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to sit out on the terrace?’

  No, he preferred the kitchen, with its table scored by knife marks, its rush chairs and its stove on which a large pot was bubbling away.

  ‘My son has gone off to Corbeil to chase up some bottles of soda water they forgot to deliver. Would you help me open the trapdoor?’

  The trapdoor in the middle of the kitchen was opened to reveal the gaping hole of a damp cellar. The stooping old woman went down into it while the customer never took his eyes off Maigret.

  He was a pale, thin young man of about twenty-five with blond stubble on his cheeks. He had deep-set eyes and thin, colourless lips.

  But what was most striking about him was what he was wearing. He wasn’t dressed in rags, like a vagabond. Nor did he have that insolent look of the professional tramp.

  No, he displayed a strange mixture of shyness and self-confidence. He was humble and aggressive at the same time. He was both clean and dirty.

  His clothes were neat and well kept, even though he looked as if he had been on the road for days.

  ‘Show me your papers, please.’

  Maigret had no need to identify himself as a policeman. The boy had grasped that straight away. He took a grubby army identity card from his pocket. The inspector read the name under his breath: