The Two-Penny Bar by Georges Simenon

through and sat back down in her armchair next to the window, where she picked up her crochet.
    The other apartments in the block were still decorated in the style of the last century, with their Henry II and Louis-Philippe furniture.
    This apartment, however, felt more like Montparnasse than Montmartre. It owed more to the decorative arts in style, but seemed to be the work of an amateur.
    Plywood partitions had been erected at odd angles, and most of the furniture had been removed to make way for shelving painted in bright colours.
    The carpet was in a single colour, a rather lurid green.The lampshades were meant to resemble parchment.
    It all looked smart and fresh, but seemed to lack solidity; you felt that the walls might give way if you leaned on them and that the paintwork was not quite dry.
    Above all, especially when James stood up, you felt that the apartment was too small for him, that he was boxed in and had to be careful not to bash into things when he moved around.
    An open door to the right revealed the bathroom, where there was only just enough space for the bath. The kitchen was no more than a galley, with a spirit stove on a bench.
    James was sitting in a small chair with a cigarette in his mouth and a book in his hands.
    Maigret had the distinct impression that there was no contact at all between these two people.
    They each sat in their own corner, James reading, his wife crocheting, with only the sound of the cars and trams outside the window to break the silence.
    No hint of intimacy whatsoever.
    He stood up, offered Maigret his hand, smiling awkwardly, as though he were embarrassed to be seen in such a place.
    â€˜How are you, Maigret?’
    But his familiar cordiality had a different ring in this doll’s house of an apartment. It seemed to clash with the furnishings, the carpet, the modern ornaments arranged on the shelves, the wallpaper, the fancy lampshades …
    â€˜I’m fine, thank you.’
    â€˜Take a seat. I was just reading an English novel.’
    And his expression was saying:
    â€˜Don’t mind all this. It’s none of my doing. I don’t feel at home here.’
    His wife listened in, without interrupting her work.
    â€˜Do we have anything to drink, Marthe?’ he asked her.
    â€˜You know we don’t!’
    Then to the inspector:
    â€˜It’s his fault. If we ever get any bottles of liquor in, they get drunk within a couple of days. He has enough to drink when he’s out.’
    â€˜Inspector, what do you say we go down to the bistro?’
    But before Maigret could respond, James frowned as he looked at his wife, who must have been making urgent signals to him.
    â€˜If you’d like to …’
    He closed his book with a sigh and started fidgeting with a paperweight lying on a low table next to him.
    The room was not more than four metres long, and yet it felt like two rooms, as if two people lived their lives here without ever crossing each other’s path.
    The wife, who had decorated the flat entirely to her own taste, spent her time sewing, embroidering, cooking, making dresses, while James would come home every evening at eight and eat his dinner without saying a word, then read until bedtime,
when that sofa covered with brightly coloured cushions was pulled out to form a bed.
    It was easier now to understand James’s need for his ‘little bolt-hole’ on the terrace of the Taverne Royale, with his glass of Pernod in front of him.
    â€˜Sure. Let’s go.’
    And James leaped to his feet with a sigh of relief.
    â€˜Could you wait a moment while I get my shoes?’
    He was wearing slippers. He squeezed between the bath and the wall. The bathroom door was still open, but his wife didn’t bother lowering her voice:
    â€˜Don’t pay any attention. He’s not like other people.’ And she started counting her stitches: ‘Seven … eight … nine … Do you think he knows something about