The Hotel Majestic (12 page)

Clark was still talking to the interpreter.

“What's he saying?” said the magistrate, catching the disease.

“He wants me to translate the letter . . . He says if someone has rifled through his wife's things, he will lodge a complaint with his embassy and that . . .”

“Translate . . .”

Maigret, his nerves taut, started filling his pipe, and went over to the window, where he could see the gas lights shining like stars through their misty haloes.

The poor interpreter, his bald pate covered in sweat, translated Mimi's letter to her friend Gigi word by word, wondering as he did so if he dared continue, so horrified was he. The magistrate had drawn closer to read over his shoulder, but Clark, more peremptory than ever, had motioned him aside, saying: “Please—”

He had the air of one guarding his property, as though he wanted to prevent anyone from taking the letter, or from trying to destroy it, or from missing out anything in the translation. He pointed to each word with his finger, demanding the exact meaning.

Monsieur Bonneau, in total despair, went over to join the superintendent, who was smoking his pipe with seeming indifference.

“Did you do this on purpose, superintendent?”

“How could I foresee that Monsieur Clark would thrust his fist in my face?”

“This letter explains everything!”

“With perfect cynicism!”

Good grief! The magistrate had sent Prosper Donge to prison without any proof that he was guilty. And he was perfectly prepared to send Charlotte, Gigi or any of the rest of them to join him!

The interpreter and Clark stood leaning over the table, where the green-shaded lamp shed its circle of light.

Finally Clark stood up. He banged his fist on the table, muttering something which sounded like: “Damned!”

Then he reacted very differently to what one might have expected. He remained calm, and didn't look at any of them. His face had set, and he stared into space. After remaining like that for a long time, during which the poor interpreter looked as though he was trying to gather his courage to apologize to him, he turned round, saw a chair in a corner of the room, and went and sat down, so calmly and simply, that his very simplicity seemed almost tragic.

Maigret, who had been watching him from a distance, could see beads of sweat literally breaking out on the skin above his upper lip.

And Clark, at this moment, was a bit like a boxer who has just received a knock-out blow but who is kept upright by the force of inertia and instinctively looks for some support before going down for good.

There was complete silence in the magistrate's office and they could hear the sound of a typewriter in a neighbouring room.

Clark still made no move. He sat in his corner with his elbows on his knee, his chin in his hands, staring at his feet in their square-toed shoes.

A long time later, they heard him muttering: “Well! . . . Well! . . .”

And Maigret quietly asking the interpreter: “What's he saying?”

The magistrate took the line of pretending to look at his papers. The smoke from Maigret's pipe rose slowly in the air, seeming to drift towards the circle of light round the lamp.

“Well . . .”

Clark's thoughts were far away. God knew where. He finally looked up, and they wondered what he would do next. He took a heavy gold cigarette case out of his pocket, opened it, took out a cigarette and snapped the case shut again. Then, turning to the interpreter, he said: “Please . . .”

He wanted a match. The interpreter didn't smoke. The superintendent handed him a box of matches, and as he took it, Clark glanced at him and gave him a long look, which said a great deal.

When he stood up, he must have felt weak, because his body seemed to sway a little. But he was still quite calm. His features were expressionless once more. He began by asking a question. The magistrate looked at Maigret as if waiting for him to answer.

“He asks if he may keep this letter?”

“I would rather it were photographed first. It won't take more than a few minutes. We can send it up to the Criminal Records Office . . .”

Translation. Clark appeared to understand, nodded his head, and handed the letter to the clerk, who bore it off. Then he went on talking. It was maddening not to be able to understand. The shortest speech seemed to go on for ever and the superintendent kept wanting to interrupt to ask what he was saying.

“First of all, he wants to consult his solicitor, because what he has just learnt was totally unexpected and it changes everything . . .”

Why did Maigret feel moved at these words? At this great healthy man who three days before had been riding on roundabouts with Ellen, and only a few hours before had been dancing the tango in a haze of blue light . . . and who had now received a much more shattering blow than the one he had dealt the superintendent . . . And, like Maigret, he had barely flinched . . . He had sworn briefly . . . Banged his fist on the table . . . Remained silent for a while . . .

“Well . . . Well! . . .”

It was a pity they couldn't understand each other. Maigret would have liked to have been able to talk to him.

“What's he saying now?”

“That he now wants to offer a reward of a thousand dollars to the police officer who discovers the murderer . . .”

While this was translated, Clark looked at Maigret as if to say: “You see what a good sport I am . . .”

“Tell him, that if we win them, the thousand dollars will go to the police orphanage . . .”

It was odd. It was as though they were now competing to see who could be most polite. Clark listened to the interpreter, and nodded.

“Well . . .”

Then he began speaking again, this time in the tone of a businessman conducting his affairs.

“He supposes—but he doesn't want to do anything before having seen his solicitor—that an interview between him and this man—Prosper Donge—will be necessary . . . He asks if he might be permitted to do this and if . . .”

It was the magistrate's turn to nod gravely. And in another minute they would all have been exchanging compliments.

“After you . . .”

“Please . . .”

“No, really . . .”

Clark then asked some more questions, turning frequently to Maigret.

“He wants to know, sir, what will happen about the punch-up, and if there will be any repercussions. He doesn't know what consequences such an act might have in France . . . In his country . . .”

“Well, tell him I have no recollection of the event he mentions . . .”

The magistrate looked anxiously towards the door. It was too good to be true! He was afraid some new incident would come to disturb this marvellous harmony. If only they would hurry up and bring back the letter which . . .

They waited. In silence. They had nothing more to say to each other. Clark lit another cigarette, after having signed to Maigret to lend him his matches.

At last the clerk came back with the dreaded piece of blue paper.

“It's been copied, sir . . . May I?”

“Yes, give the letter to Monsieur Clark . . .”

Clark slipped it carefully into his wallet, put the wallet in his breast pocket, and forgetting he had come without his hat, looked round for it on the chairs. Then he remembered, smiled stiffly and said goodnight to them all.

When the interpreter had also gone, and the door was shut, Monsieur Bonneau coughed two or three times, walked round his desk, and picked up some papers which he then didn't know what to do with.

“Hum! . . . Was that what you wanted to happen, superintendent?”

“What do you think, sir?”

“I believe it is I who am asking the questions.”

“I'm so sorry . . . Of course! You see, I have the feeling that it won't be long before Monsieur Clark remarries . . . And the child is definitely Donge's son . . .”

“The son of a man who is in prison and who is accused of . . .”

“. . . various crimes, yes,” Maigret sighed. “But the boy is nevertheless his son. What can I do under the circumstances . . .”

He, too, looked for his hat, which he had left at the Majestic. He felt very odd leaving the Palais de Justice without it, so he took a taxi back to the Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.

The bruise on his chin had had time to turn black. Madame Maigret spotted it at once.

“You've been fighting again!” she said, laying the table.

“And, of course, you're minus a hat! . . . What was it this time? . . .”

He felt satisfied, and smiled broadly as he took his table-napkin out of its silver ring.

And it wasn't at all bad either to be sitting comfortably at his desk, with the stove purring away at his back, and the window on the left curtained with lace-like morning mist, while in front of him was the black marble Louis-Philippe mantelpiece, the hands of the clock permanently stuck at noon for the last twenty years; on the wall a photograph in a black and gilt frame of a group of gentlemen in frock-coats and top hats, with improbable moustaches and pointed beards: the association of secretaries of the Central Police Station, when Maigret was twenty-four!

Four pipes arranged in order of size on his desk.

 

The headline ran across the front page of an evening paper of the day before. To journalists, of course, all American women are always rich. But Maigret's smile broadened on seeing a photograph of himself, in his overcoat and bowler hat, and with his pipe in his mouth, looking down at something which wasn't shown in the picture.

 

But it was a photograph which had been taken a year before, in the Bois de Boulogne, when he had in fact been looking at the body of a Russian who had been shot with a revolver.

Some more important documents, in manila folders.

“Son of Fagonet, Albert Jean-Marie, foreman at the Lecoeur Works, deceased three years ago;

“. . . and Jeanne Albertine Octavie Hautbois, wife of the above, aged 54, housewife.

“The following information was given to us, either by the concierge at no. 57 Rue Caulaincourt, where Edgar Fagonet lives with his mother and sister, or by neighbours and shopkeepers in the area, or on the telephone by the Police Station in the Gasworks district of Lille.

“We have also been in touch by telephone with the ‘Chevalet Sanatorium' in Megève, and have personally seen the manager of the Imperia cinema, in the Boulevard des Capucines.

“Although opinion must be reserved until further verification has been carried out, the information below appears to be correct.

“The Fagonet family, of Lille, led a decent life, and occupied a bungalow in the modern part of the Gasworks district. It appears that the parents' ambition was to give Edgar Fagonet a good education, and in fact the latter went to the Lycée at the age of eleven.

“Shortly afterwards he had to leave it for a year to go to a sanatorium on the island of Oléron. His health then apparently restored, he continued his studies, but they were constantly interrupted from that time on owing to his weak constitution.

“When he was seventeen, it was found necessary to send him to a high altitude, and he spent four years at the Chevalet Sanatorium, near Megève.

“Doctor Chevalet remembers Fagonet well; he was a very good-looking boy and had a lot of success with certain of the female patients. He had several affairs while he was there. It was also there that he became an accomplished dancer, because the rules at the establishment were very informal, and it appears that in general the patients were intent upon pleasure.

“Turned down permanently by the recruiting board.

“At twenty-one, Fagonet returned to Lille, just in time to close his father's eyes. The father left a few small savings, but not enough to feed his family.

“Fagonet's sister, Émilie, aged nineteen, has a bone disorder which renders her virtually disabled. Additionally, she is of below average intelligence, and needs constant care.

“It appears that at this time Edgar Fagonet made serious attempts to find regular employment, first in Lille and then in Roubaix. Unfortunately his interrupted education was a handicap. On the other hand, although cured, his constitution prevented him from doing manual labour.

“It was then that he came to Paris, where he could be found a few weeks later in a sky-blue uniform, working at the Imperia cinema, which was the first to employ young men instead of usherettes, and which also took on a number of poor students.

“It is difficult to get precise information on this point because those involved have proved discreet, but it appears certain that many of these young men, shown to advantage in their uniforms, made FRUITFUL conquests at the Imperia!”

Maigret grinned because Torrence had found it necessary to underline the word “fruitful” in red ink.

“At any rate one of Fagonet's first acts—his friends were now beginning to call him Zebio, because of his Latin-American appearance—was to bring his mother and sister to Paris and install them in a three-room flat, in the Rue Caulaincourt.

“He is considered by the concierge and by neighbours to be a particularly dutiful son, and it is often he who goes out to do the shopping in the mornings.