Maigret in New York (8 page)

‘They had to work fast,' he grumbled, looking at
O'Brien with a bitterness he could not hide.

‘It doesn't take long to organize that kind of
accident when one already knows all the vital details. I wouldn't go so far as to say that there
are agencies that handle that sort of job, but it's almost as if there were. In short, it's
enough to know whom to contact, to gain their trust, agree on a price … and pay it, you
understand? They're what are called killers for hire. Only, the killers couldn't have known that
old Angelino would cross 169th Street every morning at the same time, at the same place
…'

‘Someone must have told them; in theory, the one
who ordered the hit …'

‘And that person must have known these details for a long time.'

They looked solemnly at each other, for they were
both drawing the same conclusions from what had happened.

Someone, for an undetermined length of time, had
known that Angelino had something to say, something that threatened his quiet existence.

Maigret could not help thinking of the wiry but
almost slight figure of Little John, with his pale, cold eyes devoid of the least flicker of
humanity.

Was he not precisely the man capable of hiring
killers, without batting an eye, to carry out the assignment they had completed this
morning?

And Little John had lived at 169th Street, right
across from the tailor's shop!

What's more, if you were to believe his letters
to his son – and they had the troubling ring of truth – it was Little John who felt threatened,
who no doubt feared for his life!

And it was his son who had disappeared before
setting foot on American soil!

‘They kill,' said Maigret after a long silence,
as if that were the sum of his thoughts.

And that is just about what it was. Moments
before, he had mentioned Jean Maura and, now that he knew he was dealing with people capable of
murder, he felt remorseful.

Shouldn't he have kept a closer guard on the
young man who had asked for his help?

Shouldn't he have taken the boy's fears much more
seriously, no matter what Monsieur d'Hoquélus had said?

‘In short,' announced the red-headed FBI agent,
‘we're
facing people who are defending themselves,
or, more precisely, who attack in their own defence. And I wonder, my dear Maigret, what you'll
be able to do. The New York police will have no desire to see you get involved in their
investigation … By what authority, anyway? The crime has been committed on American soil.
Angelino has been an American citizen for a long time. As have the murderers, no doubt. Maura is
a naturalized citizen … I checked: MacGill was born in New York. Anyway, you won't find
those two mixed up in this business. As for young Maura … No one has filed a complaint,
and his father doesn't seem eager to do so.'

He stood up with a sigh.

‘That's all I can tell you.'

‘Do you know that my bulldog wasn't at his post
this morning?'

O'Brien knew he meant Bill.

‘You hadn't mentioned that, but I would have bet
on it … Between last night and this morning, someone had to have been informed of your
visit to 169th Street, right?'

‘… So that from then on I could go back
there without any danger to anyone.'

‘You know, if I were you, I'd be extra careful
about crossing the street … And while I was at it, I'd avoid deserted places, particularly
in the evening … Running people over isn't always necessary … It's easy enough to
blast them with a machine gun as you drive by.'

‘I thought gangsters existed only in pulp novels
and films. Isn't that what you told me?'

‘I'm not talking about gangsters. I'm giving you
some
advice. By the way, what have you done with my
melancholy clown?'

‘I put him to work, and he's supposed to call me
or come to see me at the Berwick today.'

‘Unless he has an accident, too.'

‘You think so?'

‘I don't know a thing. I've no right to get mixed
up in anything. I've a good mind to tell you not to either, but it would clearly be
useless.'

‘True.'

‘Good luck. Call me if there's any news. I might
just happen to run into whichever of my colleagues in the city police is in charge of this case.
I don't yet know who's been assigned to it. It's also possible that, during our conversation, he
might tell me a few little things that might interest you. I'm not inviting you to lunch today
because I'll be having lunch shortly with two of my superiors.'

It was a far cry from the two men's first meeting
and their good-humoured, even joking conversation.

Now they both had heavy hearts. That street up in
the Bronx, with its Italian shops, its neighbourly life, the children running around, where an
old man toddled along on his walk and a car shot savagely forwards …

Maigret almost went into a cafeteria for a bite,
but, as he was not far from the St Regis, he suddenly thought of the bar. He was not expecting
anything to happen, except perhaps to see MacGill, who'd seemed fond of going there at cocktail
time.

And he was there, in fact, with quite a pretty
woman. Catching sight of the inspector, he rose halfway in greeting.

Then
he must have said something to his companion, because she began staring curiously at Maigret
while smoking her lipstick-stained cigarette.

Either MacGill knew nothing or he was remarkably
cool-headed, for he seemed very relaxed. As Maigret sat on alone at the bar with his drink,
MacGill abruptly decided to excuse himself to his companion and go over to the inspector,
holding out his hand.

‘I'm rather glad to see you, actually, because
after what happened yesterday, I'd intended to speak to you.'

Maigret had pretended not to see the proffered
hand, which the secretary finally put in his pocket.

‘Little John's behaviour towards you was rude and
very clumsy. That's in fact what I wanted to say: he's more tactless than mean-spirited. For a
long time he's been used to everyone's complete obedience, and the slightest obstacle or
opposition irritates him. And then where his son is concerned, his feelings are very private –
if you like, they're the intimate, secret part of his life he keeps jealously to himself. That's
why he became angry watching you take an interest in this business despite his objections.

‘I can tell you in confidence that ever since
your arrival, he's been moving heaven and earth trying to find Jean Maura.

‘And he will find him, because he has the means
to do so.

‘In France, no doubt, where you could be of some
help to him, he would accept your assistance. Here, in a city you don't know …'

Maigret was absolutely still. He seemed as impassive as a
wall.

‘So, I do hope that you—'

‘Will accept your apologies,' the inspector added
calmly.

‘… And his.'

‘Was he the one who told you to offer them to
me?'

‘What I mean is—'

‘That the two of you are anxious, for the same
reasons or for different ones, to see me go somewhere else.'

‘If you're going to take it like that
…'

And, turning back to the bar to pick up his
glass, a surly Maigret replied, ‘I'll take it any way I please.'

When he looked in their direction again, he saw
MacGill sitting next to the blonde American, who was asking him questions he obviously had no
desire to answer.

The young man looked gloomy, and when the
inspector left he felt MacGill gazing after him with both anguish and resentment.

So much the better!

Sent on from the St Regis, a cable awaited him
at the Berwick. Ronald Dexter was there as well, waiting patiently for him on a bench in the
lobby. The message read:

Received cable excellent news Jean Maura stop
will explain situation your return stop investigation pointless now stop expect you next boat
stop

Yours sincerely

François d'Hoquélus

Maigret folded the yellow paper into a small rectangle that he
slipped inside his wallet with a sigh. Then he turned to the sad clown.

‘Have you eaten?'

‘Well, I had a hot dog not long ago. But if you
want me to keep you company …'

And that allowed the inspector to discover
another unexpected aspect of his unusual detective. So thin that, even in the smallest sizes,
clothes hung loosely on him, Dexter possessed a stomach of outstanding capacity.

Hardly had he sat down at the counter of a
cafeteria than his eyes gleamed like those of a man starving for days and he murmured, pointing
to some ham-and-cheese sandwiches, ‘May I?'

He was asking permission to eat not one sandwich,
but the whole stack, and while he proceeded to do so, he kept looking nervously around as if in
fear someone would come and put a stop to his meal.

He ate without drinking. Huge mouthfuls
disappeared into his astonishingly elastic mouth, and each mouthful pushed the previous one down
without causing him the least discomfort.

‘I've already found something …' he managed
nevertheless to say.

And with his free hand, he reached into a pocket
of his trenchcoat, which he had not taken the time to remove. He placed a folded paper on the
counter. While the inspector unfolded it, he asked, ‘Would you mind if I order something hot? It
isn't expensive here, you know …'

The
paper was a handbill of the kind actors once hawked to the audience after their
performances.

And Maigret, who in those days had been a
devotee of the Petit Casino at the Porte Saint-Martin, could still hear the eternal refrain.

‘Each one costs me ten centimes!'

It wasn't even a postcard like the ones the
important acts splurged on, but a simple sheet of poster paper, now a faded yellow.

J and J, the celebrated musical cabaret
artistes who have had the honour of playing before all the crowned heads of Europe and the Shah
of Persia.

‘I must ask you not to get it too dirty,' said the
clown as he tackled his bacon and eggs. ‘He didn't give it to me, it's only a loan.'

It was laughable, the idea of lending a paper
like that when no one would have bothered to pick it up off the street …

‘He's a friend of mine … Well, someone I've
known a long time, who used to be a circus ringmaster. It's a lot harder than people think, you
know. He was a ringmaster for over forty years, and now he never leaves his armchair, he's very
old … I went to see him last night because he hardly sleeps at all any more.'

He had his mouth full the whole time he was
talking
and was gazing longingly at the sausages
someone nearby had just ordered. He would be getting some of those, no question, and probably
one of those enormous cakes lacquered with a livid icing that turned Maigret's stomach.

‘My friend didn't know J and J personally …
He was strictly a circus man, you understand? But he has a unique collection of posters,
programmes and newspaper articles about circus and vaudeville families. He can tell you that
such and such an acrobat, who is now thirty years old, is the son of a particular trapeze
artiste who married the granddaughter of the bottom strong man in a pyramid act who got himself
killed at the Palladium in London in 1905.'

Maigret listened with one ear and studied the
photograph on the slick yellow paper. Could one call it a photograph? The reproduction, a coarse
photo-engraving, was so bad that you could hardly distinguish the faces.

Two men, both young, both thin. The biggest
difference between them was that one had very long hair. He was the violinist, and Maigret was
convinced that he had become Little John.

The other, with sparser hair and, even though
young, already going bald, wore glasses; rolling his eyes, he was blowing into a clarinet.

‘Of course, go ahead and order some sausages,'
Maigret said before Ronald Dexter even opened his mouth.

‘You must think I've been hungry all my life,
right?'

‘Why?'

‘Because it's true. I have always been hungry
… Even when I was earning good money, because I never had
enough to eat as much as I'd have liked. You'll have to get that
paper back to me because I promised my friend to return it.'

‘I'll have it photographed as soon as I can.'

‘Oh, I'll have other information, but not right
away. Already for that handbill, I had to insist that my friend look for it then and there. He
lives in an armchair mounted on wheels, comes and goes in his place cluttered with papers. He
assured me that he knew people who could tell us things but he wouldn't say who … Because
he can't remember for sure, I'd bet on that. He needs to rummage around in his clutter.

‘He has no telephone. Since he cannot go out,
that doesn't help any.

‘“Don't worry, people come see me. People come
see me,” he kept saying. “There are enough artistes who remember old Germain and are happy to
come and have a chat in this dump …

‘“I have an old friend who used to be a tightrope
walker, then a medium in a spiritualism act and who wound up telling fortunes. She comes every
Wednesday.

‘“Stop by now and then. When I've got something
for you, I'll tell you. But now you must tell me the truth. This is for a book on vaudeville and
cabaret acts, isn't it! There's already one on circus folks. For that people used to come here,
worm things out of me, carry off my memorabilia and then, when the book came out, my name wasn't
even in it …”'