Free Mr Hire's Engagement by Georges Simenon Page A

white paper that covered the table. Mr. Hire poured a little wine into his glass and drowned it with water till it faded to pink. Just as he was drinking he saw the waitresses exchange glances, and he went on drinking, but the thrill was lost, the enjoyment spoilt. He smiled ironically.
    When he came out the policeman was across the road, in an ill-lit bar, eating a croissant which he dipped in his coffee, and Mr. Hire saw him stuff half a croissant into his mouth, fumble in his pockets and fling down some coins on the counter.
    A bus passed close beside the pavement. Mr. Hire could have jumped on the platform and left the inspector high and dry. He didn't do so. He went on walking, with his stomach thrust forward because he had eaten a good deal and, above all, because he was conscious of the importance of his every gesture.
    He did not go far. Near the Place Voltaire was a big café, whose lights shone over nearly a hundred yards of the Boulevard. Mr. Hire went in, and the further he penetrated into the throng the more boldly he thrust out his chest, the more confidently he hugged the briefcase under his arm, while a smile began to hover on his lips.
    To the left of the café was a cinema, which was under the same management, and which announced its programme by the uninterrupted ringing of a bell. It could be heard all over the place. The café was enormous. Down one side, people sat eating. Along the other side were tables covered with red cloths, where people were playing cards. At the far end were six billiard tables, lit by green arc-lights, and round these, shirt-sleeved men were moving with ceremonious gestures.
    There were women and children about, waiting for Father to finish his game. Forty waiters ran to and fro between the rows of tables, calling:
    'Look out, please!'
    And on a platform a pianist, a violinist and a woman 'cellist were announcing the next item on their programme by hanging up number- cards on a brass rod.
    Mr. Hire walked jauntily through all this. As he passed the cash-desk at the far end, the manager gave him a little bow all to himself.
    From here the cinema bell could still be heard, and the orchestra tuning up, the click of the billiard balls, but other sounds now came through an open door, rolling noises followed by a kind of thunderclap.
    Mr. Hire advanced towards the thunder. He went through the door, on the far side of which the glare of brilliant lights was replaced by austere, sparse lighting like that in a factory or laboratory. He took off his hat and overcoat, handed his briefcase to the waiter, and went into the cloakroom, where he combed his hair and washed his hands.
    By the time he emerged, the policeman had plucked up courage enough to come in. He was sitting at a table in a corner, but had not dared to take off his overcoat. He must be feeling ill at ease and wondering whether this place was public or private.
    It was a square room, roofed in with glass. There were only a few tables with glasses of beer on them, but nobody was sitting at them.
    The people were further along, standing round four sets of skittles. On the wall hung a notice:
    'Bowling Voltaire Club.'
    And Mr. Hire advanced with the natural ease of a dancer, holding out a hand which everyone shook. Yes, everyone shook Mr. Hire by the hand, even the players who were holding a big, iron-encircled ball, and who interrupted their game for moment. They all knew Mr. Hire. They all greeted him.
    'We've been waiting for you.'
    'You're number four.'
    The men had taken off their coats, and Mr. Hire took off his and laid it, neady folded, on a chair, not without casting a glance at the little policeman who was sitting all alone, over there, at one of the green tables.
    'What shall I bring you, Mr. Hire?'
    This from the waiter, who also knew him.
    'Well, give me a kummel!'
    So there! He had made up his mind to it. While waiting for his turn, he watched the game with a slightly disdainful eye, and at one moment the policeman