Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard (8 page)

“Back to Headquarters, chief?”

“No. Drive me home.”

That evening, as he so often did, he took Madame Maigret to a cinema in the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle. On the way there and back, with his arm through his wife's, he walked past the cul-de-sac off the Boulevard Saint-Martin.

“Is there something upsetting you?”

“No.”

“You haven't said a word all evening.”

“I wasn't aware of it.”

The rain began to fall at about three or four in the morning, and, in his sleep, he could hear the water gurgling in the gutters. By breakfast time it was coming down in buckets, accompanied by squally winds, and the people in the streets were clutching on to their umbrellas for fear they should be blown inside out.

“Proper All Saints' Day weather,” remarked Madame Maigret.

But in his recollection, All Saints' Day had always been overcast, windy and cold, but not wet. Why this should be, he had no idea.

“Have you a lot to do?”

“I don't know yet.”

“You'd better wear your galoshes.”

He did as he was told. By the time he found a taxi, his shoulders were already wet through, and, when he got in, the rain dripped off his hat-brim on to the floor.

“Quai des Orfèvres.”

The funeral was at ten. He looked in at the chief commissioner's office, but did not stay for the daily briefing. He was waiting for Neveu, who would be driving him to the cemetery. He was taking him on the off-chance that he might recognize someone. After all, the inspector knew an enormous number of people in the Saint-Martin district, and Maigret had high hopes of this particular line of inquiry.

“Still no news of Jorisse?” he asked Lucas.

Although he couldn't explain why, Maigret was convinced that the young man was still somewhere in Paris.

“Better make a list of all his friends, all the people he went about with, during the last few years.”

“I've made a start on it already.”

“Good. Keep at it!”

Neveu appeared in the doorway. He too was sopping wet. Maigret and he went off together.

“What a day for a funeral!” grumbled the inspector. “I hope they've laid on cars.”

“I very much doubt it.”

It was ten minutes to ten when they arrived at the house of mourning. Black curtains embroidered in silver had been hung over the door. People, sheltering under their umbrellas, were standing about on the unmade pavement, where the rain was soaking into the yellowish clay soil and running in rivulets.

Some of the bystanders went into the house to pay their respects to the dead, and came out looking solemn and pompous, conscious of having done their duty. There must have been about fifty people clustered round the house, and more sheltering in the neighboring doorways. There were also the neighbors, watching from their windows, determined to remain indoors until the last possible moment.

“Aren't you going in, chief?”

“I was here yesterday.”

“Not very cheerful in there, is it?”

Neveu, needless to say, was not referring to the funereal atmosphere of the occasion, but to the house itself. And yet there were thousands and thousands of people whose dream it was to own just such a house.

“Whatever possessed them to come and live here?”

“She wanted to be near her sisters and brothers-in-law.”

They noticed several men in railwaymen's uniform. The house was not far from the marshaling yard. Most of the houses on the estate were occupied by people connected in one way or another with the railways.

The hearse arrived, followed at a brisk pace by a priest under an umbrella. He, in turn, was followed by a choirboy carrying his cross.

The wind whistled unimpeded down the street, flattening wet clothes against shivering bodies. The rain beat down on the coffin. Madame Thouret and her sisters, who were waiting in the entrance lobby, conferred together in whispers. Maybe they should have seen to it that there were more umbrellas?

All three were dressed in deep mourning, as were the two brothers-in-law. Behind them came the girls, Monique and her three cousins.

Which made seven women in all. As far as Maigret could see, the girls, like their mothers, closely resembled one another. It was a family of women, in which the men seemed uneasily aware that they were in a minority.

The horses whinnied. The family closed ranks behind the hearse, followed by such neighbors and friends as considered themselves entitled to precede the others in the procession.

The remainder straggled behind in a ragged line, some sheltering as best they could from the squally showers by hugging the inside of the pavement.

“Do you see anyone you recognize?”

There was no one of the sort they were looking for. None of the women, for example, could have been the woman with the ring. True, one of them was wearing a fox fur, but the chief superintendent had himself seen her come out of one of the houses in the street, locking the door behind her. As for the men, it was impossible to imagine any one of them sitting on a bench in the Boulevard Saint-Martin.

Nevertheless, Maigret and Neveu stayed right to the end. Fortunately, there was no Mass, just a prayer so short that it was not thought worthwhile to shut the church doors, with the result that the tiled floor was soon wet all over.

Twice, the chief superintendent found himself looking straight into Monique's eyes, and each time he could sense the fear clutching at the girl's heart.

“Are we going on to the cemetery?”

“It's not far. We might as well.”

They found themselves up to their ankles in mud, because the grave was in a new part of the cemetery, where the paths were nothing more than slimy tracks. Every time Madame Thouret caught Maigret's eye, she looked about her ostentatiously, to show that she had not forgotten his request. When he went forward, like all the others, to offer his condolences to the family as they stood at the graveside, she murmured:

“I don't see anyone who shouldn't be here.”

Her nose was red because of the cold, and the rain had washed off her face powder. The four cousins also had shiny noses and cheeks.

Maigret and Neveu hung around for a little while outside the gate, then they went into the dingy little bar opposite, and Maigret ordered two glasses of hot toddy. They were not the only ones. A few minutes later, half the people who had attended the funeral poured into the little bar, stamping their feet on the tiled floor to get their circulation going.

There was a great deal of chatter, but Maigret was struck by one remark only:

“Will she get a pension?”

Her sisters certainly would, because their husbands worked on the railways. In short, Monsieur Louis had always been the poor relation. Not only had he been a lowly storekeeper, he had also had no pension rights.

“How will they manage?”

“The daughter has a job. They'll take in a lodger, I daresay.”

“Coming, Neveu?”

The rain dogged them all the way to Paris, where it was lashing the pavements. There were thick mustaches of muddy water on the windscreens of all the cars.

“Where do you want to be dropped, Neveu?”

“There's no point in going home to change. I'll still have to wear the same wet coat. Drop me at the Quai. I'll take a taxi on from there.”

The corridors of Police Headquarters were covered in wet footprints, like the tiled floor of the church. Here, too, it was damp and cold. A man wearing handcuffs was sitting on a bench outside the office of the chief superintendent of the Gaming Squad.

“Anything new, Lucas?”

“Lapointe telephoned from the Brasserie de la République. He's found the room.”

“The room rented by Louis?”

“So he says, although apparently the landlady is being anything but cooperative.”

“Does he want me to call him back?”

“Either that, or that you should meet him there.”

Maigret preferred the second alternative. There was nothing he disliked more than sitting in his office in wet clothes.

“Any other news?”

“Only a false alarm about the young man. They thought they'd picked him up in the waiting room of the Gare Montparnasse. It wasn't him, just some other fellow who fitted the description.”

Maigret returned to the little black car, and within a few minutes was going through the door of the brasserie in the Place de la République, where he found Lapointe sitting beside the stove, having a cup of coffee. Maigret ordered another hot toddy for himself. He felt as if a good deal of the icy rain that had been falling had poured into his nostrils. He felt sure he was going to get a cold. Maybe he was just going along with the old superstition that one always catches cold at a funeral.

“Where is this place?”

“Only a few yards from here. I came upon it quite by chance, because it isn't registered as a lodging house with furnished rooms to let.”

“Are you sure it's the right place?”

“You can ask the landlady yourself. I was going along the Rue d'Angoulême, cutting across from one boulevard to another, when I saw a
Room to Let
sign in a window. It was a small house. There was no concierge. I rang the bell and asked to see the room. It was the landlady herself who opened the door to me. She's an elderly woman. She must have been a red-head in her youth, and possibly a beauty. But her hair is thin and faded now, and her body looked flabby under the sky-blue dressing gown she was wearing.

“‘Is it for yourself?' she asked, with the door still on the chain. ‘Are you on your own?'

“I heard a door open on the floor above, and then I caught a glimpse of a very pretty girl leaning over the banister. She was in a dressing gown too.”

“A brothel?”

“I wouldn't go as far as that, but it wouldn't surprise me to learn that the landlady had worked in a brothel at some time, perhaps as an assistant to the madame.

“‘Are you thinking of renting it by the month? Whereabouts do you work?'

“I persuaded her in the end to show me the room, which was on the second floor. It overlooks the courtyard, and the furniture isn't too bad. A bit overstuffed for my taste, with lots of cheap velvet and silk about it, and a doll on the divan bed. There were still lingering traces of a woman's scent.

“‘Who gave you my address?'

“I nearly let out that I had read the sign in the window. All the time we were talking, I could see a flabby breast seemingly about to escape from her dressing gown at any minute, and it bothered me.

“‘You were recommended to me by a friend,' I said at last.

“On the off-chance, I added: ‘He said he lived here.'

“‘What's his name?'

“‘Monsieur Louis.'

“It was then that I realized that she knew him. Her face changed. Even her voice sounded different.

“‘Never heard of him!' she said curtly. ‘Are you in the habit of coming in late?'

“She couldn't wait to get rid of me.

“‘I thought my friend might be here now,' I said, playing the innocent. ‘He doesn't work in the daytime, and he usually gets up late.'

“‘Do you want the room, or don't you?'

“‘I do want it, but…'

“‘The rent is payable in advance.'

“I took out my wallet, and then, as if coming on it by accident, I produced the photograph of Monsieur Louis.

“‘Would you believe it! Here's a photograph of the friend I mentioned.'

“She barely glanced at it.

“‘I somehow don't think you and I would get on together,' she declared, making for the door.

“‘But…'

“‘I hope you don't mind seeing yourself out. If I don't hurry, my dinner will be spoiled.'

“I'm certain she knew him. As I went out, I saw a curtain twitch. I fancy she was more than a little jumpy.”

“Let's go!” said Maigret.

Although it was no distance, they got into the car, which drew up opposite the house. Once again, the curtain twitched. The woman who came to the door was still not dressed, and no color could have been more unbecoming to her than the blue of her dressing gown.

“Who's there?”

“The Police Judiciaire.”

“What do you want? I knew that young imp of Satan was going to make trouble for me!” she grumbled, giving Lapointe a dirty look.

“We could talk better inside.”

“Well, I'm not stopping you. I have nothing to hide.”

“Why did you deny that Monsieur Louis was your lodger?”

“Because that young man had no business to be snooping around here.”