Maigret in New York (6 page)

Finally, he rose, seeming to unfold his height
and heft, and he looked taller, larger than usual.

‘Goodbye,' was all he said, so unexpectedly that
the letter opener snapped clean in two in Little John's hand.

He had the feeling that MacGill wanted to say
something further to prevent him from leaving right away, but, calmly turning his back, the
inspector walked to the door and on down the corridor.

It was only in the elevator that his headache
returned and that the previous evening's whisky came back to him as an upset stomach.

‘Hello … Agent O'Brien? … Maigret
here.'

He was smiling. He was smoking his pipe in little
puffs as he looked around at the slightly faded wallpaper in his room.

‘What? … No, I'm not at the St Regis any
more … Why? Several reasons, the most important being that I wasn't truly comfortable
there. You follow me? … Good … Well of course I've found a hotel. The Berwick
… You don't know it? I can't remember the street number; I've never had a head for
numbers, and you people are a nuisance with your numbered streets, as if you couldn't just say
Victor Hugo Street, Pigalle Street or President Whosis Street …

‘Hello? … On Broadway, I don't know how far
up, there's a cinema called the Capitol … Right. Well, it's the first or second street on
the left. A small hotel, nothing
fancy, and I
suspect they rent out rooms not just for the night … Oh, really? It's illegal in New York?
Too bad!'

He was in a good mood, even a jolly mood, for no
particular reason, perhaps simply because he was back in a familiar atmosphere.

First of all, he liked this noisy and rather
vulgar part of Broadway, which reminded him of both Montmartre and the Grands Boulevards of
Paris. The reception desk looked almost second-hand, and there was only one elevator. Operated
by a little man with a limp!

From the window he could see neon signs blinking
on and off.

‘Hello? O'Brien? Guess what: I need you again
… Don't worry, I'm scrupulously respecting all the liberties of America the free …
What? … No, no … I assure you, I am completely incapable of irony … Imagine
this: I, too, would like to engage the services of a private detective.'

At the other end of the line, O'Brien, wondering
if he was joking, grunted indistinctly, then decided to burst out laughing.

‘Don't laugh, I'm quite serious … I
actually have a detective at my disposition … I mean that since noon, I have one at my
heels … Not at all, my friend, I'm not accusing the official police …Why are you so
touchy today? I'm talking about Bill from yesterday … Yes, the boxer with the scarred chin
who accompanied MacGill and me on our peregrinations … Well, he's back, except that he's
walking ten metres behind me like an old-fashioned footman … If I were to lean out the
window,
I'd certainly see him in front of the hotel
entrance … He's not trying to hide, no … He's following me, that's all … I
even think that he's somewhat ill at ease and sometimes would like to nod hello at me
…

‘What? … Why do I want a detective? …
Laugh all you want. I admit it's sort of funny. Nevertheless, in your confounded country, where
no one deigns to understand my English unless I repeat it four or five times complete with sign
language, I wouldn't say no to someone's help with the few little inquiries I want to make
…

‘Above all, I beg you, your man must speak
French! … You have someone available? … You'll telephone? … Yes, absolutely,
as of this evening … I'm in fine fettle, tip-top, in spite of your whiskies …
Although I did inaugurate my new room in the Berwick by treating myself to a two-hour nap
…

‘In which milieux will I be making my inquiries?
I thought you would have guessed … Naturally … That's right …

‘I'll wait for your call. I'll talk to you soon
…'

He went to open the window and, as expected, saw
the aforementioned Bill chewing his gum about twenty metres from the hotel and looking none too
happy.

The room was perfectly ordinary, with enough old
things and shabby carpeting to make it resemble a rented room in any city in the world.

Before ten minutes had passed the telephone rang.
O'Brien announced to Maigret that he'd found him a detective, one Ronald Dexter, and recommended
that he not let him drink too much.

‘Because he can't handle whisky?'

And O'Brien replied with angelic sweetness,
‘Because he cries …'

The placid redhead was not joking. Even when he
hadn't been drinking, Dexter gave the impression of a man who goes through life saddled with
immeasurable sorrow.

He arrived at the hotel at seven that evening.
Maigret met him in the lobby just as the detective was asking for him at the desk.

‘Ronald Dexter?'

‘That's me.'

And he seemed to be saying, ‘Alas!'

‘Has my friend O'Brien brought you up to
date?'

‘Shh!'

‘Excuse me?'

‘No last names, please. I am at your service.
Where do you want us to go?'

‘Outside, to begin with … Do you know that
gum-chewing gentleman out there with an apparently lively interest in passers-by? That's Bill
… Bill who? I've no idea. All I've got is his first name, but what I do know is that he's
one of your colleagues who's been told to follow me … I mention this so that you won't
worry about his comings and goings. He can follow us as much as he likes. It's of no importance,
you understand?'

Dexter either did or didn't understand. In any
case he adopted a resigned expression and seemed to say to heaven above, ‘If it's not one thing,
it's another!'

He must have been about fifty; his grey clothing
and mangy trenchcoat did not plead in favour of prosperity.

The
two men walked the hundred metres or so to Broadway, with Bill falling imperturbably in behind
them.

‘Are you familiar with theatrical folks?'

‘Somewhat.'

‘More precisely, variety acts, cabarets?'

Then Maigret realized the extent of O'Brien's
sense of both humour and practicality, as Dexter sighed, ‘I was a clown for twenty years
…'

‘A sad one, no doubt? If you like, we can go to a
bar and have a drink.'

‘I wouldn't mind.'

Then, with disarming simplicity, ‘I thought you'd
been warned …'

‘About what?

‘I can't hold my liquor very well. Oh …
Just one drink, right?'

They sat off in a corner, while Bill came in as
well and settled in at the bar.

‘If we were in Paris,' Maigret explained, ‘I'd
find the information I want right away, because around the Porte Saint-Martin area we have shops
that date back to another era. Some of them sell popular song sheets, and today you can still
find the tunes sung on every street corner in 1900 or 1910 … In one place I know, a
wigmaker's boutique, you'll see every kind of beard, moustache and wig worn by actors since time
immemorial … And in some seedy neighbourhoods, the most unlikely impresarios organize
tours through small provincial towns …'

As Maigret was speaking, Ronald Dexter gazed at
his glass with a deeply melancholy eye.

‘You see what I mean?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Good. On the walls of such offices, it would not
be hard to find posters for vaudeville and cabaret acts from thirty or forty years ago …
And, sitting on the waiting-room benches, a dozen old ham actors, washed-up comedians or cabaret
canaries—'

Breaking off, the inspector said, ‘Please forgive
me.'

‘Not at all.'

‘What I mean is, actors, singers, chanteuses now
seventy and more who still come looking for work. These people have amazing memories, especially
of their glory days. So, Mr Dexter …'

‘Everyone calls me Ronald.'

‘So, I'm wondering if New York has the equivalent
of what I just described.'

Still staring at his glass, which he had not yet
touched, the former clown took some time to reflect. At last he inquired, with the utmost
gravity, ‘Must they be really very old?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Do they have to be really old performers? You
mentioned seventy and up. Around here, that's a lot, because, you see, we die more quickly.'

His hand reached for the glass, drew back,
reached out again; finally he downed the drink in one gulp.

‘There are places … I'll show you.'

‘We only have to go back about thirty years. At
that time, two Frenchmen billed as J and J performed a musical number in cabarets.'

‘Thirty years, you say? I think that's possible. And you'd like to know …'

‘Everything you can learn about them. I'd also
like to obtain a photograph. Performers have lots of pictures taken, images that turn up on
posters, in programmes.'

‘Do you intend to come with me?'

‘Not tonight. Not right away.'

‘That would be better. Because, you see …
you risk scaring people off. They're very sensitive, you know. If you want, I'll come and see
you tomorrow at your hotel, or else I'll phone you. Is this quite urgent? I can get started
tonight. But I'd need …'

He hesitated, lowered his voice.

‘I'd need you to pay me enough for a few rounds,
to get in a few places.'

Maigret pulled out his wallet.

‘Oh! Ten dollars will be enough. Because if you
give me more, I'll spend it. And when I've finished your job, I'll have nothing left … You
don't need me any more, now?'

The inspector shook his head. He had considered
for a moment having dinner with his clown, but the fellow was proving to be too hopelessly
mournful.

‘It doesn't annoy you, having that fellow
following you?'

‘What would you do if it did?'

‘I think that offering him a bit more than his
employers are paying would …'

‘He's not bothering me.'

And it was true. It was almost a diversion for
Maigret to feel the former boxer shadowing him.

He
dined that evening in a brightly lit cafeteria on Broadway, where he was served excellent
sausages but irritated at finding only Coca-Cola in lieu of beer.

Then, towards nine o'clock, he hailed a cab.

‘The corner of Findlay and 169th Street.'

The driver sighed, lowering his flag with an air
of resignation, and Maigret understood his reaction only a little later, when the taxi left the
well-lit neighbourhoods to enter a different world.

Soon, along endless, perfectly straight streets,
the only passers-by to be seen were coloured. The cab was crossing Harlem, with its houses all
alike, its blocks of dark brick made even uglier by the iron fire escapes zigzagging across the
façades.

Much later, they crossed a bridge, passing close
to warehouses or factories – it was hard to tell in the darkness – and then, in the Bronx, there
were more desolate avenues, sometimes with the yellow, red or violet lights of a neighbourhood
cinema, or the display windows of a large store crowded with wax mannequins in rigid poses.

They drove for more than a half an hour, and the
streets became yet darker, more deserted, until at last the driver stopped his cab and turned
around to announce disdainfully, ‘Findlay.'

To the right was 169th Street. But Maigret had to
negotiate a long time to persuade the driver to wait. And he still would not wait at the corner,
for as Maigret set out along the sidewalk, he crept along behind him. And a second taxi rolled
slowly along as well, Bill's cab, no doubt, but the boxer-detective did not bother getting out
of his.

In
the darkness, one could see the rectangular outline of a few stores like those found in the poor
sections of Paris and all capital cities.

What had Maigret come here to do? Nothing
definite. Did he even have any idea what he had come to New York to do? And yet, for a few hours
now, since the moment he had left the St Regis, actually, he had no longer felt out of his
element. The Berwick had already reconciled him to America, perhaps because it smelled like
humanity, and now he imagined all the lives huddled in the small cells within these brick cubes,
all the scenes unfolding behind the window shades.

Little John had not affected him, emotionally
(those weren't exactly the right words), but he was still some kind of a human being, albeit a
somewhat artificial, counterfeit one.

MacGill as well, maybe even more so.

And even the young man, Jean Maura, with his
fears and the support of Monsieur d'Hoquélus.

And that disappearance at the moment the
transatlantic liner finally docked in New York …

All that, after all, was unimportant. That's the
word Maigret would have used if the red-headed O'Brien had been there at that moment, with his
faint smile on his pockmarked face.

A passing reflection as he walked along, hands in
his pockets, pipe between his teeth. Why is it usually redheads who are pockmarked and why,
almost invariably, are they so likeable?

He sniffed. He breathed in the air smelling
vaguely of
fuel oil and poverty. Were there any new
J-and-Js in a few of those small cells? Surely there were! Some young people barely a few weeks
off their boat and who waited, with jaws set, for their glorious hour at the St Regis.

Maigret was looking for a tailor shop. Two taxis
followed him like a parade. And in a way this situation was laughable, he knew that.

Once two young men, back when detachable stiff
collars and cylindrical cuffs were in fashion (Maigret had had some washable ones, in rubber or
rubberized cloth, he still remembered them), two young men had lived on this street, across from
a tailor shop.