Liberty Bar (9 page)

‘Albert! … Come downstairs a
moment …'

A scruffy valet, who looked right through
the inspector.

‘Is Sylvie still up
there?'

‘Number 7 …'

‘Have they ordered any
drinks?'

‘No.'

‘In that case, they won't be
long!' said the landlord. ‘If you want to talk to her, you just need to wait
…'

The place was called the Hôtel Beauséjour,
and it was on a street running parallel to the harbour, directly opposite a bakery.

Did Maigret want to see Sylvie again? Did
he have one or two questions to ask her?

He didn't even know himself. He was
tired. There was something threatening about his demeanour, as if he had almost had
enough.

He wasn't going to wait outside the
hotel, for the baker's wife opposite was watching him through her window with a
knowing look.

Did Sylvie have so many lovers that
occasionally one of
them would be waiting his turn downstairs? That was
it! Maigret was furious that he should be taken for one of the girl's clients.

He walked to the corner of the street with
the idea of touring the block to kill time. As he arrived on the quayside, he turned
round to look at a taxi parked along the pavement whose driver was pacing up and
down.

He couldn't put his finger on what
had caught his attention. He did a double take. It wasn't so much the taxi as the
man who reminded him of something, and suddenly his image connected to the memory of
that morning's funeral.

‘You're from Antibes,
aren't you?'

‘Juan-les-Pins!'

‘You followed a funeral procession
to the cemetery this morning …'

‘That's right! Why the
interest?'

‘Is it the same customer
you've brought here?' The taxi-driver looked at him from head to toe, unsure
whether or not he should reply.

‘Why are you asking me
this?'

‘Police … Well,
then?'

‘Yes, same one … He booked me
yesterday midday, on a day rate.'

‘Where is he right now?'

‘I don't know … He went
off that way …'

The man pointed to a street, then suddenly
asked anxiously:

‘Hey, you're not going to
arrest him before he pays me, are you?'

Maigret forgot to smoke.
He stood there a moment quite still, staring at the taxi's old-fashioned bonnet,
then suddenly, struck by the thought that the couple might have left the hotel already,
he dashed back to the Beauséjour.

The baker's wife saw him arrive and
called her husband, who emerged from the back of the shop and came to the window, his
face white with flour.

Too bad! Now Maigret was having a laugh at
their expense.

‘Room 7.'

He looked up at the façade, trying to work
out which of the windows with drawn curtains corresponded to room number 7. He
didn't dare celebrate yet.

And yet … No! This wasn't a
coincidence … On the contrary, it was the first time that he had found a link
between two elements of this case …

Sylvie and Harry Brown together in a
rented room near the harbour!

Twenty times he was able to cover the
hundred metres to the corner of the quay. Twenty times he saw the taxi in the same spot.
As for the driver, he had come to stand at the end of the street as if he wanted to keep
an eye on his customer himself.

Finally, the glass door at the end of the
corridor opened. Sylvie came out quickly on to the pavement and almost bumped into
Maigret.

‘Good day,' he said.

She froze. He had never seen her look so
pale. And when she opened her mouth to speak, no sound came out.

‘Is your companion getting
dressed?'

Her head swung this way
and that like a weathervane. She dropped her bag, which Maigret picked up. She literally
snatched it back off him as if she were afraid of nothing more than to see him open
it.

‘One moment!'

‘Excuse me … I'm
expected somewhere … You can walk with me if you like …'

‘I don't want to walk …
Especially not that way …'

She was winsome rather than pretty,
because of her large eyes, which darted over his whole face. It was obvious she was in a
nervous state; her anxiety was making her breathless.

‘What do you want from
me?'

She seemed to be on the point of running
away. To prevent her, Maigret took her hand and held it in his, a gesture that the
bakers opposite might have interpreted as one of affection.

‘Is Harry still here?'

‘I don't understand
…'

‘Fine! We'll wait for him
together … Be careful! … Don't do anything stupid … Let go of
the bag …'

For Maigret had made another grab for it.
Through the silky material he could feel what seemed to be a wad of banknotes.

‘Don't make a scene! …
There are people watching us …'

And passers-by too. They must have thought
that Maigret and Sylvie were simply haggling over the price.

‘I beg you …'

‘No!'

Then, more quietly:

‘If you don't calm down,
I'll use the handcuffs!'

She looked at him, eyes still wide with
fright, then, whether discouraged or subdued, she lowered her head.

Harry didn't seem to be in any hurry
to come down …

She didn't say a word, didn't
attempt to deny or explain.

‘Did you know him before?'

They were standing in full sun.
Sylvie's face was perspiring.

She seemed to be desperately looking for
some inspiration that eluded her.

‘Listen …'

‘I'm listening!'

No, she changed her mind! She didn't
say another word. She bit hard on her lip.

‘Is Joseph waiting for you
somewhere?'

‘Joseph?'

She was panicking. Steps could be heard on
the hotel staircase. Sylvie was trembling. She dared not look into the dark
interior.

The steps approached, resounding on the
floor tiles. The glass door opened and closed again, and then time seemed to stand
still.

Harry Brown, barely distinguishable in the
gloom, had spotted the couple.

It was a brief moment. He started walking
again. He had a lot of nerve. He walked past, his body held straight, acknowledging
Maigret with a brief nod.

Maigret was still holding Sylvie's
limp hand. To catch up with the receding figure of Brown he would have to let her
go.

What a farcical scene
that would be for the audience in the bakery …

‘Come with me,' he said to his
companion.

‘Are you arresting me?'

‘Don't bother your head about
that …'

He had to make a phone call urgently. He
didn't want to leave Sylvie on her own at any price. There were some cafés nearby.
He went into one and dragged the young woman into the cabin with him.

A few moments later he had Inspector
Boutigues on the line.

‘Run to the Hôtel Provençal. Ask
Harry Brown, politely but firmly, not to leave Antibes until I get there. If necessary,
prevent him from leaving …'

And Sylvie listened to this, slumping. Her
spirit was broken, she didn't have the slightest inclination to rebel.

‘What would you like to
drink?' he asked her, when they got back to the table.

‘I don't mind.'

He kept his eye on the handbag. The waiter
observed them, aware that something unusual was going on. A young girl went from table
to table offering bouquets of violets; Maigret took one, handed it to his companion,
searched through his pockets with a distracted air and then, when she was least
expecting it, grabbed the bag.

‘Do you mind? … I have no
change …'

He did it so quickly and in such a
matter-of-fact way that she didn't have time to protest. Nothing more than a
fleeting grasp of her fingers on the handle.

The young flowerseller
waited patiently, choosing another bouquet from her basket. Maigret looked for some
loose change beneath a fat wad of thousand-franc notes.

‘Right, let's go,' he
said, standing up.

He was agitated too. He was in a hurry to
be somewhere else, to not have all these curious eyes directed at him.

‘Shall we go and say hello to dear
old Jaja?'

Sylvie followed him docilely. She was
ground down. And there was nothing to distinguish them from any other couple who walked
past, except for the fact that Maigret was holding his companion's handbag.

‘You go first!'

She went down one step into the bar and
made her way to the glass door at the back. Behind the net curtain could be seen a
man's back; he jumped to his feet when the pair of them arrived.

It was Yan, the Swedish steward, who
blushed to the roots of his hair when he recognized Maigret.

‘You again? … Well, then, my
friend, would you be so kind as to go for a walk …?'

Jaja didn't understand.
Sylvie's face told her that there was something unusual going on. So she would not
be displeased to see the sailor make himself scarce.

‘Are you coming tomorrow,
Yan?'

‘I don't know
…'

Standing with his cap in hand, he
wasn't sure how to get away, troubled as he was by the inspector's glowering
look.

‘Yes …
It's OK … Bye …' the latter said impatiently, opening the door
to usher him out.

He locked the door with a brusque turn of
the key. He said to Sylvie:

‘You can take your hat
off.'

Jaja hazarded, in a timid voice:

‘You bumped into each other
…'

‘Exactly. We bumped into each
other.'

She didn't even dare offer him a
drink, so aware was she of the heavy atmosphere in the room. To keep her composure, she
picked a newspaper off the floor, folded it up and then went to check something on her
stove.

Maigret filled a pipe, quite gently. He
went to the stove himself and, rolling up a piece of newspaper, lit it in the grate.

Sylvie stayed standing next to the table.
She had taken off her hat and placed it in front of her. Then Maigret sat down, opened
the bag and began counting out the banknotes, which he lined up between the dirty
glasses.

‘Eighteen … Nineteen …
Twenty …
Twenty thousand francs!'

Jaja had turned round in one movement and
was looking at the money with bewilderment. She was struggling to make sense of it.

‘What is this …?'

‘Oh, nothing, really!' Maigret
growled. ‘Sylvie found herself a lover more generous than most, that's all!
And do you know his name? Harry Brown …'

He had made himself at home, his elbows
resting on the table, his pipe in his mouth, his bowler hat pushed back on his head.

‘Twenty thousand francs for a
“short stay”, as they call it at the Hôtel Beauséjour …'

Trying to appear unfazed, Jaja wiped her
chubby hands on her apron. She didn't dare say a thing. She was completely
flabbergasted.

And Sylvie, drained of blood, her features
drawn, didn't look at anyone but just stared into space; she could see nothing
ahead but the cruellest blows of fate.

‘You can sit down,' Maigret
barked.

She obeyed automatically.

‘You too, Jaja … Wait …
First find some clean glasses …'

Sylvie sat in the same place she had sat
the previous day, when she had eaten with her dressing gown gaping open, her bare
breasts just a few centimetres from her plate.

Jaja placed a bottle and some glasses on
the table and sat down on the very edge of her seat.

‘Right then, girls, I'm
waiting …'

The smoke from his pipe rose slowly to the
rectangular window, which now had a bluish tinge, as the sun no longer penetrated. Jaja
looked at Sylvie …

And the latter continued to stare at
nothing, absent or subdued.

‘I'm waiting
…'

He could have said it a hundred times,
waited ten years. The only sound was Jaja's sigh as she buried her chin in her
bosom:

‘My God … If only I knew
…'

As for Maigret, he could barely contain
himself. He got up. He paced up and down. He grumbled:

‘I should really …'

The statue infuriated
him. Once, twice, three times he walked past Sylvie, who remained frozen.

‘I have plenty of time … But
…'

On the fourth occasion he couldn't
take it any more. It was mechanical. His hand grabbed the young woman's shoulder
and he wasn't aware how tightly he was gripping it.

She raised a hand in front of her face,
like a little girl afraid of being hit.

‘Well?'

She gave in, under the pain. She cried
out, bursting into tears:

‘You bully! … You filthy
bully! … I'll say nothing … Nothing! … Nothing!'

It was making Jaja feel ill. Maigret, with
a stubborn frown, let himself slide on to a chair. And Sylvie continued crying without
covering her face, without wiping her eyes, crying as much from rage as from pain.

‘Nothing!' she repeated in her
mechanical fashion between two sobs.

The door of the bar opened – something
that happened no more than ten times a day. A customer sat at the zinc counter and
turned the handle on the fruit machine.