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absorb everyone who comes along
the way we do.’
    Was it the whisky? Maigret was beginning to see
John Maura no longer as a wilful and brusque little man, but as a symbol of the American
assimilation of which his companion was speaking in a slow, soft voice.
    ‘So as my friend was telling me …’
    Did he have three, four whiskies? They had
already had some Armagnac, and before the Armagnac two bottles of Beaujolais, and before the
Beaujolais a certain number of aperitifs …
    ‘J and J …’
    That was what he remembered most clearly when he
finally collapsed into bed in his too-sumptuous suite at the St Regis.
    Two Frenchmen, at a time when men wore stiff
detachable wing collars, starched cuffs and patent-leather shoes … Two very young
Frenchmen, greenhorns fresh off the boat without a cent, full of hope, one with a violin under
his arm, the other with a clarinet.
    Which of them had a clarinet? He couldn’t
remember any more. O’Brien had told him, O’Brien with his sheepish smile yet as mischievous as a
monkey.
    The violin, that must have been Maura.
    And both were from Bayonne or thereabouts. And
both were around twenty years old.
    And they had signed a declaration regarding the
president of the United States, whom they promised not to assassinate.
    Funny man, that Agent O’Brien, taking him to a
little
bar to tell him all this as if he himself
had nothing to do with it and were chatting about things completely unconnected to his job.
    ‘The one’s name was Joseph, the other’s, Joachim.
That’s what my friend told me. You know, one shouldn’t put much trust in stories people tell
… We in the FBI, we have nothing to do with all that. Those were the days of vaudeville
cabarets, what in Paris were known as
cafés-chantants
… So to earn a living, even
though they were both conservatory graduates, even though they considered themselves great
musicians, they put together a comedy act as “J and J”: Joseph and Joachim. And both hoped some
day to have careers as virtuosi or composers.
    ‘My friend’s the one who told me this. It’s not
important, obviously. Except that I know you’re interested in Little John’s personality. I’m
pretty sure now that he wasn’t the clarinet guy …
    ‘Bartender … The same again …’
    Was Agent O’Brien drunk?
    ‘J and J,’ he repeated. ‘Well, my first name is
Michael. You know, you can call me Michael. Which doesn’t mean that I’ll be calling you Jules,
because I know that’s your first name, but you don’t like it …’
    What else did he say that evening?
    ‘You don’t know the Bronx, Maigret. You should
get to know the Bronx, it’s a fascinating place … Not beautiful, but fascinating … I
didn’t have time to drive you there; we’re very busy, you know … Findlay, 169th Street
… You’ll see, it’s a curious neighbourhood. It seems that even today there’s still a
tailor shop right across the street from
the house
… This is all just talk, just my colleague chatting, and I’m still wondering why he
mentioned this to me, since it has nothing to do with us … J and J … They performed
a number, half music, half comedy, in the cabarets and music halls of those days … And it
would be interesting to find out who played the comic role. Don’t you think?’
    Perhaps Maigret wasn’t used to whisky, but he was
even less used to being treated like a child and he was furious when a bellboy escorted him up
the stairs at the St Regis, inquiring much too solicitously if he needed anything before
retiring.
    Another of O’Brien’s little jokes, O’Brien with
his quiet and terribly ironic smile.

3.
    Maigret was asleep at the bottom of a well over
the opening of which a red-headed giant was leaning, smiling and smoking an enormous cigar – why
a cigar? – when a nasty ringing noise slyly set his face twitching, like a too-smooth lake
ruffled by the morning breeze. His entire body heaved twice, from one side to the other,
dragging along the