Liberty Bar (6 page)

Somewhat nearer, he read the name of a
forty-metre yacht picked out in gold lettering:
Ardena
.

No sooner did he bring to mind the face of
the Swede he had met at Jaja's than he looked up and spotted him on the bridge, in
white gloves, placing a tea tray on a rattan table.

The owner was leaning on a handrail and
chatting to two young women. When he laughed he displayed an impressive set of teeth. A
three-metre-long gangplank separated the group from Maigret; the inspector shrugged his
shoulders and began to climb it, and almost burst out laughing when he saw the
steward's face fall.

There are moments like this when you take a
particular step, not because it is useful as such, but just in order to do something or
to avoid thinking.

‘Excuse me, sir …'

The owner had stopped laughing. He stood
waiting, his face turned towards Maigret, as did the two women.

‘A simple question, if you'd be
so kind. Did you know a Monsieur Brown?'

‘Does he own a boat?'

‘He did once … William Brown
…'

Maigret was barely waiting for a reply.

He looked at the man he had addressed, who
must have been around forty-five and appeared very distinguished, standing between two
women, half naked in their dresses.

He said to himself:

‘Brown was like him! He too
surrounded himself with beautiful, elegantly dressed women who had groomed
themselves to perfection for the purpose of sexual allure! For his own
amusement he took them to bars and bought champagne for everyone …'

The man replied, in a thick accent:

‘If it's the Brown I'm
thinking of, he used to own that large boat at the end … The
Pacific
… But it's been bought and sold at least a couple of times since
then.'

‘Thank you.'

The man and his two companions didn't
really understand the purpose of Maigret's visit. They watched him walk away, and
the inspector heard one of the women giggling.

The
Pacific
… There were
only two boats of that size in the harbour, one of which was the one with the Turkish
flag.

Only, the
Pacific
had an air of
neglect about it. In several places the metal of the hull was visible where the
paintwork had flaked off. The copper fittings were rusted with verdigris.

A scrawled notice on the bulwarks:
‘For Sale'.

It was that time of day when the yacht
sailors, all scrubbed up and in smart uniforms, were heading off into town in groups,
like soldiers.

When Maigret walked back past the
Ardena
, he could feel the three pairs of eyes on him and he suspected that
the steward was scrutinizing him from some nook or cranny in the bridge.

The streets were lit up. Maigret had a bit
of difficulty finding the garage again, where he had one last matter to clear up.

‘What time did Brown come by on
Friday to collect his car?'

They had to ask the
mechanic.

A few minutes before five! In other words,
he had just enough time to drive straight back to Cap d'Antibes.

‘Was he alone? Was there anyone
waiting for him outside? And are you sure he wasn't wounded?'

William Brown had left the Liberty Bar
around two o'clock. What did he do in those three hours?

There was no need for Maigret to stay in
Cannes any longer. He waited for the bus, settled himself in a corner and let his gaze
drift over the procession of car headlights streaming along the main road.

The first person he saw as he got off the
bus at Place Macé was Inspector Boutigues, who was sitting on the terrace of the Café
Glacier and who jumped to his feet.

‘We've been looking for you
since morning! … Take a seat … What will you have? … Waiter! Two
Pernods!'

‘Not for me! … A
gentian!' said Maigret, who wanted to find out for himself what that beverage
tasted like.

‘I asked the taxi-drivers first of
all. Since none of them had picked you up, I checked out the bus drivers. That's
how I know you went to Cannes …'

He was talking quickly, heatedly.

In spite of himself, Maigret looked at him
with round eyes. But that didn't stop the little inspector from ploughing on:

‘There are only five or six
restaurants where you can get a decent meal … I phoned each of them … Where
on earth did you have lunch?'

Boutigues would have been very surprised if
Maigret had told him the truth, if he had told him about the
mutton and
the garlic salad in Jaja's kitchen, and the small glasses, and Sylvie …

‘The examining magistrate
doesn't want to do anything without consulting you … Plus, there's
news – the son has arrived …'

‘Whose son?'

And Maigret gave a grimace, because he had
just drunk a mouthful of gentian.

‘Brown's son … He was in
Amsterdam when …'

‘Brown has a son?'

‘More than one … By his real
wife, who lives in Australia … One of them is in Europe, taking care of the wool
…'

‘The wool?'

Right at this moment, Boutigues must have
had a dim opinion of Maigret. But the latter was still in the Liberty Bar! More
precisely, he was remembering the waiter who bet on the horses and to whom Sylvie had
spoken through the window …

‘Yes, the Browns have one of the
biggest businesses in Australia. They raise sheep and export the wool to Europe. One of
the sons oversees the ranches; another, based in Sydney, takes care of the exports; the
third, in Europe, travels from port to port, depending on whether the wool is destined
for Liverpool, Le Havre or Hamburg. He's the one who …'

‘And what did he have to
say?'

‘That his father should be buried as
soon as possible and that he would pay … He has a very busy schedule … He
has to catch a plane tomorrow evening …'

‘Is he in
Antibes?'

‘Actually, in Juan-les-Pins …
He wanted a luxury hotel, with a suite solely for his use … It seems he needed a
telephone link throughout the night to Nice, so that he could call Antwerp, Amsterdam or
who knows where else.'

‘Has he visited the villa?'

‘I suggested that to him. He
refused.'

‘So what has he done,
then?'

‘He has seen the magistrate.
That's all. He insisted that everything should expedited. And he asked how
much.'

‘How much what?'

‘How much it would cost.'

Maigret scanned Place Macé with an absent
air. Boutigues went on:

‘The magistrate has been waiting for
you at his office the whole afternoon. He can hardly refuse the request for a burial now
that the post mortem has been completed … Brown's son phoned three times and
in the end he was told that the funeral could go ahead first thing tomorrow morning
…'

‘First thing?'

‘Yes, to avoid the crowds …
That's why I was looking for you … They are going to close the coffin
tonight. So if you want to see Brown before they …'

‘No.'

No, Maigret really didn't want to see
the body. He felt he knew William Brown well enough without it!

The terrace was full of people. Boutigues
noticed that several tables were observing them, a fact that didn't exactly
displease him. Nevertheless he murmured:

‘Let's keep
our voices down …'

‘Where will they bury him?'

‘At Antibes cemetery … The
hearse will be at the mortuary at seven o'clock in the morning … I just have
to confirm it officially with Brown's son.'

‘And the two women?'

‘We haven't decided …
It's possible the son might prefer …?'

‘What hotel did you say he was
in?'

‘The Provençal. Do you want to see
him?'

‘Until tomorrow!' said Maigret.
‘I suppose you will be at the funeral?'

He was in a strange mood, at once joyful
and macabre! He got a taxi to the Provençal, where he was met by a doorman, then another
employee in a braided uniform, then finally by a thin young man in black, lurking behind
a desk.

‘Monsieur Brown? I will see if he is
available … Would you care to tell me your name?'

Bells ringing, the porter coming and going.
Maigret had to wait at least five minutes before someone came to fetch him and led him
down interminable corridors until they reached a door marked 37. From behind the door
came the sound of a typewriter, and an irritable voice:

‘Come in!'

Maigret found himself face to face with
Brown Junior, the one in charge of the European branch of the wool firm.

Ageless. Maybe thirty, but then again,
maybe forty. A tall, thin man, with chiselled features, close-cropped hair,
dressed in a smart suit, a pearl tiepin in his black tie with a white
stripe.

Not a hint of disorder or unpredictability.
Not a hair out of place. And not the slightest reaction at the sight of his visitor.

‘Could you bear with me for a moment?
Please take a seat.'

There was a typist sitting at the Louis XV
table. A secretary was talking in English on the telephone.

And Brown was just finishing dictating a
cable, in English, which was to do with damages because of a dockers' strike.

The secretary called out: ‘Mister
Brown,' and handed him the phone.

‘Hello! … Hello! …
Yes!'

He listened for a while, without a word of
interruption, then hung up, saying as he did so:

‘No!'

He pressed an electric bell button and
asked Maigret:

‘A port?'

‘No, thank you.'

But as the maître d'hôtel turned up,
he ordered anyway:

‘One port!'

He did this in a totally calm way, with
evident concern, as if the destiny of the world hung on even the smallest of his
actions, gestures or facial expressions.

‘Take your typing to the
bedroom,' he said to the typist, indicating the adjoining room.

And to his secretary:

‘Get me the examining
magistrate.'

Finally he sat down,
crossing his legs with a sigh:

‘I'm tired. Are you in charge
of the investigation?'

And he slid the port that the servant had
brought over to Maigret.

‘Such a ridiculous tale, isn't
it?'

‘Not ridiculous at all,'
Maigret muttered in his least agreeable voice.

‘I meant to say awkward
…'

‘Of course! It's always awkward
when you're stabbed to death in the back …'

The young man stood up impatiently, opened
the door to the bedroom, made as if to give some orders in English, returned to Maigret
and offered him a cigarette case.

‘No, thank you. I'm a pipe
man.'

The man picked up a tin of English tobacco
from a pedestal table.

‘I smoke shag!' said Maigret,
taking a packet from his pocket.

Brown prowled around the room with long
strides.

‘I take it you know that my father
led a very … scandalous life …'

‘He had a mistress!'

‘And more besides! Much more! You
need to know this, otherwise you run the risk of making … how do you say … a
gaffe …'

He was interrupted by the telephone. The
secretary ran over and replied this time in German while Brown shook his head at him.
And since the secretary was having trouble getting off the phone, the young man went and
took the receiver from his hands and hung up.

‘My father came to
France a long time ago, without my mother … And he almost ruined us
…'

Brown didn't stay put. As he was
talking, he had closed the door of the bedroom on his secretary. He tapped the glass of
port with his finger.

‘You're not
drinking?'

‘No, thank you.'

He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

‘We appointed a legal guardian
… My mother was very unhappy … She worked so hard …'

‘Ah! It was your mother who looked
after things?'

‘With my uncle, yes.'

‘Your mother's brother,
I'm assuming.'

‘Yes! My father had lost all …
dignity … yes, dignity … so the least said the better … Do you
understand?'

Maigret had never taken his eyes off him,
and that seemed to upset the young man. Especially as this heavy gaze was impossible to
decipher. Perhaps it was meant to convey nothing. On the other hand, perhaps it was
terribly threatening.

‘One question, Monsieur Brown –
Monsieur Harry Brown, as I see from your luggage labels. Where were you last
Wednesday?'

Brown walked the length of the room twice
before he replied:

‘What are you implying?'

‘I'm not implying anything.
I'm simply asking you where you were.'

‘Is it important?'

‘Maybe it is, maybe it
isn't.'

‘I was in
Marseille, because of the arrival of the
Glasco
! A ship carrying wool from home
which is now in Amsterdam unable to unload because of the dockers'
strike.'

‘You didn't see your
father?'

‘I didn't …'

‘Another question, the last. Who paid
your father's allowance? And how much was it?'

‘Me! Five thousand francs a month
… Do you want to reveal that to the papers?'

The sound of the typewriter could still be
heard: the bell at the end of each line, the shunt of the carriage return.

Maigret stood up and picked up his hat.

‘Thank you.'

‘That's it?'

‘That's it … Thank
you.'

The telephone rang again, but the young man
showed no sign of answering it. He merely watched, as if incredulous, as Maigret made
for the door.