Liberty Bar by Georges Simenon

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.

7. The Order
    Maigret stood up impatiently and, to
     forestall any potential trick on the part of the two women – the customer could be a
     messenger from Joseph, for example – he decided to go into the bar himself.
    ‘What do you want?’
    The man seemed so taken aback that, in
     spite of his bad mood, Maigret almost burst out laughing. He was a middle-aged fellow,
     dull complexion, grey hair, who no doubt had crept furtively through the sidestreets in
     pursuit of some dream of unbridled sex, only to have the surly Maigret pop up behind the
     bar!
    ‘A bock …’ he stammered,
     letting go of the slot-machine handle.
    Behind the curtain, the inspector could
     see the two women in a huddle. Jaja was asking questions, and Sylvie was replying
     wearily.
    ‘There’s no beer!’
    At least, Maigret