The Two-Penny Bar (5 page)

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.'

‘It came from behind the bar!' said Maigret.

As they drew closer they could hear the tinkle of the mechanical piano and an anguished voice shouting:

‘Turn the music off! Turn the music off!'

There were people running. A couple was still dancing, even after the piano was switched off. The old grandmother was coming out of the house, carrying a bucket in her hand. She stood stock-still, trying to work out what was going on.

Because of the reeds it was difficult to land. In his haste, Maigret stepped into the water up to his knee. James came after him with his supple stride, mumbling to himself inaudibly.

They only had to follow the group of people heading behind the lean-to that served as the dance hall. Round the back of the shed they found a man staring wide-eyed at the crowd, stammering over and over:

‘It wasn't me! …'

It was Basso. He seemed unaware that he was holding a small, pearl-handled revolver in his hand.

‘Where's my wife? …' he asked the people around him, as if he didn't recognize them.

Some people went to look for her. Someone said:

‘She stayed at home to prepare dinner …'

Maigret had to push his way to the front before he saw
a figure lying in the long grass, dressed in a grey suit and a straw hat.

Far from being tragic, the scene had an air of absurdity, with everyone standing around not knowing what to do. They stood there looking in bewildered fashion at Basso, who seemed just as bewildered as they.

To cap it all, one of the members of the group, who was a doctor, was standing right next to the body but hadn't made a move. He was looking at the others, as if waiting for instructions.

There was, however, a small moment of tragedy after all. The body suddenly twitched. The legs seemed to be trying to bend. The shoulders twisted back. A part of Monsieur Feinstein's face came into view. Then, as if in one last effort, he
stiffened, then slowly became immobile.

The man had just died.

‘Check his heart,' Maigret told the doctor curtly.

The inspector, who was not unfamiliar with such events, caught every detail of the scene. He saw everything at once, with an almost unreal clarity.

Someone had fallen to the ground at the back of the crowd, wailing piteously. It was Madame Feinstein, who had been the last to arrive because she had been the last to stop dancing. Some people were bending over her. The landlord of the bar was
approaching with the suspicious expression of a distrustful peasant.

Monsieur Basso was breathing quickly, pumping air into his lungs. He suddenly noticed the revolver in his clenched fist. He appeared stupefied. He looked at each
of the persons around him in turn, as if wondering to whom he
should give the gun. He repeated:

‘It wasn't me …'

He was still looking round for his wife, despite what he had been told.

‘Dead,' said the doctor as he stood up.

‘A bullet?'

‘Here …'

And he pointed to the wound in the side, then looked round for his own wife, who was dressed in only a swimming-costume.

‘Do you have a telephone?' Maigret asked the landlord.

‘No. You have to go to the station … or up to the lock.'

Marcel Basso was wearing white flannel trousers, and his shirt was partly unbuttoned, showing off the broadness of his chest.

He rocked slightly on his feet, reached out a hand as if looking for some support, then suddenly slumped down in the grass less than three metres from the corpse and laid his head in his hands.

The comic note returned. A thin female voice piped up:

‘He's crying! …'

She thought she was whispering, but everyone heard.

‘Do you have a bicycle?' Maigret asked the landlord.

‘Of course.'

‘Then cycle up to the lock and alert the police.'

‘At Corbeil or at Cesson?'

‘It doesn't matter!'

Maigret observed Basso, feeling a little troubled. He took the revolver: only one bullet had been fired.

It was a woman's revolver, pretty, like a piece of jewellery. The bullets were tiny, nickel-plated. Yet it had only taken one to end the life of the haberdasher.

There was hardly any blood. A reddish stain on his summer jacket. Otherwise, he was as neat and tidy as usual.

‘Mado has taken a turn, back in the house!' a young man cried out.

Mado was Madame Feinstein, whom they had laid on the innkeeper's tall bed. Everyone was watching Maigret. He felt a chill when a voice called out from the riverbank:

‘Cooeey! … Where are you?'

It was Pierrot, Basso's son, who was getting out of a canoe and was looking for the group.

‘Quickly! Don't let him come round!'

Marcel Basso was gathering himself together. He uncovered his face and stood up, confused by his recent show of weakness, and once again seemed to look for the person to whom he should be speaking.

‘I'm a policeman,' Maigret told him.

‘You know … It wasn't me …'

‘Would you care to follow me?'

The inspector spoke to the doctor:

‘I'm relying on you to make sure no one touches the body. And I would like to ask the rest of you to leave me and Monsieur Basso alone.'

The whole scene had been dragged out like a slow, badly directed play in the bright glare and oppressive atmosphere of the afternoon.

Some anglers passed by on the towpath, their catches
in baskets slung over their shoulders. Basso walked by Maigret's side.

‘I just can't believe it …'

There was no spring in his step. When they turned the corner of the lean-to they saw the river, the villa on the opposite bank and Madame Basso rearranging the wicker chairs that had been left out in the garden.

‘Mummy wants the key to the cellar,' the little boy shouted from his canoe.

But the man didn't reply. His expression changed to that of a hunted animal.

‘Tell him where the key is.'

He summoned up his strength and called out:

‘Hanging on a hook in the garage!'

‘What's that?'

‘On a hook in the garage!'

And his words echoed faintly:

‘… rage!'

‘What happened between you?' asked Maigret as they went inside the lean-to with the mechanical piano, empty but for the glasses left on the tables.

‘I don't know …'

‘Whose revolver is it?'

‘It's not mine! … Mine is still in my car.'

‘Did Feinstein attack you?'

A long silence. Then he sighed.

‘I don't know! I didn't do anything! … I … I swear I didn't kill him.'

‘You were holding the gun when …'

‘I know … I don't know how that happened …'

‘Are you saying someone else pulled the trigger?'

‘No … I … You don't know how awful this is for me …'

‘Did Feinstein kill himself?'

‘He …'

He sat down on a bench and put his head in his hands once more. He grabbed an unfinished drink from the table and swallowed it in one go, with a grimace.

‘What happens next? Are you going to arrest me?'

He stared at Maigret, his brow furrowed:

‘But how did you happen to be there? You couldn't have known …'

He was struggling to make sense of everything, to tie together his tattered thoughts. He grimaced.

‘It's like some sort of trap …'

The white canoe was on its way back from the far bank.

‘Papa! … The key isn't in the garage! … Mummy wants to know …'

Mechanically, Basso felt his pockets. There was a tinkle of metal. He took out his keys and placed them on the table. Maigret took them across to the towpath and called out to the boy:

‘Here! … Catch!'

‘Thank you, monsieur.'

The canoe moved off again. Madame Basso was laying the table for dinner with the help of the maid. Some of the canoes were heading back towards the Vieux-Garçon. The landlord was cycling back from the lock, where he had made the phone call.

‘Are you sure it wasn't you that pulled the trigger?'

Basso shrugged, gave a sigh and didn't reply.

The canoe reached the far bank. They could just make out the child and his mother talking. The maid was sent to fetch something inside the house, and returned almost immediately. Madame Basso took the binoculars from her and trained them on the
Two-Penny Bar.

James was sitting in a corner with the landlord and his family, pouring out large glasses of brandy and stroking the cat that had nestled in his lap.

It had been a dreary, tiring week, full of boring chores, time-consuming tasks and countless petty frustrations. Paris remained oppressive, and around six every evening heavy thunderstorms would turn the streets into rivers.

Madame Maigret wrote from her holiday: ‘
The weather's lovely, I've never seen such a crop of sloes
…'

Maigret didn't like being in Paris without his wife. He ate without appetite in whichever restaurant was nearest to hand; he even stayed over in hotels so as not to go back home alone.

The story had all begun in the sun-filled shop on Boulevard Saint-Michel, where Basso was trying on a top hat. Then came the secret rendezvous in a furnished block in the Avenue Niel. A wedding party in the evening at the Two-Penny Bar. A game of
bridge and the unexpected drama …

When the police had arrived on the scene, Maigret, who was off duty, left them to do their job. They had arrested the coal merchant. The prosecutor's office had been informed.

One hour later, Monsieur Basso was sitting between two police sergeants in the little railway station at Seine-Port. The Sunday crowd were all waiting for the train. The sergeant on the right offered him a cigarette.

The lamps had been lit. Night had virtually fallen. When the train had arrived in the station and everyone was crowding to get on, Basso shook off his captors, bustled his way through the crowd, ran across the rails and made for
the woods on the other side.

The policemen couldn't believe their eyes. Only a few moments earlier he had been sitting there quite calm and apparently docile between the pair of them.

Maigret heard about the escape when he got back to Paris. It was an unpleasant night for everyone. The police searched the countryside around Morsang and Seine-Port, set up roadblocks, kept the railway stations under surveillance and questioned
passing motorists. The net spread out over nearly the whole
département
, and weekend ramblers returning home from their walks were astonished to find the gates of Paris manned by police.

Two policemen stood guard outside the Bassos' house in Quai d'Austerlitz; two more in front of the block where the Feinsteins had their private apartment in Boulevard des Batignolles.