The Two-Penny Bar (7 page)

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.

‘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.

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, including 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:

‘Victor Gaillard!'

He calmly closed the card and returned it to its owner. The old woman came back up from the cellar and closed the trapdoor.

‘Nice and cold,' she said, opening the bottle of beer.

And she went back to peeling potatoes while the two men began talking in a steady, dispassionate tone.

‘Last address?'

‘The municipal sanatorium in Gien.'

‘When did you leave?'

‘A month ago.'

‘And since then?'

‘I've been broke, on the road. You could arrest me for
vagrancy, but they'd just put me back in a sanatorium. I've only got one lung left.'

There was nothing self-pitying in his tone. On the contrary, it was as if he were presenting his credentials.

‘Did you get a letter from Lenoir?'

‘Who's Lenoir?'

‘Stop messing about. He told you you'd find your man at the Two-Penny Bar.'

‘I'd had enough of the sanatorium.'

‘And thought you'd squeeze a bit more out of the guy from the Canal Saint-Martin!'

The old woman listened without understanding, without showing any surprise. It was as if they were having an everyday conversation in this rundown country kitchen, where a hen had wandered in and was pecking away around their feet.

‘Have you got nothing to say?'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Lenoir told me everything.'

‘I don't know any Lenoir.'

Maigret shrugged his shoulders, lit his pipe and repeated:

‘Stop messing about! You know I know what you're up to.'

‘What's the worst they can do? Send me back to the sanatorium.'

‘I know, I know … you've only got one lung.'

Some canoes glided past on the river.

‘What Lenoir told you is true. Your man is here.'

‘I'm not saying anything.'

‘So much the worse for you. If you haven't changed
your mind by this evening, I'll have you locked up for vagrancy. After that, we'll see …'

Maigret looked him in the eye. He could read him like a book. He'd met his sort before.

A different kettle of fish entirely from Lenoir. Victor was the sort who rode on the back of the bigger villains, the one who's always put on lookout duty and gets the smallest share of the loot.

He was one of those types who is easily led astray and doesn't have the strength of character to get back on the rails. He had started hanging around the streets and the dance halls at the age of sixteen. With Lenoir, he had landed on his
feet that night at the Canal Saint-Martin, and had managed to live off the proceeds of his blackmail as if it were a regular salary.