‘No … Apart from the three of us …’
‘Who was it who received Mimi’s letter that time?’
‘I did,’ Gigi said. ‘And before I left Cannes, I found it again in a box where I keep my souvenirs … I brought it with me …’
‘Give it to me …’
‘On condition you swear to me …’
‘Of course, you fool! Don’t you see I’m trying to get Prosper out of the fix he’s in?’
He was grave, sullen. He had a vague sense of something strange and complicated in the background of this case, but he didn’t as yet have the slightest clue that might serve as a point of departure.
‘Will you give it back to me?’
He shrugged again and read:
My dear Gigi,
Phew! All over! It took me a while, but it’s done! You and Charlotte used to laugh when I told you I’d get out of there and become a real lady.
Well, my dear, it’s done … Oswald and I got married yesterday, and it was actually a strange kind of wedding, because he wanted us to be married in England, where things aren’t at all the same as they are in our country. There are even moments when I wonder if I’m really married.
Let Charlotte know. In three or four days, we’re setting sail for America. Because of the strikes, we don’t know the exact date we’re leaving.
As for poor Prosper, I think it’s best not to tell him anything. He’s a good sort, but he’s a bit dumb. I still wonder how I managed to stay with him for nearly a year. I must have been feeling charitable …
All the same, without knowing it, he did me quite a favour. Keep this to yourself. It’s none of Charlotte’s business, she’s just a sentimental fool.
I realized some time ago that I was pregnant. You can imagine how I felt at first when I found out. Before telling Oswald, I went to see a specialist … We worked it out … The long and short of it is, there’s no way the child can be Oswald’s … Which means it’s poor old Prosper who … As long as he never finds out! He’d be quite capable of getting all paternal!
It would take too long to tell you everything … The doctor was really nice about it … By cheating a little bit about when the baby’s due (we’ll just have to claim it’s a premature labour) we managed to make Oswald believe that he was going to be a daddy.
He took it really well. When you see him for the first time, you might think he’s a cold fish, but he isn’t at all. On the contrary, in private, he’s as playful as a little boy and the other day, in Paris, we toured all the dance halls and even rode the carousel …
Anyway, I’m now Mrs Oswald J. Clark, of Detroit, Michigan, and I’m only speaking English from now on, because Oswald, if you remember, doesn’t speak a word of French.
Sometimes, I think of the two of you. Is Charlotte still as scared of putting on weight? Does she still knit in her spare time? You’ll see, she’ll end up behind the counter of a provincial haberdasher’s!
As for you, my dearest Gigi, I don’t think you’ll ever become respectable. As the customer with the white spats used to say with a laugh – do you remember, the one who drank a whole bottle of champagne in one go? – you have vice in your blood!
Say hello to the Croisette for me and try not to laugh when you look at Prosper and think he’s going to be a father without knowing it.
I’ll send you some postcards.
Love,
MIMI.
‘Do you mind if I take this letter away with me?’
It was Charlotte who intervened. ‘Let him, Gigi … The way things are right now …’
Then, as she saw Maigret to the door:
‘Tell me, do you think I could get permission to go and see him? … He’s allowed to get his meals brought in from outside, isn’t he? … Do you think you could …?’
Turning red, she held out a thousand-franc note.
‘If he could also receive a few books … He’s always spent all his spare time reading! …’
The rain. The taxi. The streetlamps coming on. The Bois, which Maigret had crossed on a bicycle, riding in concert with Donge.
‘Could you drop me at the Majestic?’
Seeing Maigret cross the lobby without a word, the porter anxiously offered his services and helped him off with his hat and coat at the cloakroom. Through the gap in the curtain, the manager had also seen him. Everybody knew Maigret. Everybody was watching him.
To the bar? Why not? He was thirsty. But he was drawn by the muted sounds of music. Somewhere in the basement, a band was playing a sluggish tango. He walked down a thickly carpeted staircase and entered a blue-lit room. Female guests were eating cakes at little tables. Others were dancing. A waiter came to greet him.
‘Bring me a glass of beer …’
‘The thing is …’
Maigret looked at him in such a way that he obeyed, scribbling something on a slip … The slips that … Maigret followed the peregrinations of this one with his eyes … At the far end of the ballroom, to the right of the band, there was a kind of hatch in the wall …
On the other side of it were the glass cages, the coffee room, the kitchens, the sinks, the couriers’ room, and finally, near the clocking-in machine, the locker room with its hundred metal lockers.
Someone was watching him, he could feel it, and he spotted Zebio, who was dancing with a middle-aged woman draped in jewellery.
Was it an illusion? It seemed to Maigret that Zebio was indicating something to him with his eyes. He looked and had a little shock on seeing Oswald J. Clark dancing with his son’s governess, Ellen Darroman.
They both seemed quite indifferent to everything around them. They were in a state of rapture, like young lovers. Solemn, barely smiling, they thought themselves alone on the dance-floor, alone in the world, and when the music stopped they stood motionless for a moment before heading back to their table.
Maigret noticed then that Clark was wearing a thin strip of black cloth on the lapel of his jacket, which was his way of observing mourning.
In his pocket, Maigret’s hand touched Mimi’s letter to Gigi. He had an overwhelming desire to …
But hadn’t the examining magistrate forbidden him to deal directly with Clark, who was too grand a gentleman, no doubt, to be grappling with a policeman?
A slow foxtrot replaced the tango. A foamy glass of beer followed the same path the waiter’s slip had followed earlier, but in the opposite direction. The couple were dancing again.
Maigret stood up, forgetting to pay for his beer, and strode back to the lobby.
‘Is there someone in 203?’ he asked the porter.
‘I think the nurse and the boy are up there … But … I can phone if you like …’
‘Please don’t bother …’
‘The lift is on your left, inspector.’
Too late! Maigret had already started up the marble staircase and was climbing slowly, grunting as he did so.
7. The Evening of ‘What’s He Saying?’
It was only a fleeting thought, one that Maigret forgot immediately. He reached the second floor of the Majestic and stopped for a moment to catch his breath. On the stairs, he had passed a waiter carrying a tray and a bellboy running with a bundle of foreign newspapers in his hand.
Now, straight ahead of him, some very elegant women were entering the lift, presumably on their way to the tea dance downstairs. Perfume lingered in the air.
‘They’re all in their places,’ he told himself. ‘Some behind the scenes, others in the reception rooms and the lobby … The guests on one side, the staff on the other …’
That wasn’t exactly his thought. Let’s see! Everyone around him was in his place, everyone was doing what he had to do. It was normal, for example, for a rich foreign lady to be taking tea, smoking cigarettes and going to fittings. It was natural for a waiter to be carrying a tray, for a chambermaid to be making the beds, for a lift operator to be working the lift …
In short, everyone’s situation, however many of them there were, wa
s clear, accepted once and for all.
But if anyone had asked Maigret what he was doing there, what would he have replied?
‘I’m trying to throw a man in prison, even get his head cut off …’
It was nothing! A hesitation, probably caused by the overly, even aggressively, luxurious setting, by the atmosphere of the tea dance …
209 … 207 … 205 … 203 … Maigret hesitated for a moment, then knocked. Leaning in towards the door, he heard the voice of a little boy saying a few words in English, then a woman’s voice coming from further away. He assumed she was asking him to come in.
He immediately crossed a little antechamber and found himself in a sitting room, of which all three windows looked out on to the Champs-Élysées. A middle-aged woman in a white nurse’s uniform sat sewing by one of these windows. It was Gertrud Borms, looking even sterner because of the glasses she wore.
But she wasn’t the one the inspector was interested in. He was looking at a little boy of about six, dressed in plus fours and a thick sweater that fitted his narrow chest closely. The child was sitting on the carpet, his toys strewn about him, including a big mechanical boat and model cars scrupulously imitating various makes of automobile. On his knees, a picture book, which he had been leafing through when Maigret came in and over which, after giving the visitor a mere glance, he again bent his head.
‘…’
When he recounted the scene to Madame Maigret, the inspector did so more or less like this:
‘She said to me something like:
‘“You we you we we well …”
‘And, to gain time, I said very quickly:
‘“This is Mister Oswald J. Clark’s suite, isn’t it? …”’
‘She said again:
‘“You we you we we well,” or something close to it.
‘And in the meantime, I was able to observe the boy. A head too big for his age, covered, as I’d been told, by hair of the most flaming red. The same eyes as Prosper Donge, periwinkle blue, the colour of some summer twilights … A thin neck …
‘He looked at me and said something in English to his nurse, which as far as I was concerned also sounded like:
‘“You we we you we we well …”
‘Obviously, they were both wondering what I was doing there and why I was just standing in the middle of the sitting room. Did I even know myself why I was there? There was a large Chinese vase, with flowers costing several hundred francs …
‘The nurse finally stood up. She put her sewing down on the armchair, picked up a telephone and spoke into it.
‘“Do you understand any French, son?” I asked the boy.
‘He simply looked at me suspiciously. A few moments later, a hotel employee in a morning coat came in. The nurse shouted something at him. He turned to me.
‘“She wants to know what you want …”
‘“I wanted to see Mr Clark …”
‘“He isn’t here … She says he must be downstairs …”
‘“Thank you …”’
There! That was all! Maigret had wanted to see Teddy Clark and he had seen him. He went back downstairs, thinking about Prosper Donge, who was locked up in a cell in the Santé. Mechanically, without realizing it, he went all the way down to the ballroom and, as his glass of beer hadn’t yet been collected, resumed his seat.
He was in a state that he knew well. It was a bit like dozing off, although he was aware of what was going on around him, without attaching any importance to it, without trying to situate things and people in time and space.
So it was that he saw a bellboy approach Ellen Darroman and say a few words to her. She stood up and walked to a phone booth, in which she remained for only a short while.
When she came out, it was to look around until she saw Maigret. Then she rejoined Clark, to whom she said something in a low voice, still turned towards the inspector.
At that moment, Maigret had the very distinct impression that something unpleasant was about to happen. He was aware that the best thing to do was to leave and yet he stayed.
If he had had to explain why he was staying, he would have found it hard to do so. It wasn’t out of professional conscience. There was no need to linger in this ballroom, where he was out of place.
That was just it! He couldn’t have explained it to himself. Hadn’t the examining magistrate arrested Prosper Donge without consulting him? Hadn’t he even forbidden him to have any dealings with the American?
That was tantamount to saying:
‘This man doesn’t move in the same circles as you … You can’t understand him … Leave him to me …’
And Maigret, plebeian to the bone, to the marrow, felt hostile to everything that surrounded him here.
Too bad! He was staying! He saw Clark, who now also sought him out with his eyes, frowned, no doubt asked his companion to remain in her place and stood up. A dance had just started. The blue lighting had been replaced by pink lighting. The American weaved his way between the couples, approached the inspector and planted himself in front of him.
For Maigret, who did not understand a word of English, his words could again be translated by:
‘Well you well we we well …’
But this time the tone was aggressive, and it was clear that Clark could barely contain his anger.
‘What are you saying?’
And the other man really lost his temper now.
As Madame Maigret put it that evening, shaking her head:
‘Admit it, you did it on purpose! I know that look of yours! You’d drive an angel wild with rage …’
He didn’t admit it, but there was amusement in his eyes. What had he done, when you came down to it? He had stood there facing the American, his hands in his jacket pockets, looking him in the face, as if he found it a curious sight.
Was it his fault? He was still thinking about Donge, who was in prison, not dancing with the pretty Miss Ellen. The latter, who no doubt could feel the drama coming, approached. Before she could reach them, a furious Clark had launched his fist at Maigret’s face, with that abrupt, almost automatic movement that you see in American films.
Two women who were having tea at the next table screamed and rose to their feet. A few couples stopped dancing.
As for Clark, he was pleased. It must have seemed to him that the situation had been clarified, and that there was nothing to add.
Maigret didn’t even raise his hand to his chin. The impact of fist on jaw had been clearly audible, but his face remained as impassive as if he had been given a mere flick.
In reality, although he had not been looking for anything specific, he was really pleased with what chance had offered him, and he was smiling involuntarily at the thought of Judge Bonneau’s face.
‘Gentlemen! … Gentlemen! …’
As it looked likely that he was going to throw himself on his adversary and that a fight would start, a waiter intervened. Ellen on one side and a dancer on the other were trying to immobilize Clark, who was still speaking.
‘What’s he saying?’ Maigret asked calmly.
‘It doesn’t matter! … Gentlemen, I must ask you to …’
And Clark was still speaking.
‘What’s he saying?’
Then, much to everyone’s surprise, Maigret started playing absently with a shiny object he had taken from his pocket. The pretty ladies looked with astonishment at those famous handcuffs, which they had heard about but had never seen at such close quarters.
‘Do you mind translating, waiter? … Tell this gentleman that I’m obliged to arrest him for abusing an officer of the law in the exercise of his duties … Add that if he isn’t willing to come of his own free will, I’ll be forced to put handcuffs on him …’
Clark did not flinch, did not say another word and pushed Ellen away when she tried to follow him, holding on to his arm. Without asking for his coat or hat, he walked hard on Maigret’s heels, and as they crossed the lobby, followed by a few onlookers, the manager, who
saw them from his office, raised his arms to heaven in despair.
‘Taxi … The Palais de Justice …’
Night had fallen. They climbed the stairs, walked along the corridors and stopped outside Judge Bonneau’s door. Maigret assumed a humble, contrite attitude, one which Madame Maigret knew well and which was quite capable of driving her to distraction.
‘I’m sorry, your honour … I was obliged, much to my regret, to place Mr Clark here under arrest …’
The judge could not have guessed the truth. He assumed that Maigret suspected the American of being the killer of his wife and the night porter.
‘Hold on a moment! Did you have a warrant? What gave you the right to …’
It was Clark who replied, and Maigret was still unable to grasp anything of what he was saying, except a kind of onomatopoeia.
‘What’s he saying?’
Poor Judge Bonneau! He knit his brows, because his knowledge of English was poor and he was finding it hard to follow Clark. He said something in his turn, then sent his clerk to look for another clerk who sometimes served as an interpreter.
‘What’s he saying?’ Maigret murmured from time to time.
And Clark, angered even more by these words, repeated, imitating the inspector and clenching his fists:
‘“What’s he saying?” … “What’s he saying?” …’
Then another tirade in his own language.
The interpreter slipped into the room. He was a short, shy, bald man, of disarming humility.
‘He says he’s an American citizen and that he won’t stand for police officers …’
The tone suggested that Clark had a deep contempt for the police!
‘… for police officers to be constantly on his tail … He claims he’s been followed all the time by an inspector …’
‘Is that correct, inspector?’
‘He’s probably right, your honour!’
‘He states that another officer has been following Miss Ellen …’
‘Well, that’s quite possible …’
‘… And that you got into his suite in his absence …’
‘I knocked politely on the door and asked the lady who was there, as politely as possible, if I could see Mr Clark … After which, I went down to the ballroom to have a glass of beer … That was when the gentleman here saw fit to aim his fist at my jaw …’
The Cellars of the Majestic Page 8
