Joseph and Jessie were on their own from then on, alone for ten months in the building at 169th Street, across from the tailor’s shop.
What possessed him suddenly to say aloud, startling a passer-by, ‘No …’
He was thinking of old Angelino, of the ignoble death of old Angelino, and he’d said no because he was sure, without knowing exactly why, that it had not happened the way Lewis had imagined.
There was something that didn’t fit. He watched again as Little John and MacGill walked to the black limousine awaiting them and he repeated to himself: ‘No …’
It had to be less complicated. Events can afford to be complicated or just seem that way. As for people, they are always simpler than one thinks.
Even a Little John … Even a MacGill …
Except that, to understand this simplicity required getting to the bottom of things, not merely skimming the surface.
‘Taxi!’
Forgetting he was in New York, he began speaking French to the dumbfounded cabbie. Apologizing, he gave him Lucile’s address in English.
He needed to ask her a question, only one. Like Germain, she lived in Greenwich Village, but Maigret had not expected to see such a handsome, middle-class apartment house of four storeys, with a clean, carpeted staircase and sisal mats in front of the doors.
Madame Lucile
Extra-Lucid Medium
By Appointment only
He rang, and the bell sounded muffled on the other side of the door, the way it does where elderly people live. Then there were quiet footsteps, a pause and, finally, the very soft sound of a bolt cautiously withdrawn.
The door opened only a sliver; an eye peeked out at him through the gap.
Unable to keep from smiling, the inspector announced, ‘It’s me!’
‘Oh! I’m so sorry. I hadn’t recognized you. As I had no appointment scheduled, I was wondering who it could be … Come in … Forgive me for answering the door myself, but the maid is on an errand.’
There was no maid, of course, but it hardly mattered.
It was almost dark, and no lamp had been lit. Behind an armchair set before an English parlour stove, the inspector could glimpse the flickering of a coal fire.
The atmosphere was cosily warm, a touch stale. Madame Lucile was going from switch to switch, and lamps came on, their shades always of blue or pink.
‘Sit down … Have you had any news of your brother?’
Maigret had almost forgotten that story about a brother concocted by the clown to soften up Germain and his old friend. He looked about him in amazement: instead of the bric-a-brac he had anticipated, he found a little Louis XVI sitting room that reminded him of so many others in Passy or Auteuil.
The only false note there was the old woman’s excessive, clumsy make-up. Beneath a crust of cream and powder, her face was as pallid as a moon, with blood-red lips and the long bluish eyelashes of a doll.
‘I’ve thought a lot about you and my former comrades J and J.’
‘And I have a question I would like to ask you about them, madame.’
‘You know, I’m almost sure … You remember you asked me which of the two was in love … I believe, now that I think about it, that they both were.’
About that, Maigret could not have cared less.
‘What I would like to know, madame, is … Wait … I would like you to understand what I’m thinking here. Rarely do two young people of the same age and more or less the same background exhibit the same vitality. The same strength of character, if you prefer. There is always one who is a step ahead … Or we could say, one is always the leader … Just a moment …
‘In that case, the second person can take various possible attitudes, depending on his temperament.
‘Some accept domination by their friend, at times even welcoming it, while others constantly resist it.
‘As you see, my question is rather … a delicate one. Take your time in answering. You lived with them for close to a year … Which of the two made the strongest impression on you?’
‘The violinist,’ she promptly replied.
‘So, Joachim … The blond with long hair, the thin face?’
‘Yes. And yet … He was not always nice.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s hard to explain … It’s an impression … Listen: J and J were only the last act on the programme, right? Robson and I were the stars. There is a certain hierarchy in these matters. For the luggage, for example … Well, the violinist would never have offered to carry my suitcase for me!’
‘Whereas the other man?’
‘He did, several times … He was more polite, better mannered.’
‘Joseph?’
‘Yes. The one with the clarinet. Although … Goodness, it’s hard to explain! Joachim was moody – that’s what it was. He would be gracious one day, wonderfully amiable, then not say a single word to you the next day. I think he was too proud, he suffered because of his situation. Joseph, on the contrary, accepted his lot with a smile. And here I am going wrong again. Because he didn’t smile very often …’
‘Was he a sad person?’
‘No, not that either! He did things correctly, decently, as best he could, no more. If you’d asked him to assist the stage hands or pop into the prompter’s box he would have said yes, whereas the other one would have got his hackles up. That’s what I mean. Still, I preferred Joachim, even when he was brusque.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Won’t you have a cup of tea? Wouldn’t you like me to try to help you?’
She’d spoken just then with a curious shyness, and Maigret did not understand right away.
‘I could try to see …’
Only then did he remember that he was consulting an extra-lucid medium, and he almost – from goodness of heart, and to spare her feelings – agreed to a consultation.
But no! He could not face her playacting, that fainting voice and the questions she asked her deceased Robson.
‘Some other day, madame … Please forgive me, but I cannot spare the time today.’
‘I see …’
‘No, really …’
There! He was making it worse. He truly regretted leaving her on a bad note, but he had no choice.
‘I hope you will find your brother again.’
Hang on … When he got downstairs, a man in front of the building stood staring at him. Maigret hadn’t noticed him when he arrived; one of Lewis’s detectives, no doubt. Was this really still necessary?
He took another cab back to Broadway. It had already become his home port, and he was beginning to know his way around there. Why did he head straight for the Donkey Bar? First, he needed to use the phone. But above all he wanted, for no specific reason, to see that journalist with the grating voice again and knew that at this hour he would be drunk.
‘Good afternoon, Monsieur Maygrette.’
Parson was not alone. He was surrounded by three or four characters who had apparently been laughing at his witticisms for some time.
‘You’ll have a scotch with us, won’t you?’ he added in French. ‘True, you don’t like whisky in France. A cognac, monsieur retired detective chief inspector of the Police Judiciaire?’
He was trying to be funny. He knew – or thought – he was the centre of attention of the entire bar, where few people actually paid any attention to him at all.
‘It’s a beautiful country, France, isn’t it?’
Maigret hesitated, postponed his phone call and bellied up to the bar next to Parson.
�
��You know it?’
‘I lived there for two years.’
‘In Paris?’
‘Gay Paree, yes. And in Lille, Marseilles, Nice … The Côte d’Azur, right?’
He spat all that out resentfully, as if every little word meant something only he could understand.
If Dexter was a sad drunk, Parson was a mean one, and aggressive.
He knew he was ugly and scrawny, he knew he was dirty, he knew he was despised or detested and he was angry at all of humanity, which, for the moment, took the form and face of this placid Maigret looking at him with big calm eyes, the way one looks at a fly frightened by a storm.
‘I bet that when you return, to your beautiful France, you’ll bad-mouth America and Americans as much as you can. All the French are like that. And you’ll say that New York is full of gangsters … Ha! Only, you’ll forget to say that most of them came from Europe …’
And with an ugly laugh, he pointed at Maigret’s chest.
‘You’ll also fail to add that there are as many gangsters in Paris as here … Except that yours are bourgeois gangsters, with wives and children … and sometimes they have medals … Ha-ha! … Another round, Bob! A brandy for Mr Maygrette, who doesn’t like whisky.
‘But say! … Are you going back there, to Europe?’
He looked smugly around at his companions, really proud of having said this right to the inspector’s face.
‘Hey? Are you sure you’ll be going back? Let’s suppose the gangsters here don’t want that. Huh? You think good old O’Brien or the honourable Mr Lewis will be able to do anything?’
‘You weren’t at the ship when Jean Maura left?’ asked the inspector casually.
‘There were more than enough people there without me, no? Your health, Monsieur Maygrette … And to the health of the Paris police.’
This last sally seemed so funny to him that he literally bent double with laughter.
‘In any case, if you do take the boat home, I promise to come and ask you for an interview. “The celebrated Detective Chief Inspector Maigret has told our brilliant reporter Parson that he is quite pleased with his contacts with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and …”’
Two of the men with him left without a word, and, strangely enough, Parson, who saw them go, neither spoke to them nor seemed surprised.
Maigret was sorry he had no one available to tail them.
‘Have another, Monsieur Maygrette … See, you should drink up while you can … Take a good look at this bar: thousands and thousands of people have propped their elbows on it as we’re doing now. Some have turned down a last whisky, saying, “Tomorrow …”
‘And the next day, they weren’t there to drink it.
‘Result: one good scotch, lost. Ha! When I was in France, I always had a tag with the address of my hotel pinned in my overcoat … That way, people knew where to take me. You, you don’t have any tag, do you?
‘It’s nice and practical, even for the morgue, the formalities take less time… Where are you going? You won’t have one for the road?’
Maigret had simply had enough. He left after looking the whining journalist in the eye.
‘Au revoir,’ he said.
‘Or adieu!’ the other shot back.
Instead of phoning from the booth in the Donkey Bar, he preferred to walk back to his hotel. There was a telegram in his pigeonhole, but he did not open it before he reached his room. And even there, toying with it, in a way, he placed the envelope on the table and dialed a number.
‘Hello, Lieutenant Lewis? … Maigret here. Have you turned up any trace of a marriage licence? … Yes … And the date? … One moment … In the name of John Maura and Jessie Dewey? … Yes … What? … Born in New York … Good … The date? … I don’t quite understand …’
In the first place, he found it harder to understand English on the phone than in ordinary conversation. And then, the lieutenant was explaining some complicated matters.
‘Right. You say that the licence was issued at City Hall. Tell me, exactly what is that, City Hall? … Municipal offices? … Fine. Four days before Little John left for Europe … And then? … What? That doesn’t prove they were married?’
That was what was confusing him.
‘Yes … One can have a marriage licence and not use it? In that case, how can we find out if they got married? … Huh? Only Little John could tell us? … Or the witnesses, or whoever has the actual licence today … Things are easier back home, obviously … Yes … I don’t think that is important … I said, I don’t think that is important … Whether they’re married or not … What? … I can assure you that I have no new information. I simply went for a walk … The young man said goodbye, politely … He added that he was sorry I was not making the return voyage with him …
‘I suppose, now that you have Jessie’s family name, you’ll be able to … Yes … Your men are already on it? … I can’t hear you very well … No trace yet of her death certificate? … That doesn’t mean anything, does it … People don’t always die in their beds …
‘No, no, my dear Lieutenant Lewis, I am not contradicting myself. I told you this morning that people whom one cannot find have not necessarily left the living for the dead … I’ve never claimed that Jessie was still alive …
‘One moment: will you stay on the line? I just received a cable from France in reply to my request for information but haven’t opened it yet … Of course not! I particularly wanted you available on the phone.’
He set down the receiver and opened the envelope. The cable was very long; the gist of it was:
Joachim-Jean-Marie Maura: born in Bayonne on … Son of town’s chief hardware store owner. Lost mother early. Studies at lycée. Music studies. Bordeaux Conservatory. First Prize violin at nineteen. Left for Paris soon afterwards.
… First returned Bayonne four years later on father’s death; sole heir, complicated inheritance amounting probably two or three hundred thousand francs.
… Cousins still in Bayonne and area claim he has made fortune in America but has never answered their letters …
‘Are you still there, lieutenant? Forgive me for making you wait … Regarding Maura, nothing important here. May I keep reading? …’
Joseph-Ernest-Dominique Daumale, born in Bayonne on … Son of postmaster and schoolteacher. Mother widowed when he was fifteen. Studies at lycée, then Bordeaux Conservatory. Departure for Paris, probable reacquaintance with Maura. Long stay in America. Currently orchestra director in spa towns. Spent last season in La Bourboule; has built villa and must presently reside there. Married to Anne-Marie Penette, of Sables-d’Olonne; they have three children …
‘Hello … Still there, lieutenant? … I can tell you that I’ve found one of your dead persons … Yes, I know they aren’t yours. It’s Joseph … Yes, the clarinet. Well, Joseph Daumale is in France, married, a father, owner of a villa, and an orchestra conductor … You’ll continue the investigation? … What? … No, really, I assure you, I am not joking … I know, yes … Of course there is old Angelino … You sincerely want to …’
Lewis had begun speaking so animatedly at his end that a discouraged Maigret no longer tried to decipher his English but simply muttered indifferently in response.
‘Yes … Yes … Suit yourself … Goodbye, lieutenant … What am I going to do? That depends on what time it is in France … What’s that you say? Midnight? … That’s a bit late. If I telephone from here at one in the morning it will be seven o’clock over there. By which hour people should be up when they own a villa in La Bour
boule. An hour, in any case, at which they are almost certainly at home.
‘Meanwhile, I shall simply go to the cinema. There must be a comedy showing somewhere on Broadway. I confess, I like only funny films.
‘Goodbye, lieutenant. My regards to O’Brien.’
And he went to wash his hands, splash water on his face, brush his teeth. He placed each foot in turn on the armchair seat to clean his dusty shoes with a dirty handkerchief, which would have earned him a scolding from Madame Maigret.
After which he went briskly downstairs, pipe between his teeth, and carefully selected a nice little restaurant.
It was almost as if he were dining tête-à-tête with himself. He ordered his favourite dishes, then an old burgundy and an Armagnac for special occasions. He hesitated between a cigar and his pipe, opting finally for his pipe, and found himself again among the moving neon signs of Broadway.
No one knew who he was, luckily, for his prestige would probably have been tarnished in American eyes. Round-shouldered, hands in his pockets, he looked like a bourgeois out-of-towner, window-shopping, allowing himself the occasional admiring glance at a pretty woman, pausing before the film posters at the cinemas.
One of them was showing a Laurel and Hardy and Maigret, satisfied, handed over some change at the cashier’s window and followed the usherette into the dark theatre.
Fifteen minutes later he was laughing his head off, so gleefully and noisily that his neighbours nudged one another with their elbows.
One small disappointment, however. The usherette came to ask him politely to put out his pipe, which he shoved with regret into his pocket.
9.
After leaving the cinema, at around eleven thirty, Maigret was calm, a little sluggish, neither nervous nor tense, and this so reminded him of other investigations when, at a specific moment, he’d had the same impression of quiet strength, with at most a hint of uneasiness in the back of his throat – stage fright, essentially – that for a few moments he forgot he was on Broadway, not Boulevard des Italiens, and wondered what street to take for Quai des Orfèvres.
Maigret in New York Page 13
