Maigret in New York (16 page)

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.

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.

He began by drinking a glass of beer in a bar,
not because he was thirsty but through a kind of superstition, because he had always had a beer
before beginning any difficult interrogation or even during the questioning itself.

He remembered the large beers Joseph, the waiter
at the Brasserie Dauphine, used to bring up to his office at Quai des Orfèvres, for him and
often as well for the poor, wan fellow facing him, awaiting his questions with the near
certainty of leaving that office in handcuffs.

Why, that evening, was he thinking of the
longest, the most difficult of all those interrogations, the one considered almost classic in
the annals of the Police Judiciaire, the interview with Mestorino, which had gone on for no less
than twenty-six hours?

When it was over, the air was unbreathable, the
office choked with pipe smoke and littered with ashes, empty
glasses and the remains of sandwiches. The two men had removed
their jackets and ties and their faces were so exhausted that anyone not knowing beforehand
would have had trouble telling which one was the murderer.

Shortly before midnight, Maigret called the St
Regis from a phone booth and asked for Little John's apartment.

It was MacGill's voice he recognized on the
line.

‘Hello … It's Maigret … I would like
to speak to Mr Maura.'

Did something in his voice make clear that the
time for playing cat and mouse was over? The secretary simply replied, without elaborating, with
evident sincerity, that Little John was attending an event at the Waldorf and would probably not
be back before two in the morning.

‘Would you telephone him or, even better, go and
meet him?' asked Maigret.

‘I'm not alone here. I have a lady friend at the
apartment and …'

‘Send her home and do as I tell you. It is
absolutely necessary, you hear me – it is essential, if you prefer – that you and Little John be
in my room at the Berwick at ten minutes to one at the latest. At the latest, I insist …
No, it is not possible to meet somewhere else. If Little John is reluctant, tell him that I want
him to be present at a conversation with someone he knew a long time ago … No, I'm sorry,
I can't say anything more at present.
Ten minutes to one.
'

He had arranged for a call to La Bourboule at one
o'clock and had some time left before then. At that same
tranquil pace, pipe between his teeth, he made for the Donkey
Bar, which was crowded but where, to his great disappointment, he did not see Parson.

He drank another beer anyway, and that was when
he noticed a small back room at the far end of the bar. He went over there. Two lovers in one
corner. In another, on the black leather banquette, the journalist slumped, legs sprawled,
staring vacantly at a tipped-over glass.

Although he recognized the inspector, he did not
bother to move.

‘Can you still hear me, Parson?' grumbled
Maigret, planting himself in front of the man with perhaps as much pity as contempt.

Stirring only slightly, the other stammered in
English, ‘How do you do?'

‘This afternoon, you spoke about conducting a
sensational interview with me, didn't you. Well, if you have the courage to come with me, I
believe you'll find material for the biggest scoop of your career.'

‘Where do you want to take me?'

He was having trouble speaking, his gummy mouth
was mangling the syllables, yet in the depths of his drunkenness he still seemed somewhat lucid,
maybe even completely so. There was defiance in his eyes, perhaps fear. But his pride was
stronger than his fear.

‘The third degree?' he asked disdainfully,

‘I won't even be questioning you. It's no longer
necessary.'

Parson attempted to rise, falling back twice on
the banquette before he succeeded.

‘One moment,' said Maigret quickly. ‘Are any of your friends in the bar right now? I mean the
ones you're thinking of … I'm asking this for your sake. If there are any, it might be
better for you if I leave first and wait for you in a taxi a hundred metres from here, to the
left.'

The journalist tried to understand, and failed:
his overriding concern was to avoid losing face. He looked into the other room, propping himself
up against the door frame.

‘Go on … I'll follow you.'

And Maigret did not try to determine which of the
bar patrons belonged to the gang. It had nothing to do with him. That was Lieutenant Lewis's
business.

Outside, he hailed a taxi, sent it to park at the
prearranged place, and took a seat in the back. Five minutes later, hardly staggering at all but
forced to stare straight ahead to remain upright, Parson arrived and opened the rear door.

‘Taking me for a one-way ride?' he asked.

‘The Berwick, please,' Maigret told the
driver.

It wasn't far. The inspector helped Parson to the
elevator. The man's tired eyes still held the same mix of panic and pride.

‘Is Lieutenant Lewis up there?'

‘Neither him nor anyone from the police.'

Maigret turned on every light in the room. Then,
after seating Parson in one corner, he called room service to order a bottle of whisky, glasses,
soda water and four bottles of beer. Just before hanging up, he added, ‘And a couple of ham
sandwiches, too.'

Not because he was hungry, but because this old habit of his at
Quai des Orfèvres had become a kind of ritual.

Parson had collapsed again, as at the Donkey Bar,
closing his eyes now and then, drifting briefly into a doze from which the slightest noise
startled him awake.

Half past midnight. A quarter to one. The
bottles, glasses and tray of sandwiches were lined up on the mantelpiece.

‘Can I drink?'

‘Of course. Stay there. I'll get it for you.'

Given Parson's condition, whether he was a bit
more or a bit less drunk did not matter at all. Maigret poured him a whisky and soda that the
man took from his hand with an astonishment he could not hide.

‘You're a weird fellow. Damned if I can figure
out what you intend to do with me.'

‘Nothing at all.'

The telephone rang. Little John and MacGill were
downstairs.

‘Ask those gentlemen to come up.'

And he went to wait for them at the door. He saw
them appear at the end of the corridor. Little John in evening dress, tauter and more nervous
than ever; his secretary wearing a dinner jacket and a faint smile.

‘Come in, please. Forgive me for having disturbed
you, but I believe it was absolutely necessary.'

MacGill was the first to spot the journalist
slumped in his armchair, and the start he gave did not escape Maigret.

‘Pay no attention to Parson. I wanted him here
for reasons that will be clear to you later. Sit down, gentlemen.
I would advise you to remove your coats, because this will
doubtless take a while.'

‘May I ask you, inspector—'

‘No, Mr Maura. Not yet.'

And he had about him such an aura of quiet
strength that the two men made no protest. Maigret had seated himself at the table on which he
had set the telephone and his watch.

‘Please be patient for a few more minutes. You
may smoke, of course. I'm sorry that I have no cigars to offer you.'

He was not being flippant, and as the hour
approached, his throat slowly tightened, and he puffed rapidly on his pipe.

In spite of all the lights, the room was rather
dim, as in all third-rate hotels. In the next room, a couple could be heard getting ready for
bed.

Finally, the telephone rang.

‘Hello … Yes … Maigret … Hello,
yes, I placed a call to La Bourboule … What? … I'll hold the line.'

And keeping the receiver to his ear, he turned to
Maura.

‘I'm sorry that your American phones don't have a
second earpiece like those at home, because I would have liked you to be able to hear the entire
conversation. I promise to repeat the important parts for you, word for word.

‘Hello! Yes … What? … There's no
answer? … Try again, mademoiselle. Perhaps everyone in the house is still asleep
…'

For some unknown reason it moved him to hear the
telephone operator in La Bourboule, who for her part was quite nervous about handling a call
from New York.

It
was seven in the morning over there. Was it sunny? Maigret remembered the post office, across
from the spa on the banks of a mountain stream.

‘Hello! Who is this, please? … Good
morning, madame! … Forgive me for having awakened you … You were already up? …
Would you be kind enough to call your husband to the phone? … I'm sorry, but I am calling
from New York and it would be hard for me to call back in half an hour … Wake him up
… Yes.'

As if out of delicacy, he avoided looking at the
three men he had gathered in his room to overhear this baffling interrogation.

‘Hello! Monsieur Joseph Daumale?'

Little John could not help crossing and
uncrossing his legs but gave no other sign of emotion.

‘Maigret speaking … Yes, the Maigret of the
Police Judiciaire, that is correct. I hasten to add that I have retired from Quai des Orfèvres
and that I am speaking to you as a private citizen … What? … Wait. First tell me
where your telephone is in your house … Your study? Upstairs? … One more question.
Can you be heard from downstairs or the neighbouring rooms? … That's right. Close the
door. And if you have not already done so, put on a dressing gown.'

He would have bet that the man's study was done
up in the Renaissance style, with massive and well-polished carved furniture, and that the walls
were hung with photographs of the various orchestras Joseph Daumale had directed in the small
casinos of France.

‘Hello! Hold on while I have another word with
the
operator on this line … Please be good
enough to let us speak privately and to make sure that we are not cut off … Hello! Thank
you … Are you there, Monsieur Daumale?'

Did he have a beard now, a moustache? A
moustache, almost certainly. Salt and pepper, no doubt. And glasses with thick lenses. Had he
had time to put them on when he jumped out of bed?

‘I am going to ask you a question that will seem
both absurd and indiscreet, and I ask you to think before you answer. I know that you are a
person of sober habits, a responsible family man … What? … You are an honest
man?'

Maigret turned to Little John to repeat, without
a trace of irony, ‘He says he is an honest man.'

‘I do not doubt that, Monsieur Daumale,' he
continued. ‘Since the matter here is serious, I am confident that you will answer me frankly.
When was the last time you were drunk? … Yes, you heard correctly … I said drunk.
Really drunk, you understand? Drunk enough to lose your self-control.'

Silence. And Maigret imagined the Joseph of
earlier times, as he had invented him while listening to Lucile sift through her memories. He
must have put on some weight since then. Perhaps honoured with a decoration? … Could his
wife be eavesdropping out on the landing? …

‘You should make sure that no one is listening
outside your door … What's that? … Yes, I'll wait.'

He heard steps, the sound of the door opening and
closing.

‘So! Last July? What? … That was only the third time in your life? I congratulate
you.'

Some noise, in the hotel room, over by the
mantelpiece. It was Parson, who had gone to pour himself a whisky, knocking the neck of the
bottle against the glass with a hesitant hand.

‘Tell me the details, will you? In July, which
means in La Bourboule … At the casino, I thought so … Merely by chance, of course
… Wait. I'll help you out here. You were with an American, weren't you, someone named
Parson … You don't remember his name? That hardly matters. A thin, untidy fellow with
whitish-blond hair and yellow teeth … Yes … What's more, he's right here with me
… What?

‘Calm down, please. I can assure you that you
will not have any difficulties because of this.

‘He was at the bar … No. Forgive me if I
repeat your responses, but certain people here with me are interested in what you have to say
… No, no, the American police are not involved. Have no fear for your position and your
family's peace of mind.'