The Two-Penny Bar by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page B

Bar case never gave him a moment’s peace. He had sent him to interrogate Mado Feinstein for a
second time, told him to examine the haberdasher’s books and to question Basso’s employees.
    The police were already short-handed, and a number of officers were pinned down watching the places where the fugitive was likely to show up. This all put the chief in a bad mood.
    â€˜Haven’t you got this one sorted out yet?’ he had asked that morning.
    Maigret agreed with James. He sensed that Basso was in Paris. But how had he been able to get hold of money? And if he hadn’t, how was he living? What was he hoping for? What was he expecting to happen? What was he doing with himself?
    His guilt had not been proven. If he had stayed in custody and hired a good lawyer he could have hoped, if not for acquittal, then at least a light sentence. After which he could return to his business, his wife and his son. Instead of that, he
was running away, in hiding, and thus giving up all his former life.
    â€˜He must have his reasons,’ James had said in his usual philosophical way.
Don’t let us down. Will be at station. Love.
    It was Saturday. Madame Maigret had sent an affectionate ultimatum. Her husband wasn’t yet sure how to reply. But at five o’clock he was at the Taverne Royale, shaking James’s hand. James ordered as usual:
    â€˜Pernod!’
    As on the previous Saturday, there was a rush to the stations – a continuous stream of taxis piled high with luggage, the bustle of people getting away on holiday.
    â€˜Are you going to Morsang?’
    â€˜Yes, as usual.’
    â€˜It’ll be a strange atmosphere.’
    The inspector wanted to go to Morsang himself. On the other hand, he wanted to see his wife, to go trout fishing in the rivers of Alsace, to breathe in the lovely smells of his sister-in-law’s house.
    He couldn’t make his mind up. He vaguely observed James get up and head to the back of the bar.
    There was nothing unusual in this. He thought nothing of it and barely registered the fact that his companion returned after a few moments and sat down again.
    Five, ten minutes went past. A waiter approached.
    â€˜Is one of you two gentlemen Monsieur Maigret?’
    â€˜That’s me. What is it?’
    â€˜A phone call for you …’
    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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜How can I help you?’
    â€˜Hello … who’s there?’
    â€˜This is the operator. Which number do you require?’
    â€˜But you called me, mademoiselle.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.