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.
Well, another young man, a few days ago, had
feared for his father’s life.
And this young man, with whom Maigret had been
talking a few minutes earlier on the deck of their ship, had vanished.
The inspector was searching for the tailor shop.
He looked at the windows of these houses, often disfigured by the contemptible iron fire escapes
that stopped short above the ground floor.
A clarinet and a violin …
Why did he press his nose, the way he’d done as a
boy, to the window of one of those stores that sell everything: vegetables, canned goods,
sweets? Right next door there was another shop, unlit but without shutters, and through its
window, thanks to the gleam from a nearby street lamp, one could see a pressing machine and some
suits on hangers.
Arturo Giacomi
.
Still following him, the two taxis had halted a few metres away,
and neither the drivers nor that thick lump Bill suspected the contact this man in the heavy
overcoat, pipe clenched between his teeth, was making as he turned towards the house across the
street: contact with two twenty-year-old Frenchmen who had come off a ship a long time ago, one
with his violin under his arm, the other with his clarinet.
4.
It was touch and go that morning whether a man
lived or died, whether a repellent crime would be committed or no, and this slim margin depended
on only a few minutes more or less in how Maigret spent his time.
Unfortunately, he was unaware of this. Throughout
his thirty years with the Police Judiciaire it had been his habit, when an investigation did not
keep him out at night, of rising at around seven in the morning, and he loved the rather long
walk from his home at Boulevard Richard-Lenoir to Quai des Orfèvres.
At heart, despite his active life, he had always
been a flâneur. And once retired, in his house in Meung-sur-Loire, he’d been getting up even
earlier; in the summer, the sunrise often found him standing out in his
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.
Well, another young man, a few days ago, had
feared for his father’s life.
And this young man, with whom Maigret had been
talking a few minutes earlier on the deck of their ship, had vanished.
The inspector was searching for the tailor shop.
He looked at the windows of these houses, often disfigured by the contemptible iron fire escapes
that stopped short above the ground floor.
A clarinet and a violin …
Why did he press his nose, the way he’d done as a
boy, to the window of one of those stores that sell everything: vegetables, canned goods,
sweets? Right next door there was another shop, unlit but without shutters, and through its
window, thanks to the gleam from a nearby street lamp, one could see a pressing machine and some
suits on hangers.
Arturo Giacomi
.
Still following him, the two taxis had halted a few metres away,
and neither the drivers nor that thick lump Bill suspected the contact this man in the heavy
overcoat, pipe clenched between his teeth, was making as he turned towards the house across the
street: contact with two twenty-year-old Frenchmen who had come off a ship a long time ago, one
with his violin under his arm, the other with his clarinet.
4.
It was touch and go that morning whether a man
lived or died, whether a repellent crime would be committed or no, and this slim margin depended
on only a few minutes more or less in how Maigret spent his time.
Unfortunately, he was unaware of this. Throughout
his thirty years with the Police Judiciaire it had been his habit, when an investigation did not
keep him out at night, of rising at around seven in the morning, and he loved the rather long
walk from his home at Boulevard Richard-Lenoir to Quai des Orfèvres.
At heart, despite his active life, he had always
been a flâneur. And once retired, in his house in Meung-sur-Loire, he’d been getting up even
earlier; in the summer, the sunrise often found him standing out in his
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