The Two-Penny Bar by Georges Simenon Page A

the business at Morsang?’
    â€˜Where is the shoehorn?’ James muttered as he rummaged noisily through a cupboard.
    She looked at Maigret as if to say ‘You see what I mean?’
    James finally emerged from the bathroom, once more looking too large for the room, and said to his wife:
    â€˜I’ll be back soon.’
    â€˜I’ve heard that before.’
    He motioned to the inspector to get a move on, no doubt fearing his wife might change her mind. Even in the stairwell he seemed too big, as if he didn’t match the décor.
    The first building on the left was a bar frequented by taxi drivers.
    â€˜It’s the only one around here.’
    The dim lighting glinted off the zinc counter. There were four men playing cards at the back of the bar.
    â€˜Ah, Monsieur James, the usual?’ said the landlord, rising from his seat. He already had a bottle of brandy in his hand.
    â€˜And what would you like, sir?’
    â€˜The same.’
    James rested his elbows on the bar and asked:
    â€˜Did you go to the Taverne Royale? I thought so. I couldn’t get there today …’
    â€˜Because of the 300,000 francs.’
    James’s face displayed neither surprise nor embarrassment.
    â€˜What would you have done in my place? Basso is a friend. We’ve drunk together hundreds of times. Cheers!’
    â€˜I’ll leave you the bottle,’ said the landlord. He was obviously used to James and was anxious to get back to his card game. James didn’t seem to hear but continued:
    â€˜Basically he didn’t have a chance. A woman like Mado. Talking of whom, have you seen her recently? She came by my office earlier to ask if I’d seen Marcel. Can you believe that? It’s like that guy with his car. He’s
supposed to be a friend, but now he rings me to say that he’s going to have to ask me to pay for the repairs and the charge for releasing his car from police custody. Your good health! What do you think of my wife? She’s nice, isn’t she?’
    And James poured himself another glass of brandy.

7. The Second-Hand Dealer
    There was something about James that Maigret found very interesting. As he drank, instead of becoming glassy-eyed, like most people, his gaze became more and more acute, until it acquired a sharpness that was almost penetrating.
    He never removed his hand from his glass, except to refill it. His voice was slurred, faltering, lacking in conviction. He looked at no one in particular. He seemed to be melting into the background.
    The card players at the back of the bar hardly spoke. The lights reflected dully off the zinc counter.
    And James’s voice was also dull when he sighed:
    â€˜It’s weird. A man like you – strong, intelligent – and others too. Uniformed cops, judges, loads of people. How many are there involved in this? A hundred, maybe, if you include the clerks typing up the case notes, the telephonists
passing on the orders … Let’s call it a hundred people working day and night all because Feinstein got plugged by one tiny little bullet.’
    He looked at Maigret, and the inspector was unable to tell whether he was being sincere or ironic.
    â€˜Cheers! It’s all worth it, isn’t it? And all this time poor old Basso is being hunted like an animal. Last week, he was rich. He had his business, his car, his wife and son. Now he can’t stick his head out of his
hole.’
    James shrugged his shoulders. His voice slurred even more. He looked round the room with an expression of weariness or disgust.
    â€˜And what’s it all about, eh? A woman like Mado with an appetite for men. Basso lets himself get snared – let’s face it, you don’t knock back opportunities like that when they come along. She’s a good-looking girl.
Spirited. You tell yourself it’s just a bit of fun. You get together and spend an hour or two in a furnished apartment …’
    James took a