‘Given that your son cares about one person and only one, his father; given that he rushed to New York without telling you beforehand – at least so I suppose …’
The hit went home, no doubt about it.
‘… then there is every reason to believe that he heard some upsetting news about you. The question is, who planted this troubling possibility in his mind! Do you not think, inspector, that the entire problem lies there? Let’s summarize the matter as simply as possible. You are alarmed by the rather inexplicable disappearance of a young man the moment he arrives in New York. Unfamiliar with police matters and relying solely on common sense, I put it this way.
‘When we find out who made Jean Maura come to New York, meaning whoever cabled him who-knows-what about some danger menacing his father (because otherwise, there was no need for him to request the company of a policeman, if I may use that word) – when that has been determined, it should not be hard to discover who made Jean disappear.’
During this lecture, Little John had gone to stand at the window, where, holding the curtain open with one hand, he was gazing outside. His silhouette was as lean of line as his face.
And Maigret found himself wondering: clarinet? Violin? Which of the two Js did this man play in that long-ago burlesque act?
‘Am I to understand, inspector, that you refuse to answer?’
Then Maigret, fishing for advantage, announced, ‘I would like to speak with Mr Maura in private.’
Little John whipped around, startled. His first glance was for his secretary, who seemed supremely indifferent.
‘I have already told you, I think, that you may speak in front of MacGill.’
‘In that case, please forgive me if I have nothing to say to you.’
Well, MacGill was not offering to leave. He stayed on, sure of himself, like someone who knows he’s in the right place.
Was it the little man who would lose his temper? In his cold eyes there was something like exasperation, but like something else as well.
‘Listen to me, Mr Maigret. We must make an end of this and will do it in few words. Talk or don’t talk, it’s all the same to me, because what you might have to say does not much interest me. A boy, worried for reasons I don’t know, went to see you, and you jumped headlong into an affair that did not concern you. This boy is my son. He is a minor. If he has disappeared, that is my business and mine alone, and if I must turn elsewhere to look for him, it will be to the police of this country. I assume I am making myself clear?
‘We are not in France and, until further notice, my doings are my own affair. I will therefore allow no one to interfere with me and, if necessary, I will take steps to see that my full and complete liberty will be respected.
‘I do not know if my son gave you what’s called an advance. If he did not think of it, let me know, and my secretary will hand over a cheque covering your current travel expenses and return passage to France.’
Why did he glance briefly at MacGill as if seeking his approval?
‘I am waiting for your answer.’
‘To which question?’
‘Regarding the cheque.’
‘I thank you.’
‘One last word, if you please … You are entitled, of course, to stay as long as you like in this hotel, where I am simply a guest like any other. I will merely tell you that I would find it extremely unpleasant to encounter you repeatedly in the lobby, the corridors or the elevators … I bid you good day, inspector.’
Still seated, Maigret slowly knocked his pipe out in an ashtray on a nearby table. He took the time to pull a fresh pipe from his pocket, then fill and light it while looking from one man to the other.
Finally, he rose, seeming to unfold his height and heft, and he looked taller, larger than usual.
‘Goodbye,’ was all he said, so unexpectedly that the letter opener snapped clean in two in Little John’s hand.
He had the feeling that MacGill wanted to say something further to prevent him from leaving right away, but, calmly turning his back, the inspector walked to the door and on down the corridor.
It was only in the elevator that his headache returned and that the previous evening’s whisky came back to him as an upset stomach.
‘Hello … Agent O’Brien? … Maigret here.’
He was smiling. He was smoking his pipe in little puffs as he looked around at the slightly faded wallpaper in his room.
‘What? … No, I’m not at the St Regis any more … Why? Several reasons, the most important being that I wasn’t truly comfortable there. You follow me? … Good … Well of course I’ve found a hotel. The Berwick … You don’t know it? I can’t remember the street number; I’ve never had a head for numbers, and you people are a nuisance with your numbered streets, as if you couldn’t just say Victor Hugo Street, Pigalle Street or President Whosis Street …
‘Hello? … On Broadway, I don’t know how far up, there’s a cinema called the Capitol … Right. Well, it’s the first or second street on the left. A small hotel, nothing fancy, and I suspect they rent out rooms not just for the night … Oh, really? It’s illegal in New York? Too bad!’
He was in a good mood, even a jolly mood, for no particular reason, perhaps simply because he was back in a familiar atmosphere.
First of all, he liked this noisy and rather vulgar part of Broadway, which reminded him of both Montmartre and the Grands Boulevards of Paris. The reception desk looked almost second-hand, and there was only one elevator. Operated by a little man with a limp!
From the window he could see neon signs blinking on and off.
‘Hello? O’Brien? Guess what: I need you again … Don’t worry, I’m scrupulously respecting all the liberties of America the free … What? … No, no … I assure you, I am completely incapable of irony … Imagine this: I, too, would like to engage the services of a private detective.’
At the other end of the line, O’Brien, wondering if he was joking, grunted indistinctly, then decided to burst out laughing.
‘Don’t laugh, I’m quite serious … I actually have a detective at my disposition … I mean that since noon, I have one at my heels … Not at all, my friend, I’m not accusing the official police …Why are you so touchy today? I’m talking about Bill from yesterday … Yes, the boxer with the scarred chin who accompanied MacGill and me on our peregrinations … Well, he’s back, except that he’s walking ten metres behind me like an old-fashioned footman … If I were to lean out the window, I’d certainly see him in front of the hotel entrance … He’s not trying to hide, no … He’s following me, that’s all … I even think that he’s somewhat ill at ease and sometimes would like to nod hello at me …
‘What? … Why do I want a detective? … Laugh all you want. I admit it’s sort of funny. Nevertheless, in your confounded country, where no one deigns to understand my English unless I repeat it four or five times complete with sign language, I wouldn’t say no to someone’s help with the few little inquiries I want to make …
‘Above all, I beg you, your man must speak French! … You have someone available? … You’ll telephone? … Yes, absolutely, as of this evening … I’m in fine fettle, tip-top, in spite of your whiskies … Although I did inaugurate my new room in the Berwick by treating myself to a two-hour nap …
‘In which milieux will I be making my inquiries? I thought you would have guessed … Naturally … That’s right …
‘I’ll wait for your call. I’ll talk to you soon …’
He went to open the window and, as expected, saw the aforementioned Bill chewing his gum about twenty metres from the hotel
and looking none too happy.
The room was perfectly ordinary, with enough old things and shabby carpeting to make it resemble a rented room in any city in the world.
Before ten minutes had passed the telephone rang. O’Brien announced to Maigret that he’d found him a detective, one Ronald Dexter, and recommended that he not let him drink too much.
‘Because he can’t handle whisky?’
And O’Brien replied with angelic sweetness, ‘Because he cries …’
The placid redhead was not joking. Even when he hadn’t been drinking, Dexter gave the impression of a man who goes through life saddled with immeasurable sorrow.
He arrived at the hotel at seven that evening. Maigret met him in the lobby just as the detective was asking for him at the desk.
‘Ronald Dexter?’
‘That’s me.’
And he seemed to be saying, ‘Alas!’
‘Has my friend O’Brien brought you up to date?’
‘Shh!’
‘Excuse me?’
‘No last names, please. I am at your service. Where do you want us to go?’
‘Outside, to begin with … Do you know that gum-chewing gentleman out there with an apparently lively interest in passers-by? That’s Bill … Bill who? I’ve no idea. All I’ve got is his first name, but what I do know is that he’s one of your colleagues who’s been told to follow me … I mention this so that you won’t worry about his comings and goings. He can follow us as much as he likes. It’s of no importance, you understand?’
Dexter either did or didn’t understand. In any case he adopted a resigned expression and seemed to say to heaven above, ‘If it’s not one thing, it’s another!’
He must have been about fifty; his grey clothing and mangy trenchcoat did not plead in favour of prosperity.
The two men walked the hundred metres or so to Broadway, with Bill falling imperturbably in behind them.
‘Are you familiar with theatrical folks?’
‘Somewhat.’
‘More precisely, variety acts, cabarets?’
Then Maigret realized the extent of O’Brien’s sense of both humour and practicality, as Dexter sighed, ‘I was a clown for twenty years …’
‘A sad one, no doubt? If you like, we can go to a bar and have a drink.’
‘I wouldn’t mind.’
Then, with disarming simplicity, ‘I thought you’d been warned …’
‘About what?
‘I can’t hold my liquor very well. Oh … Just one drink, right?’
They sat off in a corner, while Bill came in as well and settled in at the bar.
‘If we were in Paris,’ Maigret explained, ‘I’d find the information I want right away, because around the Porte Saint-Martin area we have shops that date back to another era. Some of them sell popular song sheets, and today you can still find the tunes sung on every street corner in 1900 or 1910 … In one place I know, a wigmaker’s boutique, you’ll see every kind of beard, moustache and wig worn by actors since time immemorial … And in some seedy neighbourhoods, the most unlikely impresarios organize tours through small provincial towns …’
As Maigret was speaking, Ronald Dexter gazed at his glass with a deeply melancholy eye.
‘You see what I mean?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. On the walls of such offices, it would not be hard to find posters for vaudeville and cabaret acts from thirty or forty years ago … And, sitting on the waiting-room benches, a dozen old ham actors, washed-up comedians or cabaret canaries—’
Breaking off, the inspector said, ‘Please forgive me.’
‘Not at all.’
‘What I mean is, actors, singers, chanteuses now seventy and more who still come looking for work. These people have amazing memories, especially of their glory days. So, Mr Dexter …’
‘Everyone calls me Ronald.’
‘So, I’m wondering if New York has the equivalent of what I just described.’
Still staring at his glass, which he had not yet touched, the former clown took some time to reflect. At last he inquired, with the utmost gravity, ‘Must they be really very old?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do they have to be really old performers? You mentioned seventy and up. Around here, that’s a lot, because, you see, we die more quickly.’
His hand reached for the glass, drew back, reached out again; finally he downed the drink in one gulp.
‘There are places … I’ll show you.’
‘We only have to go back about thirty years. At that time, two Frenchmen billed as J and J performed a musical number in cabarets.’
‘Thirty years, you say? I think that’s possible. And you’d like to know …’
‘Everything you can learn about them. I’d also like to obtain a photograph. Performers have lots of pictures taken, images that turn up on posters, in programmes.’
‘Do you intend to come with me?’
‘Not tonight. Not right away.’
‘That would be better. Because, you see … you risk scaring people off. They’re very sensitive, you know. If you want, I’ll come and see you tomorrow at your hotel, or else I’ll phone you. Is this quite urgent? I can get started tonight. But I’d need …’
He hesitated, lowered his voice.
‘I’d need you to pay me enough for a few rounds, to get in a few places.’
Maigret pulled out his wallet.
‘Oh! Ten dollars will be enough. Because if you give me more, I’ll spend it. And when I’ve finished your job, I’ll have nothing left … You don’t need me any more, now?’
The inspector shook his head. He had considered for a moment having dinner with his clown, but the fellow was proving to be too hopelessly mournful.
‘It doesn’t annoy you, having that fellow following you?’
‘What would you do if it did?’
‘I think that offering him a bit more than his employers are paying would …’
‘He’s not bothering me.’
And it was true. It was almost a diversion for Maigret to feel the former boxer shadowing him.
He dined that evening in a brightly lit cafeteria on Broadway, where he was served excellent sausages but irritated at finding only Coca-Cola in lieu of beer.
Then, towards nine o’clock, he hailed a cab.
‘The corner of Findlay and 169th Street.’
The driver sighed, lowering his flag with an air of resignation, and Maigret understood his reaction only a little later, when the taxi left the well-lit neighbourhoods to enter a different world.
Soon, along endless, perfectly straight streets, the only passers-by to be seen were coloured. The cab was crossing Harlem, with its houses all alike, its blocks of dark brick made even uglier by the iron fire escapes zigzagging across the façades.
Much later, they crossed a bridge, passing close to warehouses or factories – it was hard to tell in the darkness – and then, in the Bronx, there were more desolate avenues, sometimes with the yellow, red or violet lights of a neighbourhood cinema, or the display windows of a large store crowded with wax mannequins in rigid poses.
They drove for more than a half an hour, and the streets became yet darker, more deserted, until at last the driver stopped his cab and turned around to announce disdainfully, ‘Findlay.’
To the right was 169th Street. But Maigret had to negotiate a long time to persuade the driver to wait. And he still would not wait at the corner, for as Maigret set out along the sidewalk, he crept along behind him. And a second taxi
rolled slowly along as well, Bill’s cab, no doubt, but the boxer-detective did not bother getting out of his.
In the darkness, one could see the rectangular outline of a few stores like those found in the poor sections of Paris and all capital cities.
What had Maigret come here to do? Nothing definite. Did he even have any idea what he had come to New York to do? And yet, for a few hours now, since the moment he had left the St Regis, actually, he had no longer felt out of his element. The Berwick had already reconciled him to America, perhaps because it smelled like humanity, and now he imagined all the lives huddled in the small cells within these brick cubes, all the scenes unfolding behind the window shades.
Little John had not affected him, emotionally (those weren’t exactly the right words), but he was still some kind of a human being, albeit a somewhat artificial, counterfeit one.
MacGill as well, maybe even more so.
And even the young man, Jean Maura, with his fears and the support of Monsieur d’Hoquélus.
And that disappearance at the moment the transatlantic liner finally docked in New York …
All that, after all, was unimportant. That’s the word Maigret would have used if the red-headed O’Brien had been there at that moment, with his faint smile on his pockmarked face.
A passing reflection as he walked along, hands in his pockets, pipe between his teeth. Why is it usually redheads who are pockmarked and why, almost invariably, are they so likeable?
He sniffed. He breathed in the air smelling vaguely of fuel oil and poverty. Were there any new J-and-Js in a few of those small cells? Surely there were! Some young people barely a few weeks off their boat and who waited, with jaws set, for their glorious hour at the St Regis.
Maigret was looking for a tailor shop. Two taxis followed him like a parade. And in a way this situation was laughable, he knew that.
Once two young men, back when detachable stiff collars and cylindrical cuffs were in fashion (Maigret had had some washable ones, in rubber or rubberized cloth, he still remembered them), two young men had lived on this street, across from a tailor shop.
Maigret in New York Page 5
