Maigret in New York (4 page)

Everyone in there knew everyone else or at least
seemed to. They were all hailing one another as Bob, or Dick, or Tom or Tony and the two or
three women were as clearly at home there as the men.

‘It appears,' said Maigret, ‘to be a gathering
place for various journalists and theatre people …'

And his companion murmured with a smile, ‘You
could say that …'

‘Our detective wanted to speak to a reporter he
knows who covers ship arrivals and must have gone aboard this
morning. We did find him, in fact: dead drunk or as good as
… A habit of his, I was assured, after three or four in the afternoon.'

‘You know his name?'

‘Vaguely … Something like Parson …
Jim Parson, I think it is … He has washed-out blond hair, bloodshot eyes and nicotine
stains all around his lips.'

Agent O'Brien could claim all he wanted that the
American authorities had no right to pay attention to anyone whose conscience was clear, but it
was still curious how at each name, each new description Maigret brought up, the redhead seemed
to know exactly whom he meant.

And so the inspector could not help remarking,
‘Are you sure your police here are that different from ours?'

‘Very! Now, what did Jim say?'

‘I could only understand bits and pieces …
Drunk though he was, he definitely seemed interested. I should mention that the detective had
backed him into a corner and was giving him what for, as the saying goes, pinning him right to
the wall. The other fellow was making promises, trying to remember … Then he staggered
into the telephone booth, and I saw him through the window ask for four separate numbers.

‘Meanwhile, MacGill was explaining to me, “You
understand, the reporters who went on board still represent our best chance to learn something.
Those people are highly observant. They know everybody …”

‘That's as may be,' continued the inspector, ‘but
Jim Parson came out of the booth empty-handed and made a beeline for a double whisky.

‘He's supposed to keep making inquiries. If he's doing it in bars, he must have passed out by
now, because I've never seen anyone go through drinks at that pace.'

‘You'll see more like that … Well, if I've
got it right, this afternoon Jos MacGill seemed to you mighty eager to locate his boss's
son.'

‘Whereas this morning, he couldn't have cared
less.'

O'Brien was fairly worried after all.

‘What are you planning on doing?' he asked.

‘I admit I wouldn't mind finding the boy
…'

‘And you're not the only one, it seems.'

‘You've got an idea, haven't you?'

‘I remember, my dear inspector, something you
said to me in Paris, during one of our conversations at the Brasserie Dauphine … Do you
recall?'

‘Our conversations, yes, but not whichever remark
you're thinking of.'

‘I was asking you almost the same question you
just asked me, and you puffed on your pipe while you replied, “Me, I never have ideas.”

‘Well, my dear Maigret, if you'll allow me to
call you that, at this moment, at least, I am like you, which proves that police all over the
world have certain things in common.

‘I know nothing. I don't know anything – or
hardly anything, only what everyone else does – about Little John's affairs or his
entourage.

‘I didn't even know he had a son.

‘And what's more, I belong to the FBI, which
handles only certain clearly defined crimes. In other words, if I were
unfortunate enough to stick my nose into this business, I'd stand
a good chance of being severely reprimanded.

‘I don't suppose that what you want from me is
advice, right?'

‘No,' muttered Maigret, lighting his pipe.

‘Because, if it were advice you were after, I'd
tell you this.

‘The winters in New York are hard on my wife,
who's in Florida at the moment … As for my son, he's off at college, and my daughter got
married two years ago. So I'm on my own. I therefore have a certain number of evenings free.
Allow me to put them at your disposal by showing you around a little of New York the way you
once showed me around Paris.

‘As for that other matter, well … How did
you put it again? Wait … No, don't tell me … I've kept a few of your expressions in
mind and often repeat them to my colleagues … Ah! Yes: As for that other matter,
let
it go
.

‘I know perfectly well you won't do that. So, if
you feel like it, you could come by now and then for a chat.

‘I can't keep a man like you from asking me
questions, can I?

‘And there are some questions it's very hard not
to answer.

‘For example! Look, I'm sure you'd like to see my
office … I remember yours, with the windows overlooking the Seine. The view from mine is
more prosaic: a big black wall and a parking lot.

‘Admit it: the Armagnac is excellent and this
little bistro, as you folks call it, isn't bad at all.'

As
in certain Paris restaurants, they had to compliment the
patronne
(and even the chef,
whom she'd fetched from the kitchen), promise to come again, have one last drink and finally
sign a somewhat greasy guest book.

A little later the two men piled into a taxi, and
O'Brien barked an address at the driver.

They both smoked their pipes in the back seat
during a rather long silence. They both happened to open their mouths to speak at the same
instant and turned towards each other, smiling at the coincidence.

‘What were you going to say?'

‘And you?'

‘Probably the same thing you were.'

‘I was about to say,' the American began, ‘that,
judging from what you've told me, MacGill did not want you to meet his boss.'

‘My thought exactly. Yet I was surprised not to
find Little John any more anxious than his secretary to obtain news of his son. You follow
me?'

‘And then it's MacGill who goes to a lot of
trouble – or pretends to – trying to find the young man.'

‘And who put himself out on my behalf. He told me
he would call by tomorrow morning with any news.'

‘Does he know we're having this discussion
tonight?'

‘I did not mention it to him.'

‘He suspects something. Not that you're meeting
me, just someone from the police. Given the contacts you've had with the American authorities,
that's inevitable … And in that case …'

‘In that case?'

‘Nothing … Here we are.'

They entered a large building and a few moments
later emerged from an elevator into a corridor with numbered doors. O'Brien unlocked one and
switched on the light.

‘Sit down … I'll show you around the
premises another time because right now you wouldn't see the place at its best. Will you forgive
me if I leave you on your own for a few minutes?'

Those few minutes turned into a long quarter of
an hour, during which Maigret found himself thinking of nothing but Little John. It was odd:
he'd seen the man for only a few brief moments. Their conversation had been, in fact, fairly
banal. Nevertheless, as the inspector was suddenly realizing, Maura had made a strong impression
on him.

He could still see him: short, thin, dressed
almost too correctly. There was nothing special about his face. So what was it about him that
had struck Maigret so forcefully?

He was intrigued. He concentrated on remembering,
recalled the slightest actions of the lean and tense little man.

And he abruptly remembered his gaze, his first
look above all, when Maura had not yet known that he was being observed, as he half-opened the
door to the other room.

Little John had cold eyes!

Maigret would have been hard put to explain what
he meant by that, but he knew it nonetheless. Four or five times in his life, he had met people
with cold eyes, those eyes
that can stare at you
without establishing any human contact, without giving any sense of the universal human need to
communicate with one's fellow man.

The inspector had come to speak to the man about
his son, this boy to whom he sent letters as tender as love notes, and Little John was observing
him without any curiosity or emotion, as if he were looking at a chair or a stain on the
wall.

‘You're not annoyed that I left you alone so
long?'

‘No, because I think I've just discovered
something.'

‘Ah!'

‘I've just discovered that Little John has cold
eyes …'

Maigret was expecting another smile from his
American colleague. He was almost aggressively anticipating it, that smile. Agent O'Brien,
however, looked at him thoughtfully.

‘That's awkward …' he said slowly.

And it was as if they had had a long
conversation. Suddenly there was something between them that resembled a shared uneasiness.
O'Brien held out a can of tobacco.

‘I prefer mine, thanks all the same.'

They lit their pipes and fell silent once again.
O'Brien's office was ordinary and rather bare. Only the smoke from the two pipes gave the place
any feeling of intimacy.

‘I suppose that after your eventful crossing you
must be tired and are no doubt looking forward to bed?'

‘Because you would have suggested a different
scenario?'

‘Oh, just that we go and have a nightcap …
in other words, one last whisky.'

Why had he taken the trouble to bring Maigret to
his
office, where he'd simply left him alone for a
quarter of an hour?

‘Don't you find it rather cold in here?'

‘Let's go wherever you like.'

‘I'll drop you off near your hotel … No, I
won't come in; the front desk staff would start to worry if they saw me show up … But I do
know a little bar …'

Another little bar, with a jukebox in a corner
and a line of solitary men leaning on the bar, drinking with stubborn concentration.

‘Try a whisky anyway, before bed. You'll see,
it's not as bad as you think … and it has the advantage of getting the kidneys working
… By the way …'

Maigret understood that O'Brien was finally
getting to the point of this last nocturnal ramble.

‘Can you imagine, outside my office a little
while ago, I bumped into a colleague – and what do you know, he started talking about Little
John.

‘Mind you, he's never had a thing to do with him,
officially … Not this colleague, not any of us. You understand? I can assure you that
respect for personal freedom is a beautiful thing … When you've understood that, you'll be
real close to understanding America and its people.

‘Look: a man arrives here, a foreigner, an
immigrant. You Europeans, you take offence or make fun of us because we make him answer a bunch
of written questions, because we want to know, for example, if he has mental problems or has
come to the United States intending to assassinate the president.

‘We
require that he sign this document you find so laughable.

‘Afterwards, however, we ask nothing more of him.
The formalities for entering the US have perhaps been lengthy and meddlesome, but when they're
over, at least our man is home free.

‘You get it?

‘So free that unless he kills, rapes, or steals,
we have no further right to pay any attention to him.

‘What was I saying again? …'

There were moments when Maigret could have hit
him. That fake candour, that nuanced sense of humour he felt incapable of ever figuring out
completely …

‘Oh, yes … For example. In fact it was that
same colleague, while we were washing our hands, who was telling me this story. Thirty years
ago, two men got off a boat from Europe, the way you did this morning. In those days, a lot more
of them came over than do today, because we needed workers. They came over in the ships' holds,
on the decks … They were mostly from Central and Eastern Europe. Some were so filthy and
vermin-ridden that our immigration services had to hose them down … I bet you'll have
another nightcap?'

Too interested to even think of saying no,
Maigret simply refilled his pipe and sat back a little because the fellow on his left kept
elbowing his ribs.

‘The point is, there were all kinds of them who
came. And they met with different fates. Today some of them are Hollywood moguls. You'll find a
few in Sing-Sing but also in government offices in Washington. You must admit
we're really a great country to absorb everyone who comes along
the way we do.'

Was it the whisky? Maigret was beginning to see
John Maura no longer as a wilful and brusque little man, but as a symbol of the American
assimilation of which his companion was speaking in a slow, soft voice.

‘So as my friend was telling me …'

Did he have three, four whiskies? They had
already had some Armagnac, and before the Armagnac two bottles of Beaujolais, and before the
Beaujolais a certain number of aperitifs …

‘J and J …'

That was what he remembered most clearly when he
finally collapsed into bed in his too-sumptuous suite at the St Regis.

Two Frenchmen, at a time when men wore stiff
detachable wing collars, starched cuffs and patent-leather shoes … Two very young
Frenchmen, greenhorns fresh off the boat without a cent, full of hope, one with a violin under
his arm, the other with a clarinet.

Which of them had a clarinet? He couldn't
remember any more. O'Brien had told him, O'Brien with his sheepish smile yet as mischievous as a
monkey.

The violin, that must have been Maura.

And both were from Bayonne or thereabouts. And
both were around twenty years old.