Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard (18 page)

“Do you know his name?”

“Félix.”

“And the name of the bar?”

“Le Poker d'As.”

“Hasn't she had any news of him since?”

“No. She's going through hell. She's not blind to the fact that she's twenty years older than he is, and she's forever imagining him chasing girls.”

“Is he the one who's got the money?”

“I don't know. But he was in the house that day.”

“What day?”

“The Monday that Monsieur Louis was murdered.”

“What time did he get to the Rue d'Angoulême?”

“About five. He and the landlady went and shut themselves up in her room.”

“Did she, at any time, go into Monsieur Louis's room?”

“She may have done. I didn't notice. He left after about an hour. I heard the door slam behind him.”

“Didn't she attempt to get in touch with him again through one of you girls?”

“She was afraid we might be followed.”

“Did she know that the telephone was being tapped?”

“She wasn't taken in by that business of your pipe. She's quick on the uptake. I don't like her much, but she's really rather pathetic. She's obviously crazy about him. It's making her ill.”

Young Lapointe found them sitting contentedly over their drinks.

“What will you have?”

The girl was looking Lapointe over from head to foot, and smiling. Lapointe was studiously avoiding her eyes.

“The same as you.”

“I want you to take her to some quiet little hotel, and book a couple of adjoining rooms with a communicating door. You're not to let her out of your sight until I give you the word. As soon as you're settled in, ring me and let me know where you are. You shouldn't have to go very far. They might have rooms at the Hôtel Moderne just opposite. I'd rather she didn't talk to anyone. You'd better arrange to have her meals sent up to her room.”

When she and Lapointe went off together, it looked to Maigret as if she were taking him into custody, rather than the other way round.

The search continued for another two days. Someone—no one ever found out who—must have tipped off Félix, the barman in the Rue de Douai. At any rate, he had gone into hiding with a friend, and was not traced until the following night.

It took the greater part of the night to get him to admit that he knew Marco, and to persuade him to reveal his whereabouts.

Marco had left Paris, and taken a room in a country inn on the banks of the Seine, mainly patronized by anglers. At this time of the year, he had the place to himself.

Before the police could disarm him, he fired two shots. Mercifully, no one was hurt. He had the banknotes stolen from Monsieur Louis in a money belt that had probably been made for him by Mariette Gibon.

 

“Is that you, Maigret?”

“Yes, judge.”

“How are things progressing in the Thouret case?”

“It's all over. I'll be handing the murderer and his accomplice over to you very shortly.”

“Who are they? Shady characters, as we thought?”

“They couldn't be shadier. The woman runs a bawdy house, and the man is a thug from Marseilles. Monsieur Louis was fool enough to hide the money on top of the wardrobe and…”

“What's that you said…?”

“He couldn't possibly be allowed to find out that the money had gone. Marco saw to that. We've found the shop where he bought the knife. My report will be on your desk by tonight…”

This was always the most boring part. Maigret spent all afternoon writing, with the tip of his tongue protruding like a schoolboy.

It wasn't until after dinner that night that he suddenly remembered Arlette and young Lapointe.

“Damn! There's something I forgot to do!” he exclaimed.

“Is it important?” asked Madame Maigret.

“Not all that important, come to think of it. It's so late, I might as well leave it till the morning. Let's go to bed.”