Read Online Maigret in New York by Georges Simenon - Free Book Online
Authors: Georges Simenon
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the one belonging to old Angelino.
Maigret was beginning to understand. Patiently,
with that grace big men have, he worked his way slowly in to the heart of the crowd and pieced
together the scattered information he overheard.
It had been at least fifty years since Angelino
Giacomi had come from Naples and set himself up in this shop, well before the invention of the
steam press. He was practically the patriarch of the street, of the whole neighbourhood, and
during municipal elections not a single candidate failed to pay him his respects.
His son Arturo ran the shop now, and this son was
almost sixty, himself the father of seven or eight children, most of them married.
In the winter, old Angelino spent his days
sitting on that straw-bottomed chair in the front window of the shop, as if part of the display,
smoking from morning to night those poorly made Italian cigars of black tobacco that smell so
harsh.
And in the spring, just as one sees the swallows
return,
everyone up and down the street watched as
old Angelino set his chair out on the pavement, next to the door.
Now he was dead, or dying, Maigret did not yet
know exactly.
Different versions of his fate swirled around the
inspector, but soon an ambulance siren was heard, and a vehicle with a red cross pulled over to
the kerb.
The crowd rippled, then parted slowly for two men
in white coats, who walked into the shop and out again a few moments later, removing a stretcher
on which nothing could be seen but a body beneath a sheet.
The vehicle’s rear door closed. A casually
dressed man, doubtless Angelino’s son, having simply put a jacket on over his work clothes,
climbed in next to the driver, and the ambulance pulled away.
‘Is he dead?’ people asked the policeman, still
at the door.
He didn’t know. He didn’t care. It wasn’t his job
to bother with such details.
A woman was crying inside the shop, with her
dishevelled grey hair falling over her face, and sometimes she let out such moans that you could
hear her in the street.
One person, two, three decided it was time to
leave. Housewives hunted for their youngsters so as to finish their shopping in the
neighbourhood.
The crowd was slowly shrinking, but it was still
blocking the shop door.
Now it was a barber, comb tucked behind his ear,
who was holding forth in a strong Genoese accent.
‘I saw everything like I see you, because it’s
that slow time, and I happened to be right in my doorway.’
And
a few houses along, in fact, there was a traditional barber-shop pole striped with red and
blue.
‘Almost every morning he’d stop a bit outside my
place to chat. It’s me who shaved him, Wednesdays and Saturdays. I always shaved him. Not my
assistant, me personally. And I’ve always known him to be just as he still was this morning.
Though he must have been eighty-two … No, wait … Eighty-three. When Maria, his last
granddaughter, got married four years ago, I remember he told me …’
And the barber began calculations to determine
the exact age of old Angelino, who had just been brutally taken far away from the street where
he had lived for so long.
‘There’s one thing he would never have let
himself admit for the whole wide world: it’s that he couldn’t see much at all, if anything. He
still wore his glasses, thick lenses in old silver frames … He passed the time polishing
them with his big red handkerchief and putting them back on. But the truth is they didn’t help
him much … That’s the reason why – and not that he had bad legs, because he still had the
legs of a twenty-year-old – he’d taken to walking with a cane …
‘Every morning at ten thirty on the dot
…’
Now, logically, Maigret should have been at his
shop around that time. He had promised himself this the night before. Old Angelino was the one
he wanted to see and question. What would have happened if Maigret had arrived there on time, if
he had not gone back to sleep, if he hadn’t dawdled at his
Maigret was beginning to understand. Patiently,
with that grace big men have, he worked his way slowly in to the heart of the crowd and pieced
together the scattered information he overheard.
It had been at least fifty years since Angelino
Giacomi had come from Naples and set himself up in this shop, well before the invention of the
steam press. He was practically the patriarch of the street, of the whole neighbourhood, and
during municipal elections not a single candidate failed to pay him his respects.
His son Arturo ran the shop now, and this son was
almost sixty, himself the father of seven or eight children, most of them married.
In the winter, old Angelino spent his days
sitting on that straw-bottomed chair in the front window of the shop, as if part of the display,
smoking from morning to night those poorly made Italian cigars of black tobacco that smell so
harsh.
And in the spring, just as one sees the swallows
return,
everyone up and down the street watched as
old Angelino set his chair out on the pavement, next to the door.
Now he was dead, or dying, Maigret did not yet
know exactly.
Different versions of his fate swirled around the
inspector, but soon an ambulance siren was heard, and a vehicle with a red cross pulled over to
the kerb.
The crowd rippled, then parted slowly for two men
in white coats, who walked into the shop and out again a few moments later, removing a stretcher
on which nothing could be seen but a body beneath a sheet.
The vehicle’s rear door closed. A casually
dressed man, doubtless Angelino’s son, having simply put a jacket on over his work clothes,
climbed in next to the driver, and the ambulance pulled away.
‘Is he dead?’ people asked the policeman, still
at the door.
He didn’t know. He didn’t care. It wasn’t his job
to bother with such details.
A woman was crying inside the shop, with her
dishevelled grey hair falling over her face, and sometimes she let out such moans that you could
hear her in the street.
One person, two, three decided it was time to
leave. Housewives hunted for their youngsters so as to finish their shopping in the
neighbourhood.
The crowd was slowly shrinking, but it was still
blocking the shop door.
Now it was a barber, comb tucked behind his ear,
who was holding forth in a strong Genoese accent.
‘I saw everything like I see you, because it’s
that slow time, and I happened to be right in my doorway.’
And
a few houses along, in fact, there was a traditional barber-shop pole striped with red and
blue.
‘Almost every morning he’d stop a bit outside my
place to chat. It’s me who shaved him, Wednesdays and Saturdays. I always shaved him. Not my
assistant, me personally. And I’ve always known him to be just as he still was this morning.
Though he must have been eighty-two … No, wait … Eighty-three. When Maria, his last
granddaughter, got married four years ago, I remember he told me …’
And the barber began calculations to determine
the exact age of old Angelino, who had just been brutally taken far away from the street where
he had lived for so long.
‘There’s one thing he would never have let
himself admit for the whole wide world: it’s that he couldn’t see much at all, if anything. He
still wore his glasses, thick lenses in old silver frames … He passed the time polishing
them with his big red handkerchief and putting them back on. But the truth is they didn’t help
him much … That’s the reason why – and not that he had bad legs, because he still had the
legs of a twenty-year-old – he’d taken to walking with a cane …
‘Every morning at ten thirty on the dot
…’
Now, logically, Maigret should have been at his
shop around that time. He had promised himself this the night before. Old Angelino was the one
he wanted to see and question. What would have happened if Maigret had arrived there on time, if
he had not gone back to sleep, if he hadn’t dawdled at his
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