The Hotel Majestic (11 page)

The tango was followed by a slow foxtrot. A frothy half followed the route the waiter's order had taken previously—in the opposite direction. The pair were dancing again.

Maigret suddenly got up, forgot to pay for his drink, and hurried to the foyer.

“Is there anyone in Suite 203?” he asked the porter.

“I think the nanny and the boy are up there . . . But . . . If you'd like to wait while I telephone . . .”

“No, please don't do that . . .”

“There's the lift, on your left, sir.”

Too late. Maigret had made for the marble staircase and was slowly starting up the stairs, grunting as he went.

Maigret was assailed for a moment by a strange thought, which however he soon forgot. He had reached the second floor of the Majestic and stopped for a moment to get his breath back. On his way up he had met a waiter with a tray, and a bellboy running up the stairs with a bundle of foreign newspapers under his arm.

On this floor there were smartly dressed women getting into the lift, who were probably going down to the thé dansant. They left a trail of scent behind them.

“They are all in their proper places,” he thought to himself. “Some behind the scenes and the others in the lounges and foyer . . . The guests on one side and the staff on the other . . .”

But that wasn't what was bothering him, was it? Everyone, round him, was in his allotted place, doing the right thing. It was normal, for instance, for a rich foreign woman to have tea, smoke cigarettes and go out for fittings. It was natural for a waiter to carry a tray, a chamber-maid to make beds, a liftman to operate a lift . . .

In short, their functions, such as they were, were clearly defined, settled once and for all.

But if anyone had asked Maigret what he was doing there, what would he have answered?

“I am trying to get a man sent to prison, or even executed . . .”

It was nothing. A slight dizziness, probably caused by the over-luxurious, almost aggressively luxurious setting, and the atmosphere in the tea-room . . .

209 . . . 207 . . . 205 . . . 203 . . . Maigret hesitated for a moment and then knocked. His ear to the door, he could hear a child's voice saying a few words in English, then a woman's voice sounding more distant, and, he imagined, telling him to come in.

He crossed a little hall and found himself in a sitting-room with three windows overlooking the Champs-Élysées. By one of the windows an elderly woman, dressed in a white apron like a nurse, was sitting sewing. It was the nanny, Gertrud Borms, made to look even more severe by the glasses she wore.

But the superintendent paid no attention to her. He was looking at a boy of about six, dressed in plus-fours and a sweater which fitted snugly round his thin frame. The boy was sitting on the carpet, his few toys round him, including a large toy boat, and cars which were exact replicas of various real makes. There was a picture book on his knee which he was looking at when Maigret went in, and after glancing briefly at the visitor, he bent over it again.

When he recounted the scene to Madame Maigret, the superintendent's description went something like this: “She said something like, ‘You we you we we well . . .'

“And to gain time, I said very quickly: ‘I hope that I'm correct in thinking this is Monsieur Oswald J. Clark's suite? . . .'

“She went on again: ‘You we you we we well,' or something of the sort.

“And meanwhile, I was able to get a good look at the boy. A very big head for his age, covered, as I had been told, with hair of a fiery red. The same blue eyes as Prosper Donge—the colour of periwinkles or of certain summer skies . . . A thin neck . . .

“He started talking to his nanny, in English, too, looking at me as he did so, and to me it still sounded like: ‘You we you we we well . . .'

“They were evidently asking themselves what I wanted and why I was standing there in the middle of the room. I didn't know myself why I was there. There were flowers worth several hundred francs in a Chinese vase . . .

“The nanny finally got up. She put her work down on the chair, picked up a telephone and spoke to someone.

“‘Don't you understand any French, little one?' I asked the child.

“He merely gazed at me with eyes full of suspicion. A few seconds later, an employee in a tailcoat came into the suite. The nanny spoke to him. He then turned to me.

“‘She wants to know what you want?'

“‘I wanted to see Monsieur Clark . . .'

“‘He isn't here . . . She says he is probably downstairs . . .'

“‘Thank you very much . . .'”

And that was that! Maigret had wanted to see Teddy Clark and he had seen him. He went back downstairs thinking about Prosper Donge, shut in his cell at the Santé. Automatically, without thinking, he went on down to the tea-room and, as his beer had not yet been cleared away, he sat down again.

He was in a state of mind he knew well. It was rather as if he were in a daze, although he was conscious of what was happening round him, without attaching any importance to it, without making any effort to place people or things in time or space.

Thus he saw a page go up to Ellen Darroman and say a few words to her. She got up and went to a telephone booth, in which she only remained for a few seconds.

When she came out, she immediately looked round for Maigret. Then she rejoined Clark and said something to him in a low voice, still looking at the superintendent.

In that instant, Maigret had a sudden very definite feeling that something disagreeable was about to happen. He knew that the best thing to do would be to leave at once, but he didn't go.

He would have found it hard to explain why he stayed there, if called on to do so.

It wasn't because he felt it was his professional duty. There was no need to stay at the thé dansant any longer—he was out of his element there.

That was precisely it—but he couldn't have put it into words.

The magistrate had arrested Prosper Donge without consulting him, hadn't he? And moreover he had forbidden him to concern himself with the American?

That was tantamount to saying: “That is not your world . . . You don't understand it . . . Leave it to me . . .”

And Maigret, plebeian to the core, to the very marrow of his bones, felt hostile towards the world which surrounded him here.

Too bad. He would stay all the same. He saw Clark looking at him in turn, then Clark frowned, and, no doubt telling his companion to stay where she was, got up. A dance had just begun. The blue lighting gave way to pink. The American made his way between the couples and came and stood in front of the superintendent.

To Maigret, who couldn't understand a word of English, it still sounded like: “Well you well we we well . . .”

But this time the tone was aggressive and it was clear that Clark was having difficulty controlling himself.

“What are you saying?”

And Clark burst out even more angrily.

 

 

That evening, Madame Maigret said, shaking her head: “Admit it! You did it on purpose! I know that way you have of looking at people! You'd make an angel lose his temper . . .”

He didn't admit anything, but there was a twinkle in his eye. Well, what
had
he done anyway? He had stood there in front of the Yankee, with his hands in his jacket pockets, staring at him as if he found the spectacle curious.

Was it his fault? Donge was still uppermost in his mind—Donge who was in prison, not dancing with the very pretty Miss Ellen. No doubt sensing that a drama was about to unfold, she had got up to join them. But before she reached them, Clark had hit out furiously at Maigret's face, with the clean clockwork precision one sees in American films.

Two women having tea at the next table got up screaming. Some of the couples stopped dancing.

Clark seemed to be satisfied. He probably thought that the matter was now settled and that there was nothing further to add.

Maigret didn't even deign to run his hand over his chin. The impact of Clark's fist on his jaw had been clearly audible, but the superintendent's face remained as impassive as if he had been lightly tapped on the head.

Although he hadn't planned it that way, he was delighted at what had happened, and couldn't help smiling when he thought of the examining magistrate's face.

“Gentlemen! . . . Gentlemen! . . .”

Just as it seemed that Maigret would launch himself at his adversary and that the fight would continue, a waiter intervened. Ellen and one of the men who had been dancing grabbed hold of Clark on either side and tried to restrain him, while he still went on talking.

“What's he on about?” Maigret grumbled calmly.

“It doesn't matter! . . . Gentlemen, will you please kindly . . .”

Clark went on talking.

“What's he saying?”

Then, to everyone's surprise, Maigret began negligently to play with a shiny object which he had taken from his pocket and the fashionable women stared in amazement at the handcuffs, which they had so often heard about but never actually seen.

“Waiter, would you be good enough to translate for me? . . . Tell this gentleman that I am obliged to arrest him for insulting an officer of the law while in the course of his duty . . . And tell him too that if he is not prepared to follow me quietly, I shall have regretfully to use these handcuffs . . .”

Clark didn't flinch. He didn't say another word and pushed Ellen, who was clinging to his arm and trying to follow him, aside. Without waiting for his hat or coat he followed closely on the superintendent's heels, and as they crossed the foyer, followed by a small crowd of onlookers, the manager saw them from his office, and raised his hands to heaven in horror.

“Taxi! . . . To the Palais de Justice . . .”

It was dark now. They went up the stairs, along corridors, and stopped outside Monsieur Bonneau's door. Maigret then adopted a humble and contrite attitude which Madame Maigret knew well and which infuriated her.

“I am so sorry, sir . . . I have been obliged, much to my regret, to put Mr. Clark, who you see here, under arrest . . .”

The magistrate had no idea what had happened. He imagined that Maigret suspected the American of having murdered his wife and the night porter.

“Excuse me! Excuse me! On what grounds have you . . .”

It was Clark who answered and to Maigret the words still sounded like a senseless jingle.

“What's he saying?”

The poor magistrate raised his eyebrows and frowned. His own knowledge of English was far from good and he had difficulty himself in following what the American was saying. He mumbled something, and sent his clerk to fetch another clerk who sometimes acted as interpreter.

“What's he on about?” Maigret muttered from time to time.

And Clark, irritated beyond measure by this, burst out, clenching his fists and imitating the superintendent: “What's he saying? . . . What's he saying? . . .”

There had followed another tirade in English.

The interpreter sidled into the room. He was a little bald man, disarmingly humble and timid.

“He says he's an American citizen and that it's intolerable that policemen . . .”

Judging by his tone of voice, Clark had little respect for the police . . .

“. . . that policemen should be allowed to follow him about everywhere . . . He says an inspector has been constantly at his heels . . .”

“Is that true, superintendent?”

“He is probably right, sir.”

“. . . He says another policeman was following Miss Ellen . . .”

“It's very likely . . .”

“. . . And you burst into his hotel suite, in his absence . . .”

“I knocked politely on the door and asked the good lady who was there in the politest way in the world if I could see Monsieur Clark . . . After which I went down to the thé dansant to have a glass of beer . . . It was then that this gentleman saw fit to shove his fist in my face . . .”

Monsieur Bonneau was in despair. As if the affair wasn't complicated enough anyway! They had managed to keep the press out of it until now, but after the fracas in the tea-room there would be journalists besieging the Palais de Justice and Police Headquarters on all sides . . .

“I cannot understand, superintendent, why a man like you, with twenty-five years' experience . . .”

And then he nearly lost his temper, because instead of listening to him, Maigret was playing with a bit of paper which he'd taken out of his pocket. It was a letter, written on bluish paper.

“Monsieur Clark certainly went too far. Equally, it is true to say that for your part you omitted to show the tact one would have expected of you in circumstances which . . .”

It had worked. Maigret had to turn away to hide his satisfaction. Clark had become hypnotized by the piece of paper and finally walked up to him and held out his hand.

“Please—”

Maigret appeared surprised, and gave the American the piece of paper he was holding. The magistrate understood less and less, and suspected, not without reason, that the superintendent was up to something.

Then Clark went up to the interpreter and showed him the letter, gabbling away as he did so.

“What's he saying?”

“He says he recognizes his wife's handwriting and wants to know how you came to be in possession of a letter from her . . .”

“Please explain, Monsieur Maigret,” Monsieur Bonneau said coldly.

“I beg your pardon, sir . . . It's a document I've just been given . . . I wanted to show it to you, and add it to the dossier . . . Unfortunately Monsieur Clark took it before . . .”