The Two-Penny Bar

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Well?’

  The concierge was still there. She spoke in hushed tones.

  ‘Nothing! He’s dead!’

  ‘Monsieur de Saint-Marc has just been called upstairs.’

  There was a commotion in the apartment. Doors were slamming. There was the sound of running footsteps.

  ‘She’s so frail!’

  ‘Yes!’ muttered Maigret, scratching the back of his neck. ‘Only that’s not the issue. Do you have any idea who could have entered the office?’

  ‘Me? How would I …?’

  ‘Excuse me, but from your lodge at the entrance to the building, you must see the residents coming and going.’

  ‘I ought to! Now if the landlord gave me a decent lodge and put in proper lighting … I can only just hear footsteps and, yes, at night I see shadows … There are some footsteps I’m able to recognize.’

  ‘Have you noticed anything unusual since six o’clock?’

  ‘Nothing! Nearly all the residents came down to empty their rubbish. The bins are here, to the left of my lodge. Do you see the four dustbins? They’re not allowed to come down before seven p.m.’

  ‘And nobody came in via the archway?’

  ‘How would I know? It’s obvious you don’t know this building. There are twenty-eight residents. Not counting the Couchet laboratory, where people are coming and going all the time.’

  Footsteps in the entrance. A man in a bowler hat entered the courtyard, turned left and, going over to the dustbins, grabbed an empty bin. Despite the darkness, he must have spotted Maigret and the concierge, since he froze for a second, and then said, ‘Nothing for me?’

  ‘Nothing, Monsieur Martin.’

  And Maigret asked, ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Monsieur Martin, a Registry Office official who lives on the second floor with his wife.’

  ‘How come his rubbish bin—?’

  ‘Nearly all of them do that when they have to go out. They bring the bin down on the way out and pick it up when they come back. Did you hear that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It sounded like … like a baby crying. If only those two up there would turn off that wretched gramophone! They know perfectly well that Madame de Saint-Marc’s giving birth.’

  She hurried over to the staircase, which someone was descending.

  ‘Well, doctor? Is it a boy?’

  ‘A girl.’

  And the doctor left. He could be heard starting up his car and driving off.

  Day-to-day life went on. The dark courtyard. The archway and its feeble bulb. The lighted windows and the vague sound of music from a gramophone.

  The dead man was still in his office, all alone, his head resting on scattered papers.

  Suddenly there was a scream from the second floor. A piercing shriek, like a desperate call for help. But the concierge didn’t react. She sighed as she pushed open the door to her lodge, ‘There goes the madwoman again.’

  Then it was her turn to shout, because one of her kids had broken a plate. The light revealed the concierge’s thin, tired face, her ageless body.

  ‘When will all the formalities begin?’ she asked.

  The tobacconist’s opposite was still open, and a few minutes later Maigret shut himself inside the telephone booth. He issued instructions in hushed tones.

  ‘Yes, the public prosecutor … 61 … Almost on the corner of Rue de Turenne … and inform the forensics department … Hello! … Yes, I’m remaining at the scene.’

  He walked a few steps and mechanically passed under the archway and ended up standing glumly in the middle of the courtyard, hunching his shoulders against the cold.

  One by one the lighted windows went dark. The silhouette of the dead man could still be seen through the frosted glass like a Chinese shadow puppet.

  A taxi pulled up. It wasn’t the public prosecutor yet. A young woman crossed the courtyard with hurried steps, leaving a whiff of perfume in her wake, and pushed open the door to Couchet’s office.

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