Maigret in New York (10 page)

‘And now, what will you do?'

He displayed his mellowest, most aggravating
smile with his least expressive countenance.

‘Are you going to visit your client? After all,
young Maura is the one who turned to you and who—'

‘I don't know.'

Maigret was furious. Because it really was no
longer Jean Maura and his fears that interested him but his father, Little John, and the house
at 169th Street, and a certain cabaret handbill, and finally an old Italian named Angelino
Giacomi someone had run over like a dog while he was crossing the street.

He would go to the St Regis, obviously, because
he could not do otherwise. They would undoubtedly tell him again that they had no need of him
and would offer him a cheque and passage on a ship to France.

His wisest course would be to go home the way he
had come, even if it meant spending the rest of his days being wary of all the young men and
Messrs d'Hoquélus in creation.

‘Shall I drop you off there?'

‘Where?'

‘At the St Regis.'

‘If you want.'

‘Shall I see you this evening? I think I will be free for dinner. If you are as well, call me,
I'll come and pick you up at your hotel or elsewhere. Today is a lucky day: I've the use of an
official car. I wonder if we'll be drinking to your departure?'

And his eyes said no. He had understood Maigret
so well! But he needed to shrug off the slightest emotion with a pleasantry.

‘Good luck!'

What lay ahead was the worst part, a thankless
task. Maigret could have predicted almost exactly what would happen: nothing surprising, nothing
of interest, but he felt obliged to go through with it.

He went up to the reception desk, as he had when
first arriving.

‘Would you please announce me to Mr Jean
Maura?'

The clerk had been briefed, for he promptly
picked up the phone.

‘Mr MacGill? There is someone here asking for Mr
Jean Maura … I believe so, yes. Let me make sure … And you are, sir?'

The inspector told him his name.

‘That's right,' confirmed the clerk. ‘Of course.
I will send him up.'

So MacGill had known from the first moment who
was at the desk.

A bellboy took him upstairs once more. He
recognized the floor, the corridor, the apartment.

‘Come in!'

And a smiling MacGill came towards him, seemingly
without the least resentment and, as if relieved
of a great weight, holding out his hand without appearing to remember that Maigret had ignored
it the day before.

When he did again, MacGill exclaimed evenly,
‘Still put out, my dear inspector?'

Hmm! He had always said simply ‘inspector'
before, and this familiar touch was perhaps not insignificant.

‘You see, we were right, the boss and I, and you
were wrong. Speaking of which! I must first congratulate you regarding your police connection:
you were quick to hear about the prodigal son's return.'

He went and opened the door to the next room.
Jean Maura was there with his father and, the first to notice the inspector, he blushed.

‘Your friend Maigret,' announced MacGill, ‘would
like to speak to you. If you don't mind, sir?'

Little John stepped into the office as well, but
merely nodded absently at the inspector. As for the young man, he came over and shook his hand,
appearing embarrassed and ill at ease.

He turned his head away and mumbled, ‘I must
apologize.'

MacGill still seemed brimming with carefree good
humour, whereas Little John, on the contrary, looked tired and careworn. He probably hadn't
slept the night before. His gaze, for the first time, was evasive, and to bolster his confidence
he felt the need to light one of those fat cigars made especially for him with his initials on
the band.

His hand shook a little as he struck the match.
He, too,
must have been in a hurry to get this
unavoidable farce over with.

‘What are you apologizing for?' asked Maigret,
well aware that this was expected of him.

‘Of having gone off and left you so rudely. You
see, I spotted a fellow I'd known last year among the journalists who came on board; he had a
pocket flask of whisky and absolutely insisted on celebrating my arrival …'

Maigret did not inquire where this scene had
occurred on the ship because he knew it was purely imaginary, concocted for the young man by
MacGill or Little John.

By the former, probably, who assumed too detached
and indifferent an air during his pupil's recitation, like a teacher who won't prompt his
favourite.

‘He had some girls with him in the taxi.'

How plausible was that, this newsman going off to
work at ten in the morning taking women along! They weren't bothering to make it believable.
They were tossing him any old explanation to chew on, without caring to see if he would believe
it or not. Why bother? Wasn't he now out of the game?

Curiously enough, Jean Maura was much less
fatigued than his father. He had the look of a young man who has slept soundly and he seemed
more embarrassed than worried.

‘I should have let you know. I did look for you
out on deck.'

‘No!'

Why had Maigret said that?

‘That's true, I didn't look for you. I'd been on
my best
behaviour too long while we crossed. I
didn't dare drink in front of you except that last night. You remember? And I didn't even
apologize to you right away.'

As on the previous day, Little John had gone to
stand by the window, holding back the curtain with what must have been a familiar gesture.

As for MacGill, he made a point of bustling
around like a man only half-listening to the conversation, even going so far as to make a
routine telephone call.

‘Care for a cocktail, inspector?'

‘No, thank you.'

‘As you wish.'

Jean Maura was winding things up.

‘I don't know what happened next. That's the
first time I was ever completely drunk. We went to lots of places, we were drinking with lots of
people I wouldn't recognize if I ever saw them again.'

‘At the Donkey Bar?' asked Maigret, with a
cynical glance at MacGill.

‘I don't know … it's possible … There
was a party given by some people my friend knows …'

‘In the country?'

This time Jean Maura shot a quick look at
MacGill, who had his back turned, however, so the young man had to answer on his own.

‘Yes … In the country … We drove
there.'

‘And you returned only last evening?'

‘Yes.'

‘They brought you back?'

‘Yes. No … I mean, they drove me back to
the city.'

‘But not to the hotel?'

Another glance at MacGill.

‘No … not to the hotel … I'm the one
who didn't want that, because I was ashamed.'

‘I assume you do not need me any more?'

This time he looked at his father as if to appeal
for help, and it was puzzling to see Little John, the man of action par excellence, remaining
aloof from the conversation as if it did not concern him. And yet it did concern his son, to
whom he wrote so tenderly that he might almost have been composing love letters …

‘I had a long conversation with my father.'

‘And with Mr MacGill?'

He did not answer yes, or no. He almost denied
it, then caught himself and went on.

‘I feel bad about having made you come so far on
account of my childish fears. I know how worried you've been … I wonder if you will ever
forgive me for having left you completely at a loss about my whereabouts.'

As he spoke, he, too, seemed to grow astonished
at his father's attitude, and looked imploringly at him for rescue.

And it was MacGill, yet again, who took the
situation in hand.

‘Don't you think, sir, that it might be time to
conclude any unfinished business with the inspector?'

Then Little John turned around, tapped the ash
off his cigar with his little finger, walked over to the mahogany desk.

‘I believe,' he said, ‘that there is not much
business to conclude. I apologize, inspector, for not having received
you with all due cordiality. I thank you for having looked after
my son with such solicitude. I will ask you simply to accept the cheque that my secretary will
give you and which is but slight compensation for the trouble we have caused you, my son and
I.'

He hesitated an instant, doubtless wondering
whether he would shake hands with the inspector; in the end he bowed slightly, somewhat
abruptly, and walked towards the connecting door, signalling Jean to follow him.

‘Goodbye, inspector,' said the young man, quickly
shaking Maigret's hand.

He added, with what seemed complete sincerity,
‘I'm not afraid any more, you know.'

He smiled. A smile still a touch pale, like the
smile of a convalescent. Then he disappeared after his father into the next room.

The cheque was already filled out in the
chequebook lying on the desk. Without sitting down, MacGill detached it and handed it to
Maigret, expecting, perhaps, that he would refuse it.

Instead, Maigret looked calmly at the amount: two
thousand dollars. Then he carefully folded the slip of paper and placed it inside his wallet,
saying, ‘Thank you.'

That was all. The oppressive scene was over. He
was leaving. He had not said goodbye to MacGill, who had followed him to the door and finally
closed it behind him.

Despite his horror of cocktails and foolishly
luxurious places, Maigret stopped at the bar and tossed down two Manhattans, one after the
other.

Then he headed on foot towards his hotel and as
he
walked he nodded his head from time to time,
moving his lips like someone having a long discussion with himself.

Hadn't the clown promised him to be at the
Berwick at the same time as before?

He was there, on the sofa, but his eyes were so
sad and his expression so anguished that it was clear he'd been drinking.

‘I know you're going to call me a weak coward,'
he began, standing up. ‘And it's true, you see, that I'm a coward. I knew what would happen and
I still couldn't resist.'

‘Have you had lunch?'

‘Not yet … But I'm not hungry. No, strange
as that may seem, I'm not hungry, because I'm too ashamed of myself. I'd have done better not to
let you see me like this. And yet I only had two little drinks. Gin … Mind you, I chose
gin because it's the weakest spirit. Otherwise, I would have drunk scotch. I was very tired and
told myself, “Ronald, if you have a gin, just one …”

‘Only, I had three … Did I say three?
… I don't know any more … I'm disgusting, and I did this with your money.

‘Throw me out on my ear…

‘Wait, no, don't do that yet, because I have
something for you … Hang on … Something important, it will come back to me …
If we were out in the fresh air, at least … How about going outside for some air?'

He sniffled, blew his nose.

‘I wouldn't mind a bite, after all … Not
before I've told you … One moment – yes – I saw my friend again,
yesterday evening … Germain. You remember Germain? Poor
Germain! Imagine a man who's had an active life, who has followed circuses around the entire
world and who's nailed to a wheelchair.

‘Admit it, he'd be better off dead … What
am I saying? Never think that I wish him dead. But if I were the one it was going to happen to,
I would rather be dead. That's what I meant.

‘Well … I was right to claim that Germain
would do anything for me … He's a man who would give his right arm for others.

‘He doesn't look like much. He's grumpy. You'd
think he was a selfish old man. And yet, he spent hours going through his files, looking for
traces of J and J. Look, I've got another paper.'

He blanched, turned green, searched through his
pockets in anguish and seemed almost about to burst into tears.

‘I deserve to be …'

Well, no. He deserved nothing, because he had
finally found the document, beneath his handkerchief.

‘It isn't very clean. But you'll understand.'

This time it was the programme for a road company
that had toured the American hinterland thirty years earlier. In big letters, the name of a
chanteuse whose photograph graced the cover; then other names: a couple of tightrope walkers, a
comic named Robson, Lucille the Seer and at last, at the very bottom of the list, the musical
cabaret artistes J and J.

‘Take a good look at those names. Robson died in
a train accident ten or fifteen years ago, I forget … Germain was
the one who told me. You remember I mentioned yesterday that
Germain had an elderly lady friend who came to see him every Wednesday? Don't you find that
touching, hmm? … And you know, there was never anything between the two of them, not a
thing!'

He was getting teary again.

‘I've never seen her. It seems she was very thin
and pale in those days, so pale that they called her the Angel. Well! Now she's so fat that
… We are going to eat, aren't we? I don't know if it's the gin, but I've got cramps
… It's disgusting to ask you for more money … What was I saying? The Angel, Lucile
… Germain's old friend … Today's Wednesday. She ought to be at his place at around
five o'clock. She'll bring a little cake, as she does every week … I swear to you that if
we go, I won't touch it … because this old woman they called the Angel and who brings a
cake every week to Germain …'

‘Have you told your friend we were coming?'

‘I told him we might … I could come by for
you at half past four … It's quite far, especially on the subway, because he's not on a
direct line.'