Liberty Bar (7 page)

Then, in desperation, he grabbed an
envelope from the table.

‘I have something here for the police
welfare fund …'

Maigret was already in the corridor. A
little later, he was descending the sumptuous staircase, crossing the lobby, preceded by
a liveried flunkey.

At nine o'clock he dined alone in the
dining room of the Hôtel Bacon while flicking through the telephone directory. He asked
for three Cannes numbers in quick succession. Only the third one got a reply:

‘Yes, it's next to
…'

‘Excellent! Would you be so kind as
to tell Madame Jaja
that the funeral will take place tomorrow at seven
o'clock in Antibes? … Yes, the funeral … She will understand
…'

He took a short walk around the room. From
the window he could see, five hundred metres away, Brown's white villa, where two
windows were lit up.

Did he have the energy?

No! He needed sleep.

‘They are on the phone, aren't
they?'

‘Yes, inspector. Do you want me to
call them?'

A sweet little maid in a white bonnet, who
was scurrying round the room like a mouse.

‘Sir, I have one of the ladies on the
line …'

Maigret took the receiver.

‘Hello! … It's the
inspector here … Yes … I wasn't able to come and see you … The
funeral is at seven tomorrow morning … What's that? … No! Not this
evening … I have work to do … Goodnight, madame …'

It must have been the mother. No doubt she
was running madly to announce the news to her daughter. Then they would both be
discussing what they had to do.

The landlady of the Hôtel Bacon came into
the room, smiling blandly.

‘Did you enjoy the bouillabaisse? I
made it especially for you, since you …'

The bouillabaisse? Maigret searched his
memory.

‘Ah yes! Excellent! Very fine!'
he forced himself to say with a polite smile.

But he couldn't remember it. It was
lost in the fog of useless things, stashed higgledy-piggledy alongside Boutigues, the
bus, the garage …

Of all the culinary
details, only one stood out: the leg of mutton at Jaja's, and the salad with the
fragrance of garlic …

No, wait! There was another one: the sweet
smell of the port that he didn't drink at the Provençal, which mingled with the
sickly scent of Brown's after-shave.

‘Bring me up a bottle of
Vittel!' he said as he mounted the stairs.

The sun was already intoxicating, and
although all the shutters were closed and the pavements deserted in the town's
streets, the market was starting to come to life. It was the light and carefree sort of
life of people who get up early and have time to fill and spend it whining in French and
Italian rather than bustling about.

The yellow façade of the town hall with its
double front steps stood right in the middle of the market. The mortuary was in the
basement.

It was there, at ten minutes to seven, that
a hearse drew up, completely black and incongruous in the middle of the flowers and
vegetables. Maigret arrived at almost the same time and saw Boutigues arriving in haste,
with his waistcoat unbuttoned, having only got out of bed ten minutes earlier.

‘We've got time for a quick
drink … There's no one here yet …'

And he went into a small bar and ordered a
rum.

‘It's been really complicated,
you know. The son forgot to tell us how much he wanted to spend on the coffin. I phoned
him yesterday evening. He said he didn't care about the price as long as it was of
good quality. But there wasn't a solid-oak coffin in the whole of Antibes. We had
to bring one in from Cannes at eleven o'clock last night … Then
there was the ceremony to think about … Should it be a church
ceremony or not? … I phoned the Provençal and they told me Brown had already gone
to bed … I did my best … As you can see …'

He pointed to a church a hundred metres
away across the market square, whose door was draped in black.

Maigret didn't want to say anything,
but he had got the impression that Brown Junior was a Protestant rather than a
Catholic.

The bar was on the corner of a small street
and had a door on each side. Just as Maigret and Boutigues were leaving by one door, a
man entered by the other, and the inspector caught his eye.

It was Joseph, the waiter from Cannes, who
was in two minds whether to wave or not and in the end settled on a half-hearted
gesture. Maigret assumed that Joseph had brought Jaja and Sylvie from Cannes. He was
right. They were walking in front of him, heading towards the hearse. Jaja was out of
breath already. And Sylvie, who seemed anxious not to arrive late, was tugging her
along.

Sylvie was wearing her little blue suit
that made her look like a smart young woman. As for Jaja, she was unused to walking.
Maybe her feet were hurting, or her legs were swollen. She was dressed in very shiny
black silk. They must have both had to get up around five in the morning to catch the
first bus. An unprecedented event, no doubt, at the Liberty Bar!

Boutigues asked him:

‘Who are they?'

‘I don't know
…' Maigret replied vaguely.

But at that moment the two women stopped
and turned round, as they had reached the hearse. And when Jaja spotted Maigret, she
dashed over to him.

‘We're not late, are we?
… Where is he?'

Sylvie had rings round her eyes and was
still giving Maigret an unfriendly look.

‘Did Joseph come with you?'

She was about to lie.

‘Who told you that?'

Boutigues was standing some distance away.
Maigret spotted a taxi which, unable to cross the square because of the crowded market,
had stopped at the corner of a street.

The two women who got out were an amazing
sight, for they were in full mourning regalia, with crepe veils almost brushing the
ground.

It was so unexpected, in the sunshine, amid
the buzz of joyous life! Maigret murmured to Jaja:

‘Allow me …'

Boutigues was troubled. He asked the head
pallbearer, who wanted to go to fetch the coffin, to wait a moment.

‘We're not too late, are
we?' the old woman asked. ‘Our taxi failed to turn up …'

And then immediately her gaze fell on Jaja
and Sylvie.

‘Who are they?'

‘I don't know.'

‘I assume they won't interfere
…'

Another taxi pulled up, its door opening
before it had
come to a complete stop, and from it Harry Brown emerged,
impeccably dressed in black, his blond hair well groomed, his complexion fresh. His
secretary, also in black, accompanied him, carrying a wreath of natural flowers.

At the same moment, Maigret noticed that
Sylvie had disappeared. He spotted her in the middle of the market, next to a
flowerseller, and when she returned she was carrying an enormous bouquet of Nice
violets.

Did this inspire the two Martini women with
the same idea? They were clearly having a discussion as they approached the
flowerseller. The old woman counted out some coins, and the young woman chose
mimosas.

Meanwhile, Brown had taken up a position a
few metres from the hearse, limiting himself to a wave in the direction of Maigret and
Boutigues.

‘I'd better inform him of what
I have arranged for the service …' the latter sighed.

The part of the market nearest to them
slowed its pace, and people watched the unfolding spectacle. But a mere twenty metres
away, it was business as normal: the din of shouts and laughter, all the flowers, fruits
and vegetables under the sun, and the smell of garlic and mimosa.

There were four pallbearers carrying the
coffin, which was enormous and weighed down by a profusion of bronze ornaments.
Boutigues came back.

‘He doesn't seem to care. He
just shrugged his shoulders …'

The crowd parted. The horses started
walking. Harry
Brown advanced stiffly, hat in hand, looking at the tips
of his polished shoes.

The four women hesitated. They exchanged
glances. Then, as the crowd closed in behind them, they found themselves unintentionally
walking side by side, just behind Brown Junior and his secretary.

The doors of the church were wide open;
the interior was completely empty and delightfully cool.

Brown stood at the top of the steps until
they had removed the coffin from the hearse. He was used to ceremonial occasions. It
didn't bother him one bit that he was the focus of everyone's attention.

More than that, he quietly studied the
four women, without appearing overly curious.

The orders had come too late. They
realized at the last minute that they had failed to inform the organist. The priest
called Boutigues forwards and whispered to him; when the latter returned from the
sacristy, he was quite upset and announced to Maigret:

‘There won't be any music
… We'd have to wait at least another quarter of an hour … At least!
The organist must be out fishing for mackerel …'

A few people wandered into the church,
glanced around and then left. And Brown continued to stand to attention and look around
him with the same light curiosity.

It was a swift service, without an organ,
without a eulogy. A sprinkling of holy water from the aspergillum. And then straight
afterwards the pallbearers carried the coffin out.

It was already hot
outside. They passed in front of a hairdresser's window as a barber in a white
jacket was opening the shutters. A man was shaving before his open window. And the
people on their way to work turned round astonished at the sight of this tiny cortège,
where the derisory escort was so out of kilter with the pomp of the funeral
carriage.

The two women from Cannes and the two
women from Antibes were still walking in a row, though they kept a metre apart. They
were followed by an empty taxi. Boutigues, who had taken on the responsibility for this
ceremony, was nervous.

‘Do you think there will be a
scandal?'

There wasn't. The cemetery, with all
its flowers, was as colourful as the market. At the open grave they found the priest and
an altar boy, whom they hadn't noticed arrive.

Harry Brown was invited to cast the first
handful of earth. Then there was a moment of uncertainty. The old woman in mourning
dress pushed her daughter forwards and followed her.

Brown had already gone striding off to the
empty taxi that was waiting at the cemetery gate.

Another moment of uncertainty. Maigret
stood back, with Boutigues. Jaja and Sylvie didn't dare leave without saying
goodbye to him. Only the women in mourning got there before them.

‘That was his son, wasn't it?
… I suppose he'll want to come to the villa?'

‘Perhaps. I don't know
…'

But they had eyes only
for Jaja and Sylvie. They alone grabbed their attention.

‘Where are they from? … People
like that shouldn't be allowed …'

There were birds singing in all the trees.
The gravediggers shovelled the earth into the grave in a regular rhythm, and, as it
filled up, the sound became more muffled. They had placed the wreath and the two
bouquets on the neighbouring grave while they worked. And Sylvie stood turned towards
them, staring fixedly, her lips pale.

Jaja was getting impatient. She was
waiting for the other two to leave so that she could talk to Maigret. She wiped her
brow, because it was hot. She must have been having difficulty standing.

‘Yes … I'll be seeing
you soon …'

The black veils headed for the exit. Jaja
approached with a huge sigh of relief.

‘Is that them? … Was he really
married?'

Sylvie held back, still watching the
grave, which was now nearly filled in.

And Boutigues was the same bag of nerves.
He didn't dare come to listen to the conversation.

‘Was it the son who paid for the
coffin?'

It was obvious that Jaja was ill at
ease.

‘What a strange funeral!' she
said. ‘I don't know why, but I'd never imagined it like that … I
wouldn't even have been able to cry …'

Now the emotion hit her. She looked at the
cemetery and succumbed to some undefined malaise.

‘It wasn't
even a sad occasion! … You'd have thought it was …'

‘You'd have thought it was
what?'

‘I don't know … It was
as if it wasn't a real funeral.'

She stifled a sob, dried her eyes and
turned towards Sylvie.

‘Come … Joseph is waiting for
us …'

The cemetery caretaker was sitting in his
doorway, slicing an eel.

‘What do you think?'

Boutigues was concerned. He too had the
vague feeling that something wasn't quite right. Maigret lit his pipe.