Free Liberty Bar by Georges Simenon

which he had taken from the villa.
    And he entered a new milieu: the small
     hotels, especially those around the harbour, which rented out rooms not just by the
     night but also by the hour.
    The landlords realized straight away that
     he was from the police. They were the sort of people who feared that more than
     anything.
    ‘Wait here. I’ll ask the
     chambermaid …’
    And the inspector discovered a whole
     decadent underworld in those dark corridors.
    ‘The big fellow? … No, I
     don’t recall seeing him here …’
    Maigret showed William
     Brown’s photo first, followed by that of Sylvie.
    Almost everyone knew her.
    ‘She came here … But it was a
     long time ago …’
    ‘At night?’
    ‘Oh no! When she came with someone
     it was always a “short stay” …’
    Hôtel Bellevue … Hôtel du Port
     … Hôtel Bristol … Hôtel d’Auvergne …
    Then there were others, mostly in the
     sidestreets, mostly very discreet, showing no sign of their existence to passers-by
     other than marbled nameplates alongside open corridors saying: ‘Running water.
     Reasonable prices’.
    Sometimes Maigret went more upmarket,
     found a carpet on the stairs … Other times he came across a furtive couple in the
     corridor who turned their heads away …
    And on the way out he would see the
     harbour, where a number of international-class six-metre racing yachts were drawn up on
     the beach.
    Some sailors were painting them carefully,
     watched by groups of curious onlookers.
    ‘No dramas,’ they had said in
     Paris.
    Well, if it went on like this, they would
     be satisfied. There would be no drama at all for the simple reason that Maigret would
     find nothing!
    He smoked pipe after pipe, filling one
     before the other was even extinguished, for he always carried two or three in his
     pockets.
    And he took a real dislike to the place,
     because a woman was bothering him to buy some shellfish and a small boyran up to him, barefoot, and jumped in front of his feet, then burst out laughing as
     he looked at him.
    ‘Do you know this man?’
    He was showing William Brown’s photo
     for the twentieth time.
    ‘He never came here.’
    ‘Or this woman?’
    ‘Sylvie? … She’s
     upstairs …’
    ‘Alone?’
    The landlord shrugged his shoulders,
     called upstairs:
    ‘Albert! … Come downstairs a
     moment …’
    A scruffy valet, who looked right through
     the inspector.
    ‘Is Sylvie still up
     there?’
    ‘Number 7 …’
    ‘Have they ordered any
     drinks?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘In that case, they won’t be
     long!’ said the landlord. ‘If you want to talk to her, you just need to wait
     …’
    The place was called the Hôtel Beauséjour,
     and it was on a street running parallel to the harbour, directly opposite a bakery.
    Did Maigret want to see Sylvie again? Did
     he have one or two questions to ask her?
    He didn’t even know himself. He was
     tired. There was something threatening about his demeanour, as if he had almost had
     enough.
    He wasn’t going to wait outside the
     hotel, for the baker’s wife opposite was watching him through her window with a
     knowing look.
    Did Sylvie have so many lovers that
     occasionally one of
them would be waiting his turn downstairs? That was
     it! Maigret was furious that he should be taken for one of the girl’s clients.
    He walked to the corner of the street with
     the idea of touring the block to kill time. As he arrived on the quayside, he turned
     round to look at a taxi parked along the pavement whose driver was pacing up and
     down.
    He couldn’t put his finger on what
     had caught his attention. He did a double take. It wasn’t so much the taxi as the
     man who reminded him of something, and suddenly his image connected to the memory of
     that morning’s funeral.
    ‘You’re from Antibes,
     aren’t you?’
    ‘Juan-les-Pins!’
    ‘You followed a funeral procession
     to the cemetery this morning …’
    ‘That’s right! Why the
     interest?’
    ‘Is it the same