Maigret in New York by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page A

are
entitled, of course, to stay as long as you like in this hotel, where I am simply a guest like
any other. I will merely tell you that I would find it extremely unpleasant to encounter you
repeatedly in the lobby, the corridors or the elevators … I bid you good day,
inspector.’
    Still seated, Maigret slowly knocked his pipe out
in an ashtray on a nearby table. He took the time to pull a fresh
pipe from his pocket, then fill and light it while looking from
one man to the other.
    Finally, he rose, seeming to unfold his height
and heft, and he looked taller, larger than usual.
    ‘Goodbye,’ was all he said, so unexpectedly that
the letter opener snapped clean in two in Little John’s hand.
    He had the feeling that MacGill wanted to say
something further to prevent him from leaving right away, but, calmly turning his back, the
inspector walked to the door and on down the corridor.
    It was only in the elevator that his headache
returned and that the previous evening’s whisky came back to him as an upset stomach.
    ‘Hello … Agent O’Brien? … Maigret
here.’
    He was smiling. He was smoking his pipe in little
puffs as he looked around at the slightly faded wallpaper in his room.
    ‘What? … No, I’m not at the St Regis any
more … Why? Several reasons, the most important being that I wasn’t truly comfortable
there. You follow me? … Good … Well of course I’ve found a hotel. The Berwick
… You don’t know it? I can’t remember the street number; I’ve never had a head for
numbers, and you people are a nuisance with your numbered streets, as if you couldn’t just say
Victor Hugo Street, Pigalle Street or President Whosis Street …
    ‘Hello? … On Broadway, I don’t know how far
up, there’s a cinema called the Capitol … Right. Well, it’s the first or second street on
the left. A small hotel, nothing
fancy, and I
suspect they rent out rooms not just for the night … Oh, really? It’s illegal in New York?
Too bad!’
    He was in a good mood, even a jolly mood, for no
particular reason, perhaps simply because he was back in a familiar atmosphere.
    First of all, he liked this noisy and rather
vulgar part of Broadway, which reminded him of both Montmartre and the Grands Boulevards of
Paris. The reception desk looked almost second-hand, and there was only one elevator. Operated
by a little man with a limp!
    From the window he could see neon signs blinking
on and off.
    ‘Hello? O’Brien? Guess what: I need you again
… Don’t worry, I’m scrupulously respecting all the liberties of America the free …
What? … No, no … I assure you, I am completely incapable of irony … Imagine
this: I, too, would like to engage the services of a private detective.’
    At the other end of the line, O’Brien, wondering
if he was joking, grunted indistinctly, then decided to burst out laughing.
    ‘Don’t laugh, I’m quite serious … I
actually have a detective at my disposition … I mean that since noon, I have one at my
heels … Not at all, my friend, I’m not accusing the official police …Why are you so
touchy today? I’m talking about Bill from yesterday … Yes, the boxer with the scarred chin
who accompanied MacGill and me on our peregrinations … Well, he’s back, except that he’s
walking ten metres behind me like an old-fashioned footman … If I were to lean out the
window,
I’d certainly see him in front of the hotel
entrance … He’s not trying to hide, no … He’s following me, that’s all … I
even think that he’s somewhat ill at ease and sometimes would like to nod hello at me
…
    ‘What? … Why do I want a detective? …
Laugh all you want. I admit it’s sort of funny. Nevertheless, in your confounded country, where
no one deigns to understand my English unless I repeat it four or five times complete with sign
language, I wouldn’t say no to someone’s help with the few little inquiries I want to make
…
    ‘Above all, I beg you, your man must speak
French! …