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
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
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