The Two-Penny Bar (14 page)

‘… of blackmailing you.'

‘I don't have any proof. He was and he wasn't. He never explicitly said that he knew anything was going on. He never threatened me directly. You know what he was like – an inoffensive little man, wouldn't hurt a fly. A
weedy-looking chap, always smartly dressed, always polite – too polite. That hangdog smile of his … The first time he came to me with a problem concerning a protested bill and begged me to lend him some money. He offered me all sorts of assurances. I did as he asked. I would have done
anyway, even without Mado.

‘However, this turned into something of a routine. I realized it was quite calculated. I tried to refuse. That's when the blackmail began. He took me into his confidence. He said his wife was his only consolation. It was
because of her that he had taken on expenses he couldn't afford and had got himself into this bind, etcetera. And he'd rather kill himself than refuse her anything she wanted. And if he did, what would become of her?

‘Can you believe it? He always managed to show up just after I had left Mado. I was afraid he would be able to smell her perfume on my clothes. One time he picked a woman's hair – one of hers – off the collar of my jacket.

‘He was never threatening. More whining, which is worse! At least you can defend yourself against threats. But what do you do with a man who cries? Yes, I've actually had him in my office in tears.

‘And the things he came out with: “You're young, you're strong, you're good-looking, you're rich … A man like you has no trouble finding someone to love him … But what about me? …” It made me sick. And
yet I could never be absolutely certain that he knew.

‘That Sunday, he had already spoken to me before we played bridge and had asked me to lend him 15,000 francs. It was too much. I wouldn't play ball. I'd had enough. So I just said no, straight out. And I said I wouldn't
see him again if he continued to harass me in this way.

‘So that's how it all blew up, the whole stupid, sordid little mess. If you recall, he arranged it so that we sailed across the river at the same time. He dragged me behind the bar. Then, suddenly, he pulled a small revolver from his
pocket and pointed it at his own head, saying, “This is what you've brought me to … I ask just one thing of you. Take care of Mado when I'm gone …”'

Basso ran his hand across his brow, as if trying to wipe away this wretched memory.

‘It was just bad luck. I felt light-headed that day. Perhaps it was the sun. I went up to him to try to grab the gun.

‘“No, no!” he cried. “You're too late. It's you who have brought me to this!”'

‘Naturally, he had no intention of pulling the trigger,' Maigret muttered.

‘I know. That's why the whole thing is so tragic. I lost my head. I should have left well alone and nothing would have come of it. He'd have burst into tears again, or extricated himself some other way. But no! I was a naive
fool. Like I was with Mado. Like I've always been.

‘I tried to grab the revolver off him. He retreated, but I went after him. I grabbed him by the wrist. Then it happened. The gun went off. Feinstein fell, without a word, without a sound. Dropped like a stone …

‘Not that a jury will believe me. Nor will the judges be any less hard on me. I'll be the man who killed his mistress's husband and then accused the dead man of blackmail.'

He was becoming quite animated.

‘I wanted to run away. And I did. I also wanted to tell my wife everything, ask her whether, in spite of everything, she still wanted me as her husband. I wandered round Paris, hoping to find James. He's a friend, probably my only
real friend in the Morsang crowd.

‘You know the rest. My wife knows too. I'd rather we'd got away abroad and avoided this trial, which will be very painful for all concerned. I have the 300,000 francs here.
What with that and my head for
business, I'd have been able to start afresh somewhere – in Italy, for example, or Egypt.

‘But … do you believe what I've just told you?'

He faltered all of a sudden. But the doubt was merely momentary, so caught up was he in what he was saying.

‘I believe you didn't mean to kill Feinstein,' Maigret replied, slowly, articulating each word carefully.

‘You see! …'

‘Wait a minute. What I want to know is whether or not Feinstein had a stronger card to play than his wife's infidelity. In short …'

He paused while he took the little address book from his pocket and opened it at the letter U.

‘In short, I would like to know who killed a certain Monsieur Ulrich, a second-hand dealer of Rue des Blancs-Manteaux, six years ago, and subsequently threw his body into the Canal Saint-Martin.'

He almost didn't finish his sentence, so violent was the change in Basso's demeanour. So violent, in fact, that he almost lost his balance and, in seeking to grab hold of something, placed his hand on the stove and then withdrew it
with an oath.

‘My God!'

He stared at Maigret, wide-eyed with horror. He recoiled until he bumped into his chair, and he collapsed into it, looking completely drained of strength.

‘My God!'

The door burst open and Madame Basso rushed into the room screaming:

‘Marcel! … Marcel! … It can't be true! … Tell me it's not true!'

He looked at her uncomprehendingly, perhaps not even seeing her. Suddenly he choked; he put his head in his hands and started sobbing.

‘Papa! … Papa!' the child yelped, dashing in to add to the confusion.

Basso didn't hear anything. He pushed away his wife and son. He was totally crushed, unable to control his tears. He sat bent over in his chair, his shoulders heaving in time with his racking sobs.

The child was crying too. Madame Basso bit her lip, sending Maigret a look of pure hatred.

And old Mathilde, who hadn't dared to come in, but who had witnessed everything through the open door, also cried, the way old women cry: short, regular sobs, wiping her eyes with the corner of her checked apron.

Yet despite her tears and sniffles, she managed to put her soup pan back on the stove, stoking the flames to life with a poker.

Scenes like this don't last long. The nervous system can only take so much. Once the crisis has reached its pitch, a sudden flat calm sets in, a calm as numb as the preceding fever was manic.

We are then supposed to feel shame, shame for the frenzy, the tears, for the things we said, as if such emotion were somehow not human.

Maigret waited, feeling awkward, looking out of the little window at the policeman's cap silhouetted against the darkening sky. He was conscious nonetheless of what was going on behind him – Madame Basso going up to her husband, grabbing
him by the shoulders and pleading in her hoarse voice:

‘Just tell me it isn't true!'

Basso sniffed, got to his feet, pushed his wife away and looked around him with the glassy-eyed gaze of a drunk. The door of the stove was open. The old woman was feeding it with coal. It threw a large circle of red light on to the ceiling,
causing the beams to stand out.

The boy looked at his father and, in copycat fashion, stopped crying also.

‘I'm done now … I'm sorry for all that,' said Basso, now standing in the centre of the room.

He seemed poleaxed. His voice dwindled away. He didn't have an ounce of strength left in him.

‘Do you confess?'

‘No, I've got nothing to confess. Listen …'

He looked at his family with a wounded expression, his brow furrowed deeply.

‘I didn't kill Ulrich. The reason I broke down just now was because I … I realized that …'

He was so drained he could hardly find the words.

‘That you couldn't prove your innocence?'

He nodded. Then he said:

‘I didn't kill him.'

‘You said those same words right after Feinstein was killed. Yet you have just confessed to that.'

‘That's different …'

‘Did you know Ulrich?'

A bitter smile.

‘Look at the date on the first page of the notebook. Twelve years ago. It was about ten years ago that I saw Ulrich for the last time.'

He had recovered some of his composure, but his voice still displayed the same despair.

‘My father was still alive. Talk to anyone who knew him and you'll hear what a hard man he was. Strict on himself and on others. I was given a smaller allowance than even the poorest of my friends. So someone took me to see old Ulrich
in Rue des Blancs-Manteaux, who had some experience of these matters.'

‘And you didn't know he was dead?'

Basso said nothing. Maigret repeated his question without drawing breath:

‘You didn't know he had been killed, driven in a car to the Canal Saint-Martin and thrown into the lock?'

Basso didn't reply. His shoulders became even more hunched. He looked at his wife, his son and the old woman, who were laying the table despite their tears, simply because it was dinnertime.

‘What are you going to do?'

‘I'm arresting you. Madame Basso and your son can stay here, or go home.'

Maigret opened the front door and said to the policeman:

‘Bring a car round.'

A crowd of onlookers had gathered in the road, but like the prudent peasants they were, they kept their distance. When Maigret turned round, Madame Basso was in her husband's arms. He was mechanically patting her back, while staring into
space.

‘Promise me you'll take care of yourself,' she murmured. ‘And don't do anything stupid.'

‘Yes.'

‘Swear!'

‘Yes.'

‘Think of your son, Marcel!'

‘Yes,' he repeated with a trace of annoyance in his voice, as he disentangled himself from her embrace.

Was he afraid of being overcome by emotion again? He waited impatiently for the car he had heard Maigret order.
He didn't want to say anything, listen to anything, look at anything. His fingers trembled constantly.

‘You didn't kill this man, did you? Listen to me, Marcel. You have to listen to me. They won't condemn you for … for the other business. You didn't mean to do it. And we can prove that this man was a wicked person.
I'll find a good lawyer straight away. The best …'

She was speaking vehemently. She wanted to make sure she was heard.

‘Everyone knows you're a good man. We can probably get you out on bail. Just don't let it get on top of you. Just remember … that other crime wasn't anything to do with you.'

She looked at Maigret defiantly.

‘I'll see a lawyer tomorrow. I'll get my father up from Nancy, to give me some advice. Come on, we can get through this …'

She didn't realize that she was hurting him, by threatening to remove the last shred of composure he possessed. He was trying to ignore her, straining to hear the sounds from outside. He was aching for the car to arrive.

‘I'll come and see you. I'll bring the boy.'

Finally there was the sound of the car pulling up. Maigret brought the scene to a conclusion.

‘Let's go.'

‘You promised, Marcel!'

She couldn't let him go. She pushed their son towards him, to melt his heart further. Basso was already walking down the three steps outside the house.

Then she grabbed Maigret's arm so firmly she pinched it.

‘Watch him!' she panted. ‘Watch him carefully. Make sure he doesn't kill himself. I know what sort of man he is.'

She noticed the group of onlookers but gave them a bold, unrepentant look.

‘Wait! Your scarf!'

She ran back inside the house to fetch it, and handed it through the window of the car as it was pulling away.

In the car, Basso, now he was in the company of men, seemed to relax slightly. He sat there with Maigret for a good ten minutes without either of them saying a word. It was only when they reached the main road that Maigret spoke, his words
seeming to bear no relation to the drama that had just taken place.

‘You have an admirable wife.'

‘Yes, she understood. Perhaps it is because she is a mother. I don't know that I'd be able to explain why I got involved with … with that woman.'

There was a pause. Then he continued in a confidential tone:

‘At the time, you don't think. It's a game, and you don't quite have the courage to break it off. You're afraid there'll be a scene, you're scared of the recriminations. And so this is where you end
up.'

There was nothing to see out of the window except the trees flashing past, illuminated by the car's headlights. Maigret filled his pipe and offered Basso his tobacco pouch.

‘No, thank you. I only smoke cigarettes.'

It helped somehow to have some ordinary conversation.

‘I noticed you had a dozen or so pipes in your drawer at home.'

‘Yes. At one time I used to be a keen pipe-smoker. My wife asked me to stop …'