Maigret in New York (3 page)

And turning toward the inspector, he asked, ‘Do
you speak a little English?'

‘Like all those who learned it in school and have
forgotten it.'

‘In that case, you'll sometimes find things
difficult at first. Is this your first trip to the United States? … I assure you that I
will be ready to assist you in any way I can.'

Someone was behind the connecting door, probably
John Maura. MacGill knew this, too, but did not seem bothered by it.

‘Just follow the bellboy. I'll see you later,
inspector. And Jean Maura will have doubtless reappeared in time to have lunch with us. I'll
have your luggage brought up to you.'

Another elevator. A sitting room, a bedroom, a
bathroom, a porter waiting for his tip, at whom Maigret stared in bafflement because he had
rarely been so bewildered – and even humiliated – in his life.

To think that ten days earlier he'd been quietly
playing belote with the doctor, the fertilizer dealer and the mayor of Meung in the warm and
always rather dimly lit Café du Cheval Blanc!

Surely this red-headed man was some kind of good
genie! On 49th Street, a few steps from the lights and racket of Broadway, he had gone down
several stairs as if heading for a cellar and pushed open a door, the window of which had a
curtain with little red checks. Those same democratic red checks, so reminiscent of the humble
bistros of Montmartre and the Parisian suburbs, reappeared on the tables – and there as well
were the zinc-sheathed bar, a familiar smell of cooking and a plumpish
patronne
, a
touch provincial, who came over in welcome.

‘What will you have to eat, my dears? There's
always steak, of course, but today I have such a coq au vin …'

The genie or, rather, Special Agent O'Brien,
smiled very sweetly, almost bashfully.

‘You see?' he said to Maigret, not without a
touch of irony. ‘New York is not what people think.'

And soon an authentic Beaujolais stood on the
table to accompany the steaming plates of coq au vin.

‘You're not going to tell me, O'Brien, that
Americans are used to …'

‘Eating the way we are this evening? Perhaps not
every day. Perhaps not everyone. But believe me, some of us do not turn up our noses at classic
cookery, and I'll find you a hundred restaurants like this one. You arrived this
morning, and barely twelve hours later here you are right at home,
aren't you? … Now go on with your story.'

‘This MacGill, as I mentioned, was waiting for me
at the bar in the St Regis. I could tell immediately that he'd decided to change his attitude
towards me.'

MacGill had stuck to him all afternoon, and it
was only after shaking him off that Maigret had been able at six o'clock to call Special Agent
O'Brien of the FBI, whom he had met in France a few years earlier while involved in a major
international case.

No creature could have been gentler, more placid
than this tall redhead with a sheepish expression, a man so shy that at the age of forty-six he
still blushed. He had told Maigret to meet him in the St Regis lobby, but after the inspector
mentioned John Maura, O'Brien had first taken his colleague to a small bar near Broadway.

‘I suppose you don't like whisky or
cocktails?'

‘I admit that if there's any beer around
…'

It was a bar like any other. A few men at the
counter; lovebirds at the four or five tables bathed in shadows. Wasn't it a strange idea to
have brought him to a place where he clearly didn't fit in?

And wasn't it stranger yet to see O'Brien select
a coin from his pocket and slip it solemnly into the slot of a jukebox that began softly to play
a sappy, sentimental melody?

And the redhead smiled, considering his colleague
with a twinkling eye.

‘You don't like music?'

Maigret hadn't had time yet to work off all his
ill humour and could not help letting it show.

‘All right. I won't keep you in suspense. You see that jukebox cranking out music? I've just put
a five-cent piece, a nickel, in the slot, which buys me about a minute and a half of some tune
or other. There are a few thousand machines of this kind in the bars, taverns and restaurants of
New York. There are tens of thousands in the other cities of America and even way out in the
countryside. At this very moment, while we're talking, at least half of these machines you find
rather vulgar are in use, meaning people are all putting in their nickels, which makes thousands
and thousands of times five cents, which makes … Well, I'm not real good at math.

‘And do you know to whom all these nickels go? To
your friend John Maura, better known in this country as Little John, on account of he's
short.

‘And Little John has installed the same machines,
on which he's basically got a monopoly, in most of the South American republics.

‘Now do you understand why Little John is a very
important person?'

Always that barely perceptible sting of irony, so
that Maigret, unused to this tone, was still wondering whether O'Brien was naive or poking fun
at him.

‘Now we can go have dinner, and you'll tell me
your story.'

Sitting at their table, they were nice and warm,
while the wind gusted so fiercely outdoors that passers-by walked leaning forwards, people
chased after their hats, and women had to hold their skirts down with both hands. A
storm, doubtless the same one Maigret had weathered
at sea, had hit the east coast, and New York was taking a beating: storefront signs tore loose
from time to time, things fell from high buildings and even the yellow cabs seemed to struggle
as they ploughed through the wind.

The bad weather had begun right after lunch, when
Maigret and MacGill had left the St Regis.

‘Do you know Maura's secretary?' the inspector
now asked O'Brien.

‘Not particularly. You see, my dear inspector,
our rules here are not exactly the same as yours. I regret this, incidentally, because it would
make our job much easier. We have a highly developed sense of personal freedom, and if I were to
start asking questions about a man, even discreetly, without any grounds for suspicion, I'd find
myself in a very awkward situation.

‘Now, Little John, let me hasten to add, is not a
gangster. He is a well-considered and considerable businessman who maintains a sumptuous suite
year-round at the St Regis, one of our best hotels.

‘We therefore have no reason to pay attention to
him or his secretary.'

Why that vague yet mocking smile that seemed
somehow to qualify what he said? Maigret found it a little irritating. He felt like a foreigner
and, like every foreigner, he easily imagined that he was a figure of fun.

‘I don't read detective stories and I don't
expect to find America peopled with gangsters,' he replied crossly.

‘To get back to this MacGill, who is probably of
French origin, I feel, in spite of his name …'

And
again, the other man, with his exasperating mildness: ‘It's difficult, in New York, to untangle
people's roots!'

‘As I was saying: from the aperitif on, he made
every effort to appear as attentive as he had been aloof that morning. He informed me that
they'd still had no news from young Maura but that his father was not worried yet because he
assumed that a woman was behind this flit. MacGill then questioned me about the women
aboard.

‘It so happens that during the crossing Jean
Maura did seem smitten by one passenger, a young Chilean woman who'll be leaving for South
America tomorrow on a Grace Line ship.'

There were murmurs of French at most of the
tables, and the
patronne
went from one customer to another, chatting in a familiar,
slightly cheeky way in the delectable accent of Toulouse.

‘And how are you, my dears? … What do you
think of this coq au vin, hmm? And afterwards, if you fancy it, there's mocha cake, homemade
…'

Lunch had been quite different in the main dining
room of the St Regis, where MacGill was constantly greeting people while at the same time paying
marked attention to Maigret with his constant chitchat. What was it he had said? … That
John Maura was a very busy man, rather an eccentric, someone who had a horror of new faces and
distrusted everyone.

Why wouldn't he have been surprised that morning
when someone like Maigret arrived on his doorstep?

‘He doesn't like anyone nosing around his
affairs, you
understand? Especially where his
family's concerned. Listen! I'm sure that he adores his son, and yet he never says a word about
him to me, although I am his closest collaborator …'

What was he getting at? It was easy to guess. He
was clearly trying to discover why Maigret had sailed across the Atlantic with Jean Maura.

‘I had a long conversation with him,' continued
MacGill. ‘He's instructed me to find out what's happening with his son. I have an appointment
soon right here in the hotel with a private detective we've previously employed for minor
matters, a top-notch man who knows New York almost as well as you know Paris … You can
come with us, if you want, and I'd be surprised if we haven't found our boy by this
evening.'

All this Maigret was now relating to O'Brien, who
listened while enjoying his dinner with somewhat maddening slowness.

‘When we left the dining room, a man was indeed
waiting for us in the lobby.'

‘Do you know his name?'

‘He was introduced to me, but I can remember only
the first name, Bill … Yes, that's it, Bill. I've seen so many people today, whom MacGill
all calls by their first names, that I confess I'm a bit lost.'

Still that same smile.

‘An American custom, you'll get used to it.
What's he like, this Bill?'

‘Rather tall, rather heavy … About as big
as I am. A broken nose and a scar across his chin.'

O'Brien definitely knew him: his eyelids twitched, but he said
nothing.

‘We took a cab over to the French Line pier.'

The storm was at its worst. The wind had not yet
driven away the rain, which fell on them in gusts each time they stepped out of their cab.
Vigorously chewing his gum, Bill led the way, his hat pushed back on his forehead as in old
films. In fact, had he ever taken this hat off all afternoon? Probably not. Who knows, maybe he
was bald!

He talked to everyone – customs officials,
stewards, company employees – with equal familiarity, sitting on the corner of a table or desk,
speaking briefly, always with the same drawl. And if Maigret did not understand everything he
said, he understood enough to know that it was good work from a real professional.

First, customs … Jean Maura's luggage had
been claimed. When? They checked the records … Shortly before noon … No, the bags
had not been taken into town by one of the usual delivery companies with offices on the pier
… So his luggage had gone off by taxi or in a private car.

The person claiming the luggage had been in
possession of the keys. Was it Jean Maura in person? Impossible to verify. A few hundred
passengers had passed through that morning, and more were still showing up to claim their
things.

Next, the purser. It was an odd feeling to go
aboard an empty ship, to find it deserted after having known it brimming with excitement, to see
it being cleaned stem to stern and readied for another crossing.

No
doubt about it: Maura had left the ship and handed in his completed customs forms. At what time?
No one remembered. Probably during the initial great rush of departing passengers.

The steward … This man recalled perfectly
that at around eight in the morning, shortly after the arrival of the police and health
authorities, young Maura had given him his tip. And the steward had immediately set his suitcase
down near the gangway … No, the young man had not been at all nervous. A touch tired. He
must have had a headache, because he'd taken an aspirin tablet. The empty bottle had been left
on the shelf in the bathroom.

The imperturbable Bill with his exasperating
chewing-gum forged on. At the French Line offices on Fifth Avenue, he leaned against the
mahogany counter and carefully studied the passenger list.

Then, from a drugstore, he telephoned the harbour
police.

Maigret felt that MacGill was growing impatient
and trying to hide it, but as their inquiries continued, his increasing tension became
obvious.

Something was not adding up, something out of
line with what he'd been expecting, because he and Bill occasionally exchanged a quick look.

And now, while the inspector was describing their
afternoon's activities to O'Brien, his listener, too, grew more solemn and sometimes froze with
his fork in mid-air, forgetting to eat.

‘They found the Chilean girl's name on the
passenger
list and managed to learn where she was
staying before her next sailing. It's a hotel at 66th Street … We went there … Bill
questioned the doorman, the desk clerk, the elevator operators: no one could tell him anything
about Jean Maura.

‘So then Bill gave the driver the address of a
bar near Broadway. On the way there he talked to MacGill too fast for me to understand. I did
note the name of the place: the Donkey Bar … Why are you smiling?'

‘No reason,' replied O'Brien casually. ‘In short,
considering it's your first visit to New York, you've covered a lot of territory. You've even
dropped by the Donkey Bar, which isn't bad at all. And what do you think of it?'

Still that feeling he was being played with, in a
friendly way, but played with all the same.

‘Right out of an American film,' he grumbled.

A long smoke-filled room, an endless bar with the
inevitable stools and multicoloured bottles, a black bartender and a Chinese one, the jukebox,
and some machines dispensing cigarettes, roasted peanuts and gum.