Liberty Bar (16 page)

‘Do you see that woman in the green
swimming-costume?'

‘She has very thin legs.'

‘Exactly!'
Boutigues cried out in triumph. ‘You'd never guess that she is …
Morrow's daughter.'

‘Morrow?'

‘The diamond merchant … One of
those dozen or so people rich enough to …'

The sun was hot. Maigret in his dark suit
stood out among all this bare flesh. Snatches of music could be heard coming from the
terrace of the casino.

‘Would you like a drink?'

Boutigues was wearing a light-grey suit
and had a red carnation in his buttonhole.

‘I did tell you that round these
parts …'

‘Yes … These parts
…'

‘Don't you like it
here?'

And with a lyrical sweep of the arm he
indicated the extraordinary blue of the bay and its huddle of white villas among the
greenery, the yellow casino like a cream bun, the palm trees along the promenade
…

‘The large man you can see over
there in the small striped swimsuit is a top German press baron …'

And Maigret, his eyes a dull grey after a
sleepless night, muttered:

‘So what?'

‘Are you pleased that I made you
morue à la crèm
e?'

‘I can't tell you how
much!'

Boulevard Richard-Lenoir. Maigret's
apartment. A window opening on to some scrawny chestnut trees with as yet only a
smattering of leaves.

‘So what was the story this
time?'

‘A love story!
But, as they told me:
No dramas
…'

His elbows resting on the table, he ate
his salt cod gratin hungrily. He spoke with his mouth full.

‘An Australian who had had enough of
Australia and all those sheep …'

‘I don't
understand.'

‘An Australian who wanted to live it
up a bit, so he did …'

‘And then?'

‘Then? … Nothing! … He
went and did it, and his wife, his sons and his brother-in-law cut him off
…'

‘That's not terribly
interesting!'

‘Not at all! I told you … He
continued to live down there, on the Côte d'Azur …'

‘I've heard it's lovely
down there …'

‘Magnificent! … He rented a
villa … Then, as he was on his own, he found himself a woman …'

‘Now I'm beginning to
understand!'

‘That's what you think …
Pass me the sauce … Not enough onions.'

‘They're Parisian onions,
completely tasteless … I put a pound of them in … But go on
…'

‘The woman moved into the villa and
brought her mother with her …'

‘Her mother?'

‘Yes … However, the charm of
that arrangement soon wore off, and the Australian went to look for some fun elsewhere
…'

‘He took a mistress?'

‘But he already had one! And her
mother. He discovered a bar and a good woman to drink with …'

‘She
drank?'

‘Yes! After a few drinks, they saw
the world differently … They were at the centre of it … They told each other
stories …'

‘And then?'

‘The old woman thought it had
finally happened to her.'

‘That what had happened?'

‘That someone loved her … That
she had found a kindred soul … And all that …!'

‘And all what?'

‘Nothing … They were a couple!
A couple of the same age … A couple who liked to get drunk as they
…'

‘What happened?'

‘There was a little protégée …
Her name was Sylvie … The old man became infatuated with Sylvie …'

Madame Maigret gave her husband a
reproachful look.

‘Are you pulling my leg?'

‘It's the truth! He became
infatuated with Sylvie, and Sylvie didn't want to, because of the old woman
… Then she must have wanted to, because, after all, the Australian was the main
character.'

‘I don't follow
you.'

‘It doesn't matter … The
Australian and the young woman ended up in a hotel …'

‘They cheated on the old
woman?'

‘Indeed! You see, you are following!
So the old woman, realizing that she didn't matter to him at all any more, killed
her lover … This cod is superb …'

‘I still don't get it
…'

‘What don't you
get?'

‘Why didn't
you arrest the old woman? After all, she did …'

‘She did nothing!'

‘What do you mean,
“nothing”?'

‘Pass me the dish … They told
me:
Best if you avoid any dramas
… Don't make waves, in other
words! Because the Australian's son and wife and her brother-in-law are very
important people … People who are able to pay top dollar for a will.'

‘Now what's this will
you're on about all of a sudden?'

‘Let's not make it more
complicated … In short, it's a love story … An old woman who kills her
old lover because he's cheating on her with a young woman.'

‘What happened to them?'

‘The old woman has only three or
four months to live, depending on how much she drinks …'

‘How much she drinks?'

‘Yes … Because she has a drink
problem …'

‘It's very
complicated!'

‘More than you know! The old woman,
the killer, will die in three or four months, maybe five or six, with her legs swollen
and her feet in a tub.'

‘In a tub?'

‘Yes. It's how you die of
dropsy, according to the medical dictionary …'

‘And the young woman?'

‘She is even more unfortunate
… Because she loves the old woman like a mother … And then because she loves
her pimp …'

‘Her what? I really don't
understand you … You have such an odd way of expressing yourself
…'

‘And the pimp
will blow the whole twenty thousand francs at the races!' Maigret went on
regardless, without stopping eating.

‘What twenty thousand
francs?'

‘It doesn't matter!'

‘I'm completely
lost!'

‘Me too … Or rather, I
understand too much … They told me:
No dramas
… So that's it!
… We won't mention it again … A little love story that turned out
badly …'

Then suddenly he said:

‘No vegetables?'

‘I wanted to make cauliflower, but
…'

And Maigret paraphrased to himself:

‘Jaja wanted to make love, but
…'

When you watch fish through a layer of
water which prevents all contact between them and you, you see that they remain
absolutely still for a long time, for no reason, and then, with a twitch of their fins,
they dart away so that they can do more nothing somewhere else, except more waiting.

It was in the same state of stillness, and
as if for no reason too, that the last Number 13 Bastille-Créteil tram, lit up by its
yellow lights, clanked along the side of Carrières Wharf.

It looked as if it was going to stop at a
side-road, just by a streetlight, but the conductor yanked the bell pull, and the
vehicle clanked off towards Charenton.

In its wake, the wharf was left empty and
stagnant, like a drowned landscape. To the right, barges rocked on the canal under the
moon. A trickle of water escaped through a badly closed sluice. It was the only sound
under a sky which was more tranquil and deeper than a lake.

Two bars were still lit up. They faced
each other, each one on a street corner.

In one, five men were playing cards,
slowly, not speaking. Three were wearing sailors' or river pilots' caps, and
the landlord, who was sitting with them, was in shirtsleeves.

In the other bar, no one was playing
cards. There were just three men inside. They were sitting around a table, staring
dreamily at small glasses of cheap brandy. The light was grey and smelled of sleep. From
time to time, the black-moustached landlord, who was wearing a blue pullover, yawned
before reaching for his glass with one hand.

Sitting opposite him was a short man
overrun by thick, flaxen hair, like dry hay. He was either brooding or befuddled, or
perhaps drunk? His rheumy eyes looked as though they were swimming through troubled
waters and at intervals he would nod his head as if agreeing with his inner monologue
while the man next to him, also a canal man, set his gaze free to wander outside, in the
dark.

Time fled soundlessly. There was not even
the tick of a clock. Next to the bar was a row of small, poky houses each with a garden
round it, but all their lights were out. Then at number 8, came a detached house on six
floors, already old and smoke-blackened, too narrow for its height. On the first floor,
a few gleams filtered through venetian blinds. On the second, where there were no
shutters, a crude blind made a rectangle of light.

Finally, directly opposite, on the canal
bank, a heap of stones, sand, a crane, a number of empty carts.

Yet music pulsated through the air. It was
coming from somewhere. It had to be found. Its source was further
along than Number 8, set back from the road, a wooden shed with a sign saying:
Dance Hall
.

No one was dancing. In fact the only
person there was the fat woman who owned it. She was reading a newspaper and got up at
intervals to feed a five-
sou
coin into the mechanical piano.

Sooner or later, somebody or something was
bound to make a stir. It turned out to be the very hairy bargee from the bar on the
right hand side. He got to his feet unsteadily, stared at his empty glasses and did the
calculation in his head while he searched through his pockets. When he had counted out
the right money, he laid it on the smooth top of the wooden table, touched the peak of
his cap and set a wavering course for the door.

The other two men looked at each other.
The landlord winked. The fingers of the old man dithered uncertainly in thin air before
settling on the door handle, and he swayed as he turned to shut the door behind him.

His footsteps were as audible as if the
pavement had been hollow. The sound was irregular. He took three or four paces then
stopped: he was either hesitating or concentrating on staying upright.

When he reached the canal, he collided
with the metal railing which clanged, started down the stone steps and found himself on
the unloading wharf.

The outlines of boats were clearly picked
out by the moon. Their names were as easy to read as in broad daylight. The nearest
barge, which was separated from the quayside by a plank which served as a gangway, was
called the
Golden Fleece
. There were other boats behind
it,
both to the left and right, and they were at least five rows deep, some with holds open
near a crane, waiting to be unloaded, others with their prows nudging the gates of the
lock through which they would pass at first light, and lastly those hulks which are
always to be seen, God knows why, loitering in and around canal ports, apparently having
outlived their usefulness.

The old man, all alone in this motionless
universe, hiccupped and stepped on to the plank, which bent under him. When he got to
the middle, it occurred to him to turn round, perhaps for a sight of the windows of the
bar. He managed the first part of the action, swayed, straightened his back and found
himself in the water, hanging on to the plank with one hand.

He had not cried out. He hadn't even
gasped. There had been only a faint splash, which was already fading, for the man was
barely moving. His forehead was furrowed as if something was forcing him to think. He
braced his arms to haul himself up on to the plank. He failed, tried again, eyes
staring, breathing heavily.

On the quayside, pressed close against the
stone wall, two lovers listened, motionless, holding their breath. A car horn sounded in
Charenton.

All of a sudden there was a howl, an
extraordinary wail, which tore through the all-enveloping calm.

It was the old man in the water who was
straining his throat in panic. He was no longer making any attempt to think. He was
struggling like a madman, kicking out with his legs, making the water boil.

Then other sounds were heard round about.
There was
a stir on board a barge. Elsewhere the voice of a still
half-sleeping woman spoke:

‘Aren't you going to see what
that is?'

Doors opened higher up, on the quayside,
the doors of both bars. The couple under the wall moved apart, and the man said under
his breath:

‘Quick! Go home!'

He took a few steps, hesitated and then
called out:

‘Where?'

He heard the cry. It came again. Other
voices came nearer, and people leaned over the railing.

‘What's happened?'