Maigret in New York by Georges Simenon Page B

chairs.
    ‘Germain had all that here.’
    He pointed to his skull and tapped it with that
finger.
    ‘But where vaudeville and cabarets are concerned,
I say this to you: you must consult my old friend Lucile. She is here … Listening to you
… Speak, then, to her.’
    Maigret had let his pipe go out and yet he needed
it to regain a foothold in reality. Holding the pipe in his hand, he must have looked
embarrassed, for the fat lady spoke to him with a fresh smile that resembled, thanks to her
innocently garish make-up, that of a doll.
    ‘You may smoke … Robson smoked a pipe, too.
I smoked one myself, during the years right after his death … Perhaps you wouldn’t
understand, but it was still a bit of his presence.’
    ‘Your act was a very interesting one,’ murmured
the inspector politely.
    ‘The best of its kind, I can only agree. Everyone will tell you: Robson was unique … His
imposing presence, above all, and you cannot imagine how much that counts in our kind of number.
He wore a frock coat, waistcoat, tight breeches with stockings of black silk. His calves were
magnificent …
    ‘Wait!’
    She searched, not through a handbag, but in a
silk reticule with a silver clasp, and pulled out a publicity photograph of her husband attired
as she had described, with a black velvet mask over his eyes, a waxed moustache, ‘making a leg’
and brandishing a magician’s wand at his invisible audience.
    ‘And here I am at that same time.’
    An ageless woman, slender, sad, diaphanous, with
her hands crossed under her chin in the most artificial pose imaginable, staring vacantly into
the distance.
    ‘I can say that we toured throughout the world.
In certain countries Robson wore a red silk cape over his outfit and in a red spotlight he
looked truly diabolical in the magic coffin number … I trust you believe in mental
telepathy?’
    The room was stifling. Although Maigret was
desperate for a rush of fresh air, thick drapes of faded plush masked the windows, as heavy as
an old stage curtain. Who knows? He had the feeling they had perhaps been cut out of that very
thing.
    ‘Germain told me that you were looking for your
son or your brother.’
    ‘My brother,’ replied the inspector hastily,
suddenly
realizing that neither of the J and J
artistes could plausibly be his son.
    ‘That’s what I thought … I hadn’t
completely understood … That’s why I expected to see an older man. Which of the two was
your brother? The violin or the clarinet?’
    ‘I do not know, madame.’
    ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’
    ‘My brother disappeared when he was a baby. It’s
only recently, by chance, that we’ve picked up his trail again.’
    This was ludicrous. This was unbearable. And yet,
it was impossible to tell the simple truth to these two, who revelled in fantasy. Forbearance
was almost Christian charity towards them, and the cream of the jest was, that imbecile Dexter,
despite knowing the truth, seemed to believe the make-believe and was already beginning to
sniffle.
    ‘Step into the light, so I can see your face
…’
    ‘I do not believe there was any resemblance
between my brother and me.’
    ‘How do you know, when he was kidnapped so young
…’
    Kidnapped! Honestly! Now they had to play this
farce out to the very end.
    ‘In my opinion, it must have been Joachim …
No, wait: there’s a suggestion of Joseph in the forehead … But … Haven’t I got their
names mixed up, in fact? Just imagine, I used to do that all the time … There was one with
long blond hair like a girl, about the same colour as mine …’
    ‘Joachim, I think,’ said Maigret.
    ‘Let me remember … How would you know?
… The
other one had slightly broader
shoulders and wore glasses. It’s funny. We all lived together for almost a year, and there are
things I can’t recall, others that come back to me as if it were yesterday … We’d all
signed on for a tour through the Southern states: Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas. It