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Authors: Georges Simenon
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room window, if the taxi he hailed
had stopped, if he hadn’t bought the pipe on Fifth Avenue?
‘His folks always tied a thick, knitted woollen scarf around his neck, a red one. A little while
ago I saw a boy, the vegetable woman’s son, bringing it back to the shop. He never wore an
overcoat, not in the worst winter weather. He toddled along with small even steps, sticking
close to the houses, and me, I knew his cane helped him find his way …’
There were no more than five or six left around
the barber, and as Maigret seemed the most seriously interested listener, the man had begun to
speak directly to him.
‘In front of every shop, or just about, he’d
greet people with a wave, because he knew everybody. At the street corner, he’d pause for a
moment at the edge of the pavement before crossing, because his walk always covered three blocks
…
‘This morning, he did what he always did. I saw
him. I can definitely say I saw him take the first steps into the street … Why did I turn
around just then? I don’t know. Maybe my assistant, back in the shop, called to me through the
open door? I’ll have to ask him, because I can’t figure it out …
‘I clearly heard the car coming. It happened less
than a hundred metres from my place. Then a strange, funny noise, a soft noise … It’s hard
to describe – but in any case, a noise that tells you right away there’s been an accident.
‘I turned back and I saw the car speeding on its
way; it was already passing by me … At the same time, I was looking at the body lying
there.
‘If I hadn’t been doing those two things at the
same
time, I’d have taken a better look at the two
men in the front seat of the car … A big grey car. More like a dark grey. I’d almost be
tempted to say black, but I think it was grey … Or else it was coated with dust.
‘People had already rushed over. I came here
first to tell Arturo. He was pressing a pair of trousers. They carried old Angelino in with a
dribble of blood coming out of his mouth and one arm hanging down, a shoulder of his jacket torn
… There wasn’t anything else to see at first glance, but I knew right away that he was
dead.’
They were in the office of Special Agent
O’Brien, who, because of his long legs, had tipped his chair back while he took tiny puffs on
his pipe, caressing the stem with his lips and watching, with heavy-lidded eyes, as Maigret
talked.
‘I suppose,’ he was saying in conclusion, ‘that
you won’t claim any more that personal freedom prevents you from taking some action against
those bastards?’
After more than thirty years of police work,
during which he had seen all there was to see of human cruelty, cowardice and depravity, Maigret
could still be as infuriated by some things as on his first day in the force.
The concurrence of old Giacomi’s death with
Maigret’s intended visit that morning to the elderly tailor, the fact that this visit, made in
time, would probably have saved the man’s life, and even that purchase of a pipe he now avoided
smoking had all put him in an even darker mood.
‘Unfortunately, this matter concerns not the FBI,
but the New York police, at least for the time being.’
‘They killed him in a lowdown, dirty way,’ growled the former inspector.
At which O’Brien murmured pensively, ‘It’s not so
much the way they killed him that strikes me, but the fact that they killed him just in time
…’
Maigret had already thought about that, and it
was hard to see it as a coincidence.
For years and years, no one had paid any
attention to old Angelino, who had been able to spend his days on a chair, seen by everyone
passing by, and take his usual little morning walk like a good old dog.
Only the previous night, Maigret had stopped for
a few moments in front of the tailor’s shop. He had resolved, without mentioning this to anyone,
to return in the morning to speak to the old fellow.
Yet when he arrived, someone had taken care to
make
had stopped, if he hadn’t bought the pipe on Fifth Avenue?
‘His folks always tied a thick, knitted woollen scarf around his neck, a red one. A little while
ago I saw a boy, the vegetable woman’s son, bringing it back to the shop. He never wore an
overcoat, not in the worst winter weather. He toddled along with small even steps, sticking
close to the houses, and me, I knew his cane helped him find his way …’
There were no more than five or six left around
the barber, and as Maigret seemed the most seriously interested listener, the man had begun to
speak directly to him.
‘In front of every shop, or just about, he’d
greet people with a wave, because he knew everybody. At the street corner, he’d pause for a
moment at the edge of the pavement before crossing, because his walk always covered three blocks
…
‘This morning, he did what he always did. I saw
him. I can definitely say I saw him take the first steps into the street … Why did I turn
around just then? I don’t know. Maybe my assistant, back in the shop, called to me through the
open door? I’ll have to ask him, because I can’t figure it out …
‘I clearly heard the car coming. It happened less
than a hundred metres from my place. Then a strange, funny noise, a soft noise … It’s hard
to describe – but in any case, a noise that tells you right away there’s been an accident.
‘I turned back and I saw the car speeding on its
way; it was already passing by me … At the same time, I was looking at the body lying
there.
‘If I hadn’t been doing those two things at the
same
time, I’d have taken a better look at the two
men in the front seat of the car … A big grey car. More like a dark grey. I’d almost be
tempted to say black, but I think it was grey … Or else it was coated with dust.
‘People had already rushed over. I came here
first to tell Arturo. He was pressing a pair of trousers. They carried old Angelino in with a
dribble of blood coming out of his mouth and one arm hanging down, a shoulder of his jacket torn
… There wasn’t anything else to see at first glance, but I knew right away that he was
dead.’
They were in the office of Special Agent
O’Brien, who, because of his long legs, had tipped his chair back while he took tiny puffs on
his pipe, caressing the stem with his lips and watching, with heavy-lidded eyes, as Maigret
talked.
‘I suppose,’ he was saying in conclusion, ‘that
you won’t claim any more that personal freedom prevents you from taking some action against
those bastards?’
After more than thirty years of police work,
during which he had seen all there was to see of human cruelty, cowardice and depravity, Maigret
could still be as infuriated by some things as on his first day in the force.
The concurrence of old Giacomi’s death with
Maigret’s intended visit that morning to the elderly tailor, the fact that this visit, made in
time, would probably have saved the man’s life, and even that purchase of a pipe he now avoided
smoking had all put him in an even darker mood.
‘Unfortunately, this matter concerns not the FBI,
but the New York police, at least for the time being.’
‘They killed him in a lowdown, dirty way,’ growled the former inspector.
At which O’Brien murmured pensively, ‘It’s not so
much the way they killed him that strikes me, but the fact that they killed him just in time
…’
Maigret had already thought about that, and it
was hard to see it as a coincidence.
For years and years, no one had paid any
attention to old Angelino, who had been able to spend his days on a chair, seen by everyone
passing by, and take his usual little morning walk like a good old dog.
Only the previous night, Maigret had stopped for
a few moments in front of the tailor’s shop. He had resolved, without mentioning this to anyone,
to return in the morning to speak to the old fellow.
Yet when he arrived, someone had taken care to
make
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