The Hotel Majestic by Georges Simenon Page B

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.
    â€œWhat are you saying?”
    And Clark burst out even more angrily.
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    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.
    â€œGentlemen! . . . 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.
    â€œWhat’s he on about?” Maigret grumbled calmly.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter! . . . Gentlemen, will you please kindly . . .”
    Clark went on talking.
    â€œWhat’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.
    â€œWaiter, would you be good enough to translate for me? . . . Tell this