Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard (9 page)

She opened a door leading to a little sitting room. It was overheated, and there were garish cushions scattered about everywhere, embroidered with cats, hearts, and musical notes. As the drawn curtains were so thick as to exclude almost all the daylight, she switched on a standard lamp with a huge orange shade.

“What exactly do you want of me?”

Maigret, in his turn, showed her a photograph of Monsieur Louis, whose funeral he had attended that morning.

“He did rent a room here, didn't he?”

“Yes. I suppose you were bound to find out sooner or later.”

“How long was he with you?”

“About two years. Maybe longer.”

“Do you have many?”

“Lodgers, you mean? This house is too big for a woman living alone. And it's not easy nowadays finding somewhere to live.”

“How many?”

“Three, at the moment.”

“And one room vacant?”

“Yes. The one I showed this young fellow here. I should have been more careful.”

“What can you tell me about Monsieur Louis?”

“Only that he was a quiet sort of man. He never gave any trouble. And as he worked at night…”

“Do you know where he worked?”

“As it was no concern of mine, I never bothered to ask him. He used to leave at night and return in the morning. He didn't seem to need much sleep. I often told him he didn't get enough, but apparently it's the same with all night workers.”

“Did he have many visitors?”

“What exactly are you getting at?”

“You read the papers…”

There was a morning paper open on a table.

“I see what you mean. But first I have to be sure that you're not going to make trouble for me. I know the police and their methods.”

Maigret was certain that, if they were to look through the Vice Squad records, they would find a file on this woman.

“I do take in lodgers, but I don't shout it from the housetops, and I don't tell tales about them to the police. It's not a crime. All the same, if I'm going to have any trouble…”

“That depends on you.”

“Have I your word for that? To start with, what is your rank?”

“I am Chief Superintendent Maigret.”

“Right then! Now I know where I stand! It must be more serious than I thought. It's your colleagues in the Vice Squad who…”

She came out with an expression so coarse that Lapointe felt himself blushing.

“I admit I know he's been murdered. But that's all I do know.”

“What did he say his name was?”

“Monsieur Louis. Just that.”

“There was a woman who used to visit him, a dark woman, past her first youth.”

“A fine-looking woman, not a day over forty. She was a real lady.”

“Did she come often?”

“Three or four times a week.”

“Do you know her name?”

“I knew her only as Madame Antoinette.”

“You seem to make a habit of calling people only by their first names.”

“I don't pry into other people's business, if that's what you mean.”

“Used she to stay with him long?”

“As long as was necessary.”

“The whole afternoon?”

“On two occasions, yes. Usually she didn't stay more than an hour or two.”

“Did she ever come in the morning?”

“No. Well, perhaps she may have done once or twice, but not often.”

“Have you got her address?”

“I never asked her.”

“Are all your other lodgers women?”

“Yes. Monsieur Louis was the only man who…”

“Did he never have relations with any of them?”

“Do you mean did he ever make love to them? If that's what you're getting at, no, he didn't. He just didn't seem keen, that's all. If he'd wanted to…”

“Was he friendly with them?”

“He used to talk to them. They'd often knock on his door, to borrow a match or a cigarette, or to look at his newspaper.”

“Is that all?”

“They chatted to him. And occasionally he'd play a two-handed game of
belote
with Lucille.”

“Is Lucille up there now?”

“She's been out on the tiles for the past two days. It often happens. I daresay she's found some man to shack up with. You've promised not to make trouble for me, remember? And the same applies to my lodgers.”

He did not remind her that he had made no promises of any kind.

“Did he never have any other visitors?”

“There was one who called two or three times quite recently, asking for him.”

“A young girl?”

“Yes. She never went up to his room. She just asked me to tell him she was here.”

“Did she give her name?”

“Monique. She always waited out in the hall. She wouldn't even come into the sitting room.”

“Did he come down?”

“The first time they talked in whispers for a few minutes, and then she left. The other times, they went out together.”

“Didn't he tell you who she was?”

“He just asked me if I thought she was pretty.”

“What did you say to that?”

“That she was quite sweet, as girls of her age go nowadays, but that she'd be a real stunner in a few years' time.”

“Who else came to see him?”

“Won't you sit down?”

“No, thanks. I'm soaking wet, and I wouldn't want to ruin your cushions.”

“I like to keep everything just so, as far as possible. Wait a minute. There was someone else, a young man, but he didn't give his name. When I went up to tell Monsieur Louis that he was here, he seemed a little upset. He asked me to show him up. The young man only stayed about ten minutes.”

“How long ago was that?”

“It was in the middle of August. I remember because of the heat and the flies.”

“Did you ever see him again?”

“On one occasion they came into the house together. I got the impression that they'd met by chance in the street. They went upstairs, but the young man left almost at once.”

“Is that all?”

“Isn't that enough for you? Now, I suppose you'll be wanting to see his room as well?”

“Yes.”

“It's on the second floor, the room opposite the one I showed to your underling here. It looks out on to the street, and we call it the green room.”

“I'd be obliged if you would come with us.”

She sighed, and went on sighing all the way up the two flights of stairs.

“Don't forget, you promised…”

He shrugged.

“And what's more, if you try any dirty tricks with me, I'll tell the court that everything you say is a pack of lies.”

“Have you got the key?”

On the floor below, inside a half-open door, he had seen a young woman. She had stared at them, standing there stark naked with a bath towel in her hand.

“I have a pass-key.”

And turning back, she called over the stairs:

“Don't worry, Yvette, it's not the Vice Squad!”

All the furniture in the room must have been bought sometime at a local auction. It was made of “solid” walnut in a style fashionable fifty or sixty years ago, and included an enormous mirror-fronted wardrobe.

The first thing that struck Maigret as he went in was a canary in a cage, on a table covered with a printed cotton cloth. As soon as he appeared, the bird began hopping about excitedly. It reminded him of Monsieur Saimbron's place on the Quai de la Mégisserie, and he was convinced that the old bookkeeper's bird had been a present from Louis Thouret.

“Did the bird belong to him?”

“He brought it here about a year ago. He was cheated over it, because it doesn't sing. He was told it was a male bird, but in fact it's a female.”

“Who does the housework?”

“I let furnished rooms. I provide linen, but no service. I used to in the old days, but I had a lot of trouble with maids. As my lodgers are nearly all women…”

“Did Monsieur Louis clean his own room?”

“He made his bed, cleaned the wash basin, and dusted around. Once a week, as a special favor to him, I used to go up and do a little extra cleaning and polishing.”

She remained standing in the doorway, and the chief superintendent found this a little disconcerting. In his eyes this was no ordinary room. It was the place that Monsieur Louis had chosen as a retreat. In other words, his furnishings and possessions were not, as is usual, just the ordinary necessities of life, but an expression of his own personal, intimate tastes.

In the glass-fronted wardrobe there was not a single three-piece suit, but there were three pairs of light brown shoes, lovingly polished to a high gloss, each pair with its own shoe-trees. Furthermore, on the bedside table lay a pearl gray hat, almost new, which he must have bought one day in a fit of wild extravagance, as a protest against the atmosphere of the house in Juvisy.

“Did he ever go to the races?”

“I don't think so. He never mentioned racing.”

“Did he talk to you much?”

“Sometimes, in passing, he would come into the sitting room for a chat.”

“Was he generally cheerful?”

“He seemed to enjoy life.”

Also by way of flouting his wife's notions of good taste, he had bought himself a flowered dressing gown and a pair of scarlet kid slippers.

The room was tidy, with everything in its proper place, and not a speck of dust anywhere. In a cupboard, Maigret found an open bottle of port and two wine glasses on stems. And, hanging from a hook, a raincoat.

He had not thought of that. If a rainy day should be followed by a fine evening, Monsieur Louis couldn't risk arriving home with wet clothes.

Clearly, he had spent hours reading. On the chest of drawers stood a whole row of books in cheap editions, popular novels, cloak and dagger romances, and one or two detective stories. Maigret suspected that he had not cared for these, since he had not added to his store.

His armchair was placed near the window. Next to it was a small table, on which stood a photograph of a woman in a mahogany frame. She was about forty, with very dark hair, and was dressed in black. She fitted the description given by the jeweler's assistant. She seemed tall, about the same height as Madame Thouret, big-boned as she was, and almost equally lacking in suppleness. She was what the people of the neighborhood would no doubt call a fine figure of a woman.

“Is she the one who came to see him fairly regularly?”

“Yes.”

In the drawer he found some other photographs, polyfotos mostly, including a somewhat blurred one of Monsieur Louis himself, wearing the pearl gray hat.

Apart from two pairs of socks and several ties, there were no personal possessions to be seen, no shirts or pants, no papers of any sort, no old letters, in other words, none of the usual clutter which tends to fill up most people's drawers.

Maigret, recalling the many occasions in his childhood when he had something he wanted to hide from his family, picked up a chair and carried it across to the glass-fronted wardrobe. He climbed on to it to take a look at the top of the wardrobe. As in most houses, it was covered in a thick layer of dust, but plainly to be seen in the middle was a large, clean rectangle, where something like a big envelope or a book, or perhaps a box, had recently lain.

He made no comment. The woman was watching him intently, and, just as Lapointe had said, one of her breasts, always the same one, limp and soggy as dough, seemed to be on the point of slipping out of her dressing-gown.

“Did he have a key to this room?”

The only key found on him had been the key of his house in Juvisy.

“Yes, he did, but he always left it with me when he went out.”

“Is that common practice?”

“No. He said he had a habit of losing things, so he'd rather I kept it for him, and gave it to him when he got in. And as he never came in in the evening, or late at night…”

Maigret took the photograph out of its frame. Before leaving, he gave the canary some fresh drinking water, and wandered about the room for a few more minutes.

“I'll be back soon, I daresay,” he said.

She led him downstairs.

“I suppose I can't tempt you to a little something to drink?”

“Are you on the telephone? I'd be obliged if you'd let me have your number. I may need to call you for assistance again.”

“It's Bastille 2251.”

“What's your name?”

“Mariette. Mariette Gibon.”

“Thanks.”

“Is that all?”

“For the moment.”

He and Lapointe almost had to swim to the car through the rain, which was still pelting down.

“Drive us to the corner,” ordered Maigret.

And to Lapointe:

“You'll have to go back there. I'm afraid I forgot my pipe in the room upstairs.”

Maigret had never forgotten his pipe anywhere. And besides, he never carried less than two in his pockets.

“Did you do it on purpose?”

“Yes. Keep the glamorous Mariette talking for a few minutes, and then come back and join me here.”

He pointed to a little bar, which also sold coal and logs. He himself made a dash for the telephone, and dialed the number of Police Headquarters.

“Put me through to Lucas, please…Is that you, Lucas? I want you to make arrangements immediately to have this telephone number tapped: Bastille 2251.”

Then, as he had nothing to do while waiting for Lapointe but to sip his liqueur at the bar counter, he took a closer look at the photograph. It surprised him that Louis should have picked on a mistress who, outwardly at least, so closely resembled his wife. He wondered if there was any similarity of temperament. It was not impossible.

“Your pipe, chief.”

“Was she, by any chance, on the telephone when you arrived?”

“I don't know. She had two women with her.”

“Including the naked girl?”

“Yes, but she had slipped on a dressing gown.”

“You can go off to lunch now. I'll see you at the Quai this afternoon. I'll keep the car.”

He told the driver to take him to Léone's little shop in the Rue de Clignancourt. On the way, he stopped at a confectioner's to buy a box of chocolates. He hid it under his coat, before crossing the pavement to get into the car. He felt that the last place he should be visiting with his clothes sopping wet was a shop like this one, overflowing with so many light and fragile garments. But he had no choice. Awkwardly he held out the box of chocolates, saying:

“For your mother.”

“How kind of you to think of her.”

Probably on account of the humidity, the place was even hotter than last time.

“Wouldn't you like to give them to her yourself?”

He preferred to remain in the shop, which had at least some slight contact with the world outside.

“I just wanted you to take a look at this photograph.” She glanced at it, and said, without hesitation:

“Why, it's Madame Machère!”

This was most satisfactory. It wasn't a sensational discovery, such as the newspapers revel in. It was nothing really, but it did prove that he had not been mistaken in his assessment of Monsieur Louis's character. He was not the sort of man to pick up a woman on the street or in a bar. The chief superintendent could not see him making advances to a strange woman.

“How did you get to know her?”

“She worked at Kaplan's. Not for very long, though. Only about six or seven months. Why did you want me to see her photograph?”

“She was a very close friend of Monsieur Louis.”

“Oh!”

He would have spared her the pain if he could, but there was no way of avoiding it.

“Didn't you suspect anything when they were both working in the Rue de Bondy?”

“There was nothing to suspect, I'm sure of it. She worked with ten to fifteen other women in the packing room, depending on the time of year. She was married to a policeman. I remember her well.”

“Why did she leave the job?”

“I believe she needed to have an operation.”

“Thank you. Please forgive me for troubling you again.”

“It's no trouble. Have you been to see Monsieur Saimbron?”

“Yes.”

“One other question. Was Monsieur Louis living with that woman?”

“He had rented a room near the Place de la République. She used to visit him there.”

“I'm convinced that she was just a friend, and that there was nothing else between them.”

“You may be right.”

“If the business records haven't been destroyed, I could find out her address for you, but I have no idea what's become of them.”

“If, as you say, she's the wife of a policeman, I shouldn't have any difficulty in tracing her. You did say the name was Machère, didn't you?”

“Yes, and if my memory serves me right, her first name was Antoinette.”

“Au revoir, Mademoiselle Léone.”

“Au revoir, chief superintendent.”

He beat a hasty retreat. The old woman in the back room was showing signs of agitation, and he just couldn't face having to go in there to see her.

“The Préfecture.”

“At the Quai?”

“No. The one at City Police Headquarters.”

It was midday. The people pouring out of shops and offices teetered on the edge of the pavements, waiting for a chance to dash across the road to their favorite restaurants. There were groups of people sheltering in every doorway. They all looked glum but resigned. On the newsstands, the papers were all sodden.

“Wait here for me.”

He found his way to the office of the head of personnel, and asked for information about a man of the name of Machère. A few minutes later, he learned that there had been a police constable called Machère, but that he had been killed in a scuffle in the line of duty two years before. At that time, he had been living in the Avenue Daumesnil. His widow was in receipt of a pension. The couple had had no children.

Maigret made a note of the address. To gain time, he telephoned Lucas, which saved him having to cross the road from one side of the Boulevard du Palais to the other.

“Has she made any telephone calls?”

“Not so far.”

“Hasn't she received any calls either?”

“Not for her. Someone rang asking to speak to one of the girls, name of Olga. Something to do with a fitting. We checked that the call really was from a dressmaker, one of those in the Place Saint-Georges.”

He would eat later. For the time being, he made do with an aperitif, which he gulped down in a bar, before returning to the little black car.

“Avenue Daumesnil.”

It was some distance away, not far from the Métro. It was a very ordinary building, somewhat seedy by now, and no doubt mainly occupied by small tradespeople.

“Could you please direct me to Madame Machère's flat?”

“Fourth floor, left-hand side.”

There was a lift, but it ascended in jerks, being inclined to stop several times between each floor. The brass bell beside the door was brightly polished, and the doormat clean. He pressed the bell. He could hear footsteps coming towards him.

“One minute!” a woman called through the door.

No doubt she was changing from a housecoat into a dress. She wasn't the sort of woman to show herself in a dressing gown, even to the man who came to read the gas meter.

She looked at Maigret without speaking, but he could tell that she was upset.

“Please come in, chief superintendent.”

She looked just like her photographs. The jeweler's assistant had accurately described her as being tall and heavily built, with a serene expression and a good deal of self-assurance. She had recognized Maigret. And, needless to say, she knew why he had come.