Maigret in New York (5 page)

And they had signed a declaration regarding the
president of the United States, whom they promised not to assassinate.

Funny man, that Agent O'Brien, taking him to a
little
bar to tell him all this as if he himself
had nothing to do with it and were chatting about things completely unconnected to his job.

‘The one's name was Joseph, the other's, Joachim.
That's what my friend told me. You know, one shouldn't put much trust in stories people tell
… We in the FBI, we have nothing to do with all that. Those were the days of vaudeville
cabarets, what in Paris were known as
cafés-chantants
… So to earn a living, even
though they were both conservatory graduates, even though they considered themselves great
musicians, they put together a comedy act as “J and J”: Joseph and Joachim. And both hoped some
day to have careers as virtuosi or composers.

‘My friend's the one who told me this. It's not
important, obviously. Except that I know you're interested in Little John's personality. I'm
pretty sure now that he wasn't the clarinet guy …

‘Bartender … The same again …'

Was Agent O'Brien drunk?

‘J and J,' he repeated. ‘Well, my first name is
Michael. You know, you can call me Michael. Which doesn't mean that I'll be calling you Jules,
because I know that's your first name, but you don't like it …'

What else did he say that evening?

‘You don't know the Bronx, Maigret. You should
get to know the Bronx, it's a fascinating place … Not beautiful, but fascinating … I
didn't have time to drive you there; we're very busy, you know … Findlay, 169th Street
… You'll see, it's a curious neighbourhood. It seems that even today there's still a
tailor shop right across the street from
the house
… This is all just talk, just my colleague chatting, and I'm still wondering why he
mentioned this to me, since it has nothing to do with us … J and J … They performed
a number, half music, half comedy, in the cabarets and music halls of those days … And it
would be interesting to find out who played the comic role. Don't you think?'

Perhaps Maigret wasn't used to whisky, but he was
even less used to being treated like a child and he was furious when a bellboy escorted him up
the stairs at the St Regis, inquiring much too solicitously if he needed anything before
retiring.

Another of O'Brien's little jokes, O'Brien with
his quiet and terribly ironic smile.

Maigret was asleep at the bottom of a well over
the opening of which a red-headed giant was leaning, smiling and smoking an enormous cigar – why
a cigar? – when a nasty ringing noise slyly set his face twitching, like a too-smooth lake
ruffled by the morning breeze. His entire body heaved twice, from one side to the other,
dragging along the covers, and at last an arm reached out to seize the water pitcher at first
before the phone was found and a voice growled, ‘Hello …'

Sitting on his bed, uncomfortably (for he had not
had time to adjust the pillow and was obliged to hold the damned phone), he was already –
humiliatingly – sure, despite O'Brien's doubtless ironic remarks on the diuretic virtues of
whisky, that he had a headache.

‘Maigret, yes … Who's calling? …
What?'

It was MacGill, and that wasn't at all agreeable
either, to be awakened by this fellow whom he did not care for in the least. Particularly when
the other man, aware from his voice that he was still in bed, took the liberty of inquiring
brightly, ‘A late night, I bet? Did you at least … have a pleasant evening?'

Maigret looked around for his watch, which he
usually placed on his night table but which was not there. He
finally spotted a recessed electric wall clock, and his eyes
popped: it said eleven.

‘Tell me, inspector … I'm calling on behalf
of Mr Maura. He would be very glad if you could drop in to see him this morning … Any time
now, yes … I mean, whenever you're ready … We'll see you soon. You remember the
floor, right? The eighth, all the way at the end of corridor B … See you soon.'

He looked everywhere for a bell on a cord by the
bed, the kind used in France, to call the maître d', the valet, anyone, but saw nothing like
that and for a moment felt lost in his ridiculously large suite. Finally he remembered the
telephone and had to request three times, in his semblance of English, ‘I would like my
breakfast, miss … Yes,
breakfast
… What? … You do not understand?
… Coffee …'

She said something he couldn't quite catch.

‘I am asking you for my small lunch!'

He thought she then hung up, but she was
transferring him to another line, on which a new voice announced, ‘Room service …'

It was quite simple, obviously, but only if one
knew what to do, and at that instant he was angry at all America for not having had the
elementary idea of installing bells on cords in hotel rooms.

To cap it all, he was in the bathtub when someone
knocked at the room door and although he kept yelling ‘Come in!' the knocking continued. There
was nothing for it: dripping wet, he had to put on his dressing gown
to go and open the door, because he had locked it. What did the
waiter want now? Fine, he had to sign a slip. But now what? The man was still waiting, and at
last Maigret realized that he expected a tip. And his clothes were in a heap on the floor!

He was about to explode when, half an hour later,
he knocked at John Maura's door. MacGill greeted him, as elegant as always, flawlessly turned
out, but the inspector sensed that he had not slept much, either.

‘Come in, sit down for a moment … I'll tell
him you're here.'

He seemed preoccupied. He wasn't bothering to be
amiable. Paying no attention to Maigret, he walked into the next room without closing the door
behind him.

The second room was a sitting room, which he
crossed. Then came a very large bedroom. And still MacGill kept going, to knock at one last
door. Maigret hadn't time to see very well. What struck him, though, after the series of
luxurious rooms, was how bare the last one looked. And it was later in particular that he
realized this, trying to reconstruct the sight he'd had an instant before his eyes.

He would have sworn that the bedroom the
secretary entered at the end looked more like a servant's room than a St Regis hotel room.
Wasn't Little John sitting at a simple pine table and was it not an iron bedstead that Maigret
glimpsed behind him?

A few words exchanged in low tones, and the two
men came towards him one behind the other, Little John still tense, his movements deliberate,
seemingly
filled with prodigious energy he was
forced to hold in reserve.

Entering the office, like his secretary he was
none too welcoming, and this time it did not occur to him to offer his visitor one of those
famous cigars.

He went to sit at the mahogany table in the chair
MacGill had been occupying, while the latter casually sat down in an armchair and crossed his
legs.

‘I am sorry, inspector, to have bothered you, but
I thought that we should talk.'

Little John looked up at last at Maigret with
eyes that expressed nothing, neither sympathy, nor antipathy, nor impatience. His slender hand,
astonishingly white for a man, fiddled with a tortoise-shell letter opener.

He was wearing a navy-blue suit of English cut, a
dark tie with a white shirt. His clothes set off his defined yet delicate features, and Maigret
noticed that it would have been difficult to tell his age.

‘I suppose you've had no news of my son?'

He did not expect a reply and spoke on in a
neutral voice, as if to an underling.

‘When you came to see me yesterday, I was not
interested enough to ask you certain questions. If I've understood correctly, you came over from
France with Jean and indicated that it was my son who asked you to make this crossing.'

MacGill was puffing on a cigarette and calmly
watching the smoke rise towards the ceiling. Little John was still toying with the letter
opener, staring as if unseeing at Maigret.

‘I
do not think you opened a private detective agency after leaving the Police Judiciaire. On the
other hand, given what is widely known of your character, I find it hard to believe that you
would have embarked on such an adventure lightly. I suppose, inspector, that you follow me? We
are free men in a free country. Yesterday you gained admittance here to speak to me of my son.
That same evening, you contacted a member of the FBI to obtain information about me.'

In other words, these two men were already aware
of his comings and goings and his meeting with O'Brien. Had they had him followed?

‘Allow me to ask you a first question: under what
pretext did my son request your assistance?'

And as Maigret made no reply, while MacGill
seemed to smile with a note of irony, Little John continued, tense and cutting.

‘Retired inspectors do not usually chaperone
young people when they travel. I am asking you again: what did my son tell you to make you
decide to leave France and cross the Atlantic with him?'

Was he not speaking contemptuously on purpose,
hoping thereby to make Maigret lose his temper?

Except that Maigret grew calmer and more
imperturbable as the other man spoke. More lucid, too.

So lucid – and this showed so clearly in his gaze
– that the movements of the hand holding the letter opener became abrupt and awkward. MacGill,
who had turned his head towards the inspector, forgot his cigarette and waited.

‘If
you will allow me, I will reply to your question with another question. Do you know where your
son is?'

‘I do not, and that is not what is at issue at
this moment. My son is at liberty to do as he pleases, do you understand?'

‘So, you know where he is.'

It was MacGill who gave a start and turned
quickly to Little John with a hard look in his eyes.

‘I tell you again that I know nothing about it
and that it is no concern of yours.'

‘In that case, we have nothing more to say to
each other.'

‘One moment …'

The little man had leaped to his feet and, still
holding the letter opener, had darted between Maigret and the door.

‘You seem to forget, inspector, that you are here
in a way at my expense. My son is a minor; I assume that he did not let you travel at his
request yet at your own expense …'

Why did MacGill seem so angry at his boss? He was
clearly unhappy with the turn things had taken. And what's more, he did not hesitate to
intervene.

‘I believe the problem lies elsewhere and that
you are offending the inspector to no purpose.'

Maigret saw the look the men exchanged and,
although unable to read it on the spot, resolved to decipher its meaning later.

‘Obviously,' continued MacGill, who rose in turn
and
paced up and down the room more calmly than
Little John, ‘obviously your son, for some reason unknown to us, although perhaps not to you
…'

Wait a minute! He was making such a serious
insinuation to his boss?

‘… felt compelled to appeal to someone
known for his wisdom in criminal matters …'

Maigret remained seated. It was instructive to
watch the two of them, so different one from the other. Almost as if, at moments, the contest
were playing out between the two of them and not with Maigret.

For Little John, so brusque at first, allowed his
secretary, a man thirty years younger, to go on talking. And he did not seem happy about it. He
was humiliated, that was clear. He was yielding the floor with regret.

‘Given that your son cares about one person and
only one, his father; given that he rushed to New York without telling you beforehand – at least
so I suppose …'

The hit went home, no doubt about it.

‘… then there is every reason to believe
that he heard some upsetting news about you. The question is, who planted this troubling
possibility in his mind! Do you not think, inspector, that the entire problem lies there? Let's
summarize the matter as simply as possible. You are alarmed by the rather inexplicable
disappearance of a young man the moment he arrives in New York. Unfamiliar with police matters
and relying solely on common sense, I put it this way.

‘When we find out who made Jean Maura come to New
York, meaning whoever cabled him who-knows-what
about some danger menacing his father (because otherwise, there
was no need for him to request the company of a policeman, if I may use that word) – when that
has been determined, it should not be hard to discover who made Jean disappear.'

During this lecture, Little John had gone to
stand at the window, where, holding the curtain open with one hand, he was gazing outside. His
silhouette was as lean of line as his face.

And Maigret found himself wondering: clarinet?
Violin? Which of the two Js did this man play in that long-ago burlesque act?

‘Am I to understand, inspector, that you refuse
to answer?'

Then Maigret, fishing for advantage, announced,
‘I would like to speak with Mr Maura in private.'

Little John whipped around, startled. His first
glance was for his secretary, who seemed supremely indifferent.

‘I have already told you, I think, that you may
speak in front of MacGill.'

‘In that case, please forgive me if I have
nothing to say to you.'

Well, MacGill was not offering to leave. He
stayed on, sure of himself, like someone who knows he's in the right place.

Was it the little man who would lose his temper?
In his cold eyes there was something like exasperation, but like something else as well.

‘Listen to me, Mr Maigret. We must make an end of
this and will do it in few words. Talk or don't talk, it's all
the same to me, because what you might have to say does not much
interest me. A boy, worried for reasons I don't know, went to see you, and you jumped headlong
into an affair that did not concern you. This boy is my son. He is a minor. If he has
disappeared, that is my business and mine alone, and if I must turn elsewhere to look for him,
it will be to the police of this country. I assume I am making myself clear?

‘We are not in France and, until further notice,
my doings are my own affair. I will therefore allow no one to interfere with me and, if
necessary, I will take steps to see that my full and complete liberty will be respected.

‘I do not know if my son gave you what's called
an advance. If he did not think of it, let me know, and my secretary will hand over a cheque
covering your current travel expenses and return passage to France.'

Why did he glance briefly at MacGill as if
seeking his approval?

‘I am waiting for your answer.'

‘To which question?'

‘Regarding the cheque.'

‘I thank you.'

‘One last word, if you please … You are
entitled, of course, to stay as long as you like in this hotel, where I am simply a guest like
any other. I will merely tell you that I would find it extremely unpleasant to encounter you
repeatedly in the lobby, the corridors or the elevators … I bid you good day,
inspector.'

Still seated, Maigret slowly knocked his pipe out
in an ashtray on a nearby table. He took the time to pull a fresh
pipe from his pocket, then fill and light it while looking from
one man to the other.