And her enormous bosom swelled within her bodice as she wiggled her chubby little fingers.
‘Forgive me, sir … I assume that you believe in the afterlife? If not, you would not be so passionately searching for your brother, who may well be dead. I sense that Robson has just entered into communication with me … I know it, I’m sure of it. Allow me to turn my thoughts to him, and he will tell me himself all that you need to know.’
The clown was so awed that he gave a kind of moan. Or perhaps it was because of the cake, which no one had thought to offer him?
Maigret stared intently at the floor, wondering how much longer he could bear this.
‘Yes, Robson, I’m listening … Germain, would you dim the light?’
They must both have been used to these spiritualist séances, for without leaving his wheelchair, Germain reached out to the lamp and pulled a little chain, turning off one of the light bulbs under the red silk shade.
‘I see them, yes … Near a wide river … And there are cotton plantations everywhere … Help me some more, Robson dear. Help me the way you used to do … A big table … We’re all there and you’re in the place of honour … J and J. Wait. She is between the two of us. A fat Negro woman is serving us …’
The clown moaned again, but she continued in the monotone she must have used long ago in her performance as a medium.
‘Jessie is very pale … We’ve been on the train … Travelling for a long time … The train has stopped in the middle of the countryside … Everyone is exhausted … The manager has gone out to put up the posters … And J and J are each cutting off a piece of their meat to give to Jessie.’
It would have been simpler for her, obviously, to relate these things without the mystico-theatrical rubbish. Maigret felt like telling her, ‘Facts, please? And talk like a normal person.’
But if someone like Lucile had begun to talk like a normal person, and Germain to see his memorabilia for what it was, would either of them have had the strength to go on living?
‘And wherever I see them it’s the same … Those two are by her side, sharing their meals … Because they haven’t enough money to buy her a real dinner.’
‘You said that the tour lasted a year?’
She pretended to struggle, opened fluttering eyelids, stammered, ‘Did I say something? … Please forgive me … I was with Robson …’
‘I was asking you how long the tour lasted.’
‘More than a year. We’d set out for three or four months. But lots of unexpected things happen on the road, it’s always that way. Then there’s the question of money. There’s never enough money to come home. So the tour goes on, from town to town and even to villages.’
‘Do you know which one of the men was in love with Jessie?’
‘I don’t. Perhaps it was Joachim? He was your brother, right? … I’m convinced you look somewhat like Joachim. He was my favourite and played the violin magnificently. Not in his act, because there he only did improvisations. But when we happened to stay for a day or two in the same hotel …’
He could see her, in some plain board hotel in Texas or Louisiana, darning her husband’s black silk stockings … And this Jessie who at meals nibbled humbly on a little of the two men’s share.
‘You never knew what became of them?’
‘As I told you, the troupe fell apart in New Orleans when the manager left us stranded. Robson and I got an engagement right away, because our act was well known. I don’t know how the others earned the money for the train.’
‘You returned immediately to New York?’
‘I believe so. I no longer remember exactly. I do know that I saw one of the two Js again in the office of a Broadway impresario; that must not have been too long afterwards. What makes me think so is that I’d put on one of the dresses I’d worn during the tour … Which of the two men was it? … It struck me that I was seeing him on his own. We never saw one without the other …’
Abruptly, when no one expected it, Maigret shot to his feet. He felt he could not last five minutes more in that stifling atmosphere.
‘Please forgive my intrusion here,’ he said, turning to Germain.
‘If it had been a question of the circus instead of the vaudeville circuit,’ repeated the former ringmaster, like an old record.
And she: ‘I’ll give you my address. I still give private consultations. I have a small clientele of very nice people, who trust me. And I can tell the truth to you: it’s Robson who continues to help me. I don’t always admit this, because some people are afraid of spirits.’
She handed him a card that he shoved into his pocket. The clown gazed one last time at the cake and grabbed his hat.
‘I thank you again.’
Oof! He had never gone down any stairs faster and, once out in the street, he breathed in great gasps: he felt as if he were setting foot once more on solid ground, and the street lamps suddenly looked like friends one sees again after a long absence.
There were bright shops, passers-by, a boy of flesh and blood hopping along at the edge of the pavement.
True, the clown was still there, who managed to murmur dolefully, ‘I did what I could …’
Another five dollars, naturally!
They were dining together again in a French restaurant. Back at the Berwick, Maigret had found a phone message from O’Brien, asking him to call as soon as he returned.
‘As hoped, I’m free this evening,’ the agent announced shortly afterwards. ‘If you are, too, we could have dinner and a talk.’
They had already been sitting across from each other for more than fifteen minutes, and O’Brien had yet to say anything to the inspector; while ordering his meal, he had merely sent a few ironic and complacent little smiles his way.
‘Did you not notice,’ he finally murmured, slicing into a magnificent châteaubriand, ‘that you were being followed again?’
The inspector frowned, not because he felt immediately alarmed, but from vexation at not having been more careful.
‘I noticed right away, picking you up at the Berwick. It isn’t Bill this time, but someone who ran over old Angelino. I bet anything you like he’s just outside.’
‘We’ll certainly see when we leave.’
‘I don’t know when he went on duty … Did you leave the hotel earlier this afternoon?’
And this time, Maigret looked up with anguished eyes, thought for a moment and slammed his fist on the table with a ‘Shit!’ that made his companion grin.
‘Have you been up to something really compromising?’
‘Your man’s dark, obviously, since he’s Sicilian … Wears a very light grey hat, does he?’
‘Exactly.’
‘In that case, he was in the hotel lobby when I came down from my room with my clown, towards five o’clock. We bumped into each other while both making for the door.’
‘So, he’s been following you since five.’
‘And therefore …’
Was it going to be like it had been with poor Angelino all over again?
‘Can’t you people in the FBI do something to protect people?’ he asked irritably.
‘That might depend on the danger threatening them.’
‘Would you have protected the old tailor?’
‘Knowing what I do now, yes.’
‘Then there are two other people to protect, and I think you’d do well to take all necessary steps before finishing that châteaubriand.’
He gave him Germain’s address. Then he held out the clairvoyant’s card he had had in his pocket.
‘There should be a telephone here.’
‘Pardon me …’
Well, well … The unflappable and blandly smiling O’Brien was no longer waxing ironic or championing that famous personal freedom!
Since the agent was on the telephone for a long time, Maigret went to glance out at the street. On the pavement across the way, he recognized the pale grey hat he had seen in his hotel lobby and when he sat down again he swiftly dispatched two large glasses of wine.
O’Brien returned soon after and was polite – or perhaps wicked – enough not to ask a single question and quietly picked up his meal where he had left off.
‘In short,’ grumbled Maigret, eating without any appetite, ‘if I had not gone there, old Angelino would probably not be dead.’
He was waiting for denials, hoping for them, but O’Brien simply said, ‘Probably.’
‘In that case, if there are other accidents …’
‘They will be your fault, won’t they … Is that what you think? It’s what I think, and have thought, from the very first day. Do you remember when we had dinner together that evening you arrived?’
‘Does this mean that those people must be left alone?’
‘It’s too late, now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s too late, because we’re looking into it too, because even if you give up the chase, if you sail tomorrow to Le Havre or Cherbourg, they will continue to feel hunted.’
‘Little John?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘MacGill?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll say at once that I’m not the one in charge of this case. Tomorrow or the next day, when the time is right, when my colleague tells me – because he’s conducting the investigation, which is none of my business – I will introduce you to him. He’s a good man.’
‘Along your lines?’
‘The complete opposite. That’s why I say he’s a good man. I just phoned him … He would appreciate my giving him a few details soon about these two people he’s to protect.’
‘It’s an insane story!’ groaned Maigret.
‘What?’
‘I’m telling you, it’s an insane story! Because they are – if not authentic lunatics – two poor maniacs at the very least, who risk paying with their lives for the indiscretions they committed on my behalf … And not only that: without meaning to, because of that crying-clown imbecile, I played on their sympathies to win them over.’
O’Brien watched wide-eyed as a nervous Maigret snapped out his words while he chewed his food in a sort of rage.
‘No doubt you’ll tell me that what I learned isn’t much and that the game wasn’t worth the candle. It’s possible, however, that we do not have precisely the same ideas about police investigations.’
His companion’s cloying smile was driving him crazy.
‘My visit this morning to the house on 169th Street amused you as well, didn’t it, and you would doubtless have had a good laugh if you’d seen me, preceded by a little boy, sniffing around and poking my nose in everywhere.
‘Nevertheless, in spite of arriving in America just a few days ago, I claim to now know more than you do about Little John and the other J.
‘A question of temperament, probably. You need facts, don’t you, definite facts, while I …’
Seeing O’Brien about to burst out laughing, despite struggling mightily not to, Maigret stopped abruptly and decided to laugh as well.
‘Please forgive me … I just went through the most idiotic moments of my life … Listen to this …’
He recounted his visit to old Germain, described Lucile in her trances (or fake ones) and concluded by asking, ‘Now do you understand why I’m afraid for them? Angelino knew something, and they didn’t hesitate to remove him. Did Angelino know more than the others? It’s likely. But I stayed a whole hour in the former ringmaster’s place. Lucile was there.’
‘That’s true. Still, I don’t think the danger is as serious.’
‘Because you think as I do, I bet, that 169th Street is where those people feel at risk?’
O’Brien nodded.
‘What we really need to know is whether this Jessie also lived in the building across from the tailor shop. Is it possible to search the police archives for traces of any serious incident or accident that might have occurred in that house thirty years ago?’
‘It’s more complicated than in your country. Especially if the event in question was not what I might call official, if there was no investigation … In France, I remember, there would be a record at police headquarters of every tenant who had lived in a house and, if appropriate, mention of their deaths.’
‘Because you also believe …’
‘I don’t believe anything. I repeat, this is not my investigation. I’m on a completely different case and will be for weeks, if not months. Later, after we’ve had our brandy, I’ll call my colleague. A propos, I know that he went to the Immigration Bureau this afternoon. There, at least, they keep a record of everyone who enters the United States. Wait … I wrote something down on a piece of paper …’
Always the same nonchalance, as if to downplay the importance of what he was doing. Perhaps, in the end, it was more a kind of reticence vis-à-vis Maigret than any administrative precaution?
‘Here’s the date of Maura’s entry into the United States: “Joachim-Jean-Marie Maura, born in Bayonne, age twenty-two, violinist”. The name of the ship, long gone: “the Aquitaine”. As for the other J, he could only be “Joseph-Ernest-Dominique Daumale, age twenty-four, born in Bayonne” as well. He’s not listed as a clarinettist, but as a composer. I believe you see the difference?
‘I was given one more piece of information, which is perhaps of no importance, but which I feel you should have. Two and a half years after his arrival here, Joachim Maura, already calling himself John Maura, and who gave as his address the building that you know at 169th Street, left America for Europe, where he remained just short of ten months.
‘After which time we note his return aboard an English vessel, the Mooltan.
‘I do not believe my colleague is bothering to cable France regarding this matter. But, knowing you …’
Maigret had thought of that precisely when O’Brien had mentioned Bayonne. Already, in his mind, he was writing the cable for the police of that city.
Urgent request all details Joachim-Jean-Marie Maura and Joseph-Ernest-Dominique Daumale, left France …
It was the American’s idea to order two old Armagnacs in snifters. He was also the first to light his pipe.
‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked, as Maigret sat impassive and thoughtful, his snifter cupped under his nose.
‘Jessie.’
‘And you’re wondering? …’
It was almost a game they were playing, the one man with his everlasting yet discreetly faint smile, the other with his frowning pretence of ill humour.
‘I’m wondering whose mother she is!’
For an instant, the redhead’s smile faded as he sipped and murmured, ‘That will depend on the death certificate, won’t it?’
They had understood each other. Neither one felt like voicing his thoughts any further.
Maigret, however, could not help grumbling, feigning a bad mood that had already passed.
‘If we find it! What with your damned personal freedom that prevents you from keeping a record of who lives and who dies!’
In reply, O’Brien simply pointed to their empty glasses and called, ‘Waiter, the same again!’
And added, ‘Your poor Sici
lian must be dying of thirst out on the sidewalk.’
7.
It was late, probably close to ten o’clock. Maigret’s watch had stopped and unlike the St Regis, the Berwick did not spoil its guests by setting electric clocks in its walls. Anyway, why bother knowing the time? Maigret was in no hurry that morning. Actually, he had no plans at all. For the first time since he had landed in New York, he was greeted when he awakened by real springtime sunshine, a tiny bit of which had filtered in to his room and bathroom.
Because of this sun, moreover, he had hung his shaving mirror from the window latch and was shaving there, as he used to do in Paris at Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, where there was always a ray of sunlight on his cheek when he shaved in the morning. Isn’t it wrong to believe that big cities are all different from one another, even in the case of New York, which is always written about as a kind of monstrous machine that grinds people to pieces?
He, Maigret, was there, in New York, and he had a window latch at just the right height for shaving, a slanting ray of sunshine to make him blink and, across the way in some office or studio building, two girls in white smocks laughing at him.
That morning, as it happened, he wound up shaving in three stages, because he was interrupted twice by the phone ringing. The first time, the voice sounded far way, of recent memory yet unrecognizable.
‘Hello … Inspector Maigret?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re really Inspector Maigret?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘It’s Inspector Maigret on the phone?’
‘Yes, dammit!’
Then the voice shifted from mournful to tragic.
‘Ronald Dexter here.’
‘Yes. And?’
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, but I absolutely must see you.’
‘You have some news?’
Maigret in New York Page 10