Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard (7 page)

That must be the bench, he thought, noticing one on the pavement opposite, in the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle.

It was occupied, but even at that distance he could see a piece of crumpled, greasy paper which, he could have sworn, had recently contained ham or slices of pork sausage.

Prostitutes were to be seen loitering on the corner of the Rue Saint-Martin. There were more of them in one of the little bars, and, at a round, tripod table, four men could be seen playing cards.

A familiar figure was standing at the bar counter. It was Inspector Neveu. Maigret stopped to wait for him, and one of the women thought that he was interested in her. Absently, he shook his head.

If Neveu was there, it meant that he had already questioned them. This was home ground to him, and he knew them all.

“Everything all right?” Maigret asked him, when he came out of the bistro.

“So you're here too?”

“Just looking around.”

“I've been wandering about here since eight this morning. If I've questioned one person I must have questioned five hundred.”

“Have you found out where he used to go for lunch?”

“How did you guess?”

“I felt sure he must have eaten his midday meal somewhere in this district, and his sort would be likely always to go back to the same place.”

“Over there,” said Neveu, pointing to what looked like a quiet little restaurant. “He even had his own napkin and ring.”

“What did they tell you?”

“He always sat at the same table, at the back near the bar. I got that from the waitress who always served him. She's tall and dark, with a face like a horse and hairs on her chin. Do you know what she called him?”

How could the chief superintendent be expected to know!

“Her little man. She told me so herself:

“‘Well, little man, what do you fancy today?'

“She says he was always cheerful. Rain or shine, he never failed to mention the weather. He never attempted to get fresh with her.

“All the waitresses in the restaurant get two hours off between clearing away the lunch and laying the tables for dinner.

“Apparently, several times, on her way out at about three o'clock she saw Monsieur Louis sitting on a bench. Each time, he waved to her.

“One day she said, to tease him:

“‘You take things easy, little man, I must say!'

“He replied that he worked at night.”

“Did she believe him?”

“Yes. She seemed quite besotted with him.”

“Has she seen the papers?”

“No. The first she'd heard of his death was from me. She didn't want to believe it.

“It's not an expensive restaurant, but it isn't one of those fixed-price places either. Every lunchtime Monsieur Louis would treat himself to a half-bottle of good wine.”

“Did you find anyone else who had seen him around?”

“About ten people so far. One of the girls whose beat is over there on the corner saw him almost every day. She accosted him the first time, but he said no, very kindly. No getting on his high horse for him, and after that she got into the way of calling out every time she saw him:

“‘Well, is it to be today, then?'

“It was just a little game they played. Whenever she hooked a client, he would give her a broad wink.”

“Did he never go with any of them?”

“No.”

“Did none of them ever see him with a woman?”

“Not them. One of the salesmen in the jeweler's did, though.”

“The one next to the place where he was killed?”

“Yes. I showed the photograph to all the staff, but he was the only one who recognized him.

“‘That's the man who came in and bought a ring last week!' he exclaimed.”

“Did Monsieur Louis have a young woman with him?”

“She wasn't particularly young. The salesman hardly noticed her. He thought they were husband and wife. What he did notice, though, was that she was wearing a silver fox fur draped round her shoulders, and a chain with a pendant in the shape of a four-leaf clover.

“‘We sell pendants just like it!'”

“Was the ring valuable?”

“A paste diamond in a gold-plated setting.”

“Did they say anything of interest in his presence?”

“They talked like any other married couple. He can't remember their exact words. Nothing that mattered, anyway.”

“Had he ever seen her before?”

“He wasn't sure. She was dressed in black, and wearing gloves. She nearly left them behind on the counter, having taken them off to try on the ring. It was Monsieur Louis who came back for them. She waited outside. She was taller than he was. When he went out, he took her arm, and they went off in the direction of the Place de la République.”

“Nothing else?”

“These things take time. I began my inquiries higher up the boulevard, near where it joins the Rue Montmartre, but I drew a blank there. Oh! I nearly forgot: you know those waffle stalls in the Rue de la Lune?”

They toasted the waffles in open-fronted booths, almost completely exposed to the elements, as at a fair, and the sweetish smell of the cooking dough hit one as soon as one turned into the street.

“They remember him. He often bought waffles there, always three at a time. He didn't eat them there and then, but took them away with him.”

The waffles were enormous. They were advertised as the largest in Paris. It was unlikely that little Monsieur Louis, having eaten a substantial lunch, could have managed to put away three of them all by himself.

Nor was he the sort of man who would sit munching on a bench. Had he shared them with the woman for whom he had bought the ring? In that case, she must have lived somewhere close at hand.

On the other hand, the waffles could have been intended for the man seen by Monsieur Saimbron.

“Am I to carry on?”

“Of course.”

Maigret felt a pang. He wished he could do the job himself, as he used to when he was only an inspector.

“Where are you going, chief?”

“I'm going over there, to have another look.”

He didn't suppose it would do any good. It was just that, as the cul-de-sac where Monsieur Louis had been killed was barely a hundred yards away, he had an itch to return to the spot. It was practically the same time of day. Today there was no fog, but all the same it was pitch dark in the little passage, and being dazzled by the harsh lights in the jeweler's window didn't help.

The waffles had reminded Maigret of fairs he had been to in the past, and, because of this, he had had the idea that Thouret might have gone into the cul-de-sac to relieve himself. But this notion was soon dispelled by the sight of a urinal just across the street.

“If only I could find that woman!” sighed Neveu, whose feet must have been aching after all the walking he had had to do.

Maigret, for his part, was more anxious to find the man who, in response to a silent signal, had come and sat beside Monsieur Louis and the old bookkeeper while they were still in conversation. Which was why his searching glance rested on every bench they passed. On one of them sat an old man, a vagrant, with a half-empty liter bottle of red wine next to him. But he was not the one. If he had been a tramp, Monsieur Saimbron would have said so.

A little further along, a fat woman from the provinces was sitting waiting for her husband to come out of the urinal, no doubt glad of the chance to rest her swollen feet.

“If I were you, I'd concentrate less on the shops and more on the people on the benches.”

At the start of his career, he had spent long enough pounding the beat to know that every bench has its regulars, who are always to be found there at certain times of the day.

They were ignored by the passers-by, who seldom so much as glanced at them. But the occupants of the various benches were known to one another. Had it not, after all, been due to Madame Maigret's getting into conversation with the mother of a little boy, while sitting on a bench in the square gardens of the Place d'Anvers, awaiting her dental appointment, that a murderer had been tracked down?

“You mean you want them rounded up?”

“Anything but! I just want you to sit down beside them and get into conversation.”

“Very well, chief,” said Neveu with a sigh, not overjoyed at the prospect. Even walking the streets seemed preferable.

He never dreamed that the chief superintendent would have leaped at the chance of taking his place.

The next day, Wednesday, Maigret had to attend the Assizes to give evidence, and wasted most of the afternoon kicking his heels in the dingy room reserved for witnesses. No one had thought to turn up the central heating, and everyone was shivering. When, at last, someone did turn it up, the room became stiflingly hot within ten minutes, and there was a pervasive smell of unwashed bodies and clothes that had never been properly aired.

The name of the man on trial was René Lecœur. Seven months earlier, he had battered his aunt to death with a bottle. He was only twenty-two, broad-shouldered as a coal heaver, with the face of a naughty schoolboy.

Why on earth couldn't they use stronger lighting in the Palais de Justice, considering how the dark gray paint, the dust and the shadows soaked up all the natural light?

Maigret left the witnesses' waiting room feeling depressed. A young lawyer, who was just beginning to get himself talked about, chiefly on account of his aggressive manner, was fiercely hectoring the witnesses, as they followed one another into the box.

The line he took with Maigret was that the accused would never have confessed but for the rough treatment to which he had been subjected at the Quai des Orfèvres. Which was an out-and-out lie. And not only was it a lie, but the lawyer perfectly well knew that it was.

“Will the witness kindly tell the court how long my client was subjected to interrogation on the first occasion?”

The chief superintendent had been expecting this.

“Seventeen hours.”

“And during all that time, he had nothing to eat?”

“Lecœur was offered sandwiches, but he refused.”

The lawyer turned an eloquent glance upon the jury, as if to say:
You see, gentlemen! Seventeen hours without a morsel of food!

And what of Maigret himself? Throughout the whole of that time he had eaten nothing but a couple of sandwiches. And he hadn't killed anyone!

“Does the witness deny that, on the seventh of March, at three o'clock in the morning, he struck the accused without provocation, in spite of the fact that the poor young man was handcuffed?”

“I do deny it.”

“Is the witness denying that he ever struck the accused?”

“I did slap his face at one point, but lightly, as I might have slapped my own daughter.”

The lawyer was going the wrong away about it. But all he cared about was to impress those present in court, and get himself written up in the papers.

This time, contrary to accepted practice, he addressed himself directly to Maigret, adopting a tone of voice that was at once honeyed and biting.

“Have you a daughter, chief superintendent?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had children…? Speak up, please…I can't hear you.”

The chief superintendent was obliged to repeat audibly that he had had a little girl who had died at birth.

And that was the end of it. He left the witness box, went to have a drink in the Palais de Justice bar, and then returned to his office. Lucas, who had been working solidly on another case for the past fortnight, was now free to turn his attention to the Thouret murder.

“Any news of young Jorisse?”

“Nothing so far.”

Monique Thouret's boyfriend had not returned home the previous night, nor had he put in an appearance at the bookshop in the morning, and he had not turned up for lunch at the fixed-price restaurant in the Boulevard Sébastopol, where he had been in the habit of meeting the girl.

It was Lucas who was in charge of the search. He was in close touch with all the railway stations, police stations and frontier posts.

As for Janvier, he and four of his colleagues were still combing the hardware shops, hoping to track down the man who had sold the knife to the murderer.

“Any word from Neveu?”

Maigret had been expected back in his office long before this.

“He rang through half an hour ago. He said he'd try again at six.”

Maigret was feeling a little weary. He was haunted by the memory of René Lecœur sitting in the dock. And also by the voice of the lawyer, the judges still as statues, the crowds of people in the dimly lit courtroom, with its dark oak paneling. It was no longer any concern of his. Once a suspect left Police Headquarters to be handed over to the examining magistrate, the chief superintendent's responsibility was ended. He was not always happy at the way things were done from then on. He could never be quite sure of what would happen next. And if it had been left to him…

“Nothing from Lapointe?”

By now, each one of his men had been assigned to a specific task. Young Lapointe's was to go from one lodging house to another, outward in ever widening circles from the Boulevard Saint-Martin. Monsieur Louis must have taken a room somewhere, if only so as to be able to change his shoes. He had rented the room either in his own name or in the name of someone else, such as the woman with the fox fur, toward whom he behaved as if she were his wife, and for whom he had bought a ring. As for Santoni, he was still on Monique's tail, in the hope that Albert Jorisse would try and get in touch with her, either in person or by way of a message.

The family had claimed Thouret's body the previous day. An undertaker's van had collected it. The funeral was to take place next day.

There were more documents to be signed; the paperwork never seemed to end. A number of telephone calls were put through to him, none of them of any interest. It was odd that not a single person had telephoned, written or called in person on the subject of Monsieur Louis. It was almost as if he had vanished, leaving no trace behind.

“Hello! Maigret speaking.”

It was Inspector Neveu, calling from a bistro. Maigret could hear music in the background, coming from a radio, no doubt.

“There's still nothing very positive to go on, chief. I've found three more people, one of them an old woman, who spend a great deal of their time sitting on benches in the boulevards. They all remember him, and they all say the same thing: he was very likeable, always polite, and never slow to enter into conversation. According to the old woman, when he left her he always made towards the Place de la République, but she would soon lose sight of him in the crowd.”

“Was he never with anyone else when she saw him?”

“No. But one of the others, a tramp, said to me:

“‘He was always waiting for someone. As soon as the man turned up, they would go off together.'

“But he couldn't give me a description of the other man. All he could say was:

“‘There was nothing special about him. One sees thousands like him every day.'”

“Keep up the good work!” said Maigret, with a sigh.

He telephoned his wife to say that he would be late home, then went down into the forecourt, got into the car, and told the driver to take him to Madame Thouret's address in Juvisy. There was a strong wind blowing. Dense clouds made the sky appear low overhead. They swirled about, as they do on the coast when a storm is brewing. The driver had difficulty in finding the Rue des Peupliers. When they finally got there, not only were the kitchen lights on, but also those in the bedroom on the floor above.

The bell wasn't working. It had been disconnected as a sign of mourning. But someone had heard him arrive. The door was opened by a woman whom he had not seen before. She bore a family resemblance to Madame Thouret, but was four or five years older.

“Chief Superintendent Maigret…” he said.

She looked towards the kitchen, and called out:

“Emilie!”

“I heard. Bring him in.”

He was shown into the kitchen, the dining room having been transformed into a memorial chapel. The narrow entrance was filled with the scent of flowers and candles. A cold supper was laid out, and several people were seated at the table.

“I'm sorry to have to disturb you…”

“Allow me to introduce my brother-in-law, Monsieur Magnin, who is a railway inspector.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

Magnin was both humorless and stupid. He had a ginger moustache, and an Adam's apple that bobbed up and down.

“You've already met my sister Jeanne. This is my elder sister Céline.”

There was barely room for all of them in the cramped little kitchen. Monique alone had not risen to greet him. She was subjecting the chief superintendent to an unwavering stare. She must have been thinking that he had come for her, to question her on the subject of Albert Jorisse, and she was frozen with terror.

“My brother-in-law Landin, Céline's husband, will be coming home on the Blue Train tonight. He'll just be in time for the funeral. Won't you sit down?”

He shook his head.

“Would you like to see him?”

She wanted him to know that they had done things in style. He followed her into the adjoining room, where Louis Thouret was laid out in his coffin. The lid had not yet been screwed down. Very softly, she whispered:

“He looks as if he was asleep.”

He went through all the proper motions, dipping a sprig of rosemary into a bowl of holy water, crossing himself, moving his lips as though in prayer, and then crossing himself again.

“He never thought about dying…” she said, and added:

“He did so love life!”

They tiptoed out, and she shut the door behind her. The others were waiting for Maigret to leave, before returning to their meal.

“Will you be attending the funeral, chief superintendent?”

“I'll be there. As a matter of fact, that was what I came to see you about.”

Monique still did not stir, but she was obviously relieved to hear this. Maigret did not seem to have noticed her, so she kept very still, almost as if, in that way, she could ward off what fate had in store for her.

“I take it you and your sisters know most of the people who will be attending the funeral? I don't, of course.”

“I understand!” said Magnin, the brother-in-law, implying that great minds think alike.

And he turned to the others, as if to say:

“This is going to be good!”

“All I'm asking is that, if you should spot anyone there whose presence strikes you as odd, you should simply point them out to me.”

“You mean you think the murderer might be there?”

“Not necessarily the murderer. I can't afford to ignore any possibility, however remote. You must remember that much of your husband's life during the past three years is still shrouded in mystery.”

“Are you insinuating that he was mixed up with another woman?”

It was not only her face that had assumed a hard expression, but those of her two sisters as well.

“I'm not insinuating anything. I'm just feeling my way. If you notice anything out of the way tomorrow, just give me a sign. I shall understand.”

“Do you mean we should be on the lookout for any stranger?”

He nodded, and then apologized again for disturbing them. It was Magnin who saw him to the door.

“Have you anything to go on yet?” he asked, man to man, in the tone of voice one adopts with the doctor just after he has seen the patient.

“No.”

“Not even the tiniest glimmer of an idea?”

“None at all. Goodnight.”

His purpose in visiting the Rue des Peupliers had not been to alleviate the feeling of oppression which had weighed upon him ever since he had sat waiting to be called as witness in the Lecœur trial. In the car, on the way back to Paris, he was occupied with random and seemingly irrelevant thoughts. He was remembering that when, at the age of twenty, he had first arrived in the capital, what had most disturbed him about it was the unremitting ferment of the great city, in which hundreds of thousands of people were all milling about, apparently on some quest of their own.

In some places, one might almost call them strategic points, such as Les Halles, the Place Clichy, the Bastille and the Boulevard Saint-Martin, where Monsieur Louis had met his death, the ferment was even more intense than elsewhere.

In the old days he had been particularly struck, even one might say romantically stirred, by the sight of those who, discouraged and defeated, had given up the struggle, being swept along willy-nilly by the great, surging tide of humanity.

Since then, he had come to know many such people, and it was no longer them whom he most admired, but rather those just one step above them on the ladder, who were clean and decent and not in the least picturesque, and who fought day in and day out to keep their heads above water, or to nurture the illusion, or perhaps the faith, that they were alive and that life was worth living.

For twenty-five long years, Monsieur Louis had caught the same train every morning, sharing a compartment with the same people, his oilcloth packet of sandwiches tucked under his arm, and, in the evening, he had returned to what Maigret could not help thinking of as the House of the Three Sisters, since, although Céline and Jeanne had homes of their own several streets away, all three were ever-present, shutting off the wider horizon like a stone wall.