Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard (5 page)

He was by now convinced that Léone was the sort of person to have saved every penny she could.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because, until I have a clear picture of the kind of man he was during the last few years of his life, I have no hope of laying my hands on his murderer.”

“It's true,” she admitted, after a pause for thought. “I'll tell you the whole story, but I'd be grateful if you would keep it to yourself. Above all, his wife mustn't find out. It would be a bitter blow to her pride.”

“Do you know her then?”

“No, he told me. His brothers-in-law both occupy positions of responsibility, and both had houses built for them.”

“So did he.”

“He had no choice. His wife had set her heart on it. She was the one who insisted on moving to Juvisy, like her two sisters.”

Her voice had somehow changed, and one could sense the underlying rancor, that must have been festering for a long time.

“Was he afraid of his wife?”

“He hated to hurt anyone. When we all got the sack, a few weeks before the Christmas holidays, he was determined to see it didn't cast a blight on the family festivities.”

“You mean he didn't say anything to them, but just let them go on believing that he was still working in the Rue de Bondy?”

“He thought at first it would only be a matter of days before he got another job. Later, he thought it might take weeks. The only thing that worried him was the house.”

“I don't understand.”

“He was paying off the mortgage, and I gathered that it would have been a very serious matter if he had fallen behind with his monthly payments.”

“Who lent him the money?”

“Monsieur Saimbron and I between us.”

“Who is Monsieur Saimbron?”

“He was the bookkeeper. He's retired now. He lives alone in rooms on the Quai de la Mégisserie.”

“Has he got money?”

“He's very poor.”

“And yet you both lent money to Monsieur Louis?”

“Yes. If we had not done so, the house would have been sold over their heads, and they would have been out in the street.”

“Why didn't he go to Monsieur Kaplan?”

“He knew he would get no help from him. That's the way he is. When he told us that the firm was closing down, he handed each of us an envelope containing three months' salary. Monsieur Louis dared not keep his share at home, because his wife would have been sure to find it.”

“Used she to go through his wallet?”

“I don't know. Probably she did. At any rate, I kept the money for him, and every month I would hand over the equivalent of his salary. Then, when there was no more left…”

“I understand.”

“He paid me back.”

“After how long?”

“Eight or nine months. Almost a year.”

“When did you next see him, after you'd lent him the money?”

“I lent him the money in February, and didn't see him again until August.”

“Didn't that worry you?”

“No. I knew he'd be back eventually. And, besides, even if he had not paid me back…”

“Did he tell you whether he'd found another job?”

“He said he was in work.”

“Was that when he took to wearing brown shoes?”

“Yes. After that, he came to see me several times. He always had some little present for me, and sweets for Mother.”

Maybe that was why the old woman was looking so crestfallen. No doubt most of her visitors arrived armed with sweets for her, and here was Maigret empty-handed. He made a mental note to bring a box of sweets if ever he had occasion to visit the shop again.

“Did he ever mention any names to you?”

“What sort of names?”

“I don't know. Employers, friends, workmates, perhaps.”

“No.”

“Did he ever refer to any particular district of Paris?”

“Only the Rue de Bondy. He went back there several times. It made him feel bitter to see that they hadn't even started on the demolition work.

“‘We could have stayed on another year at least,' he used to say, with a sigh.”

The doorbell tinkled. Léone poked her head forward, as no doubt she did many times in the course of a day, to see who was in the shop.

Maigret stood up.

“I mustn't keep you any longer.”

“Come back whenever you like. You'll always be welcome.”

A pregnant woman was standing beside the counter. He picked up his hat and made for the door.

“I'm much obliged to you.”

He got into the car, watched by the two women, who were gazing at him over the pink and white woollies piled on the counter.

“Where to now, chief?”

It was just eleven o'clock.

“Stop at the first bistro you come to.”

“There's one next door to the shop.”

Somehow, he felt shy of going in there, under Léone's watchful eye.

“We'll find one round the corner.”

He wanted to ring Monsieur Kaplan, and to consult the street guide, to find Monsieur Saimbron's exact address on the Quai de la Mégisserie.

While he was there, having started the day with a Calvados, he thought he might as well have another, and drank it standing at the bar counter.

Maigret lunched alone at his usual table in the Brasserie Dauphine. This was significant, especially as nothing urgent had cropped up to prevent him from going home to lunch. As usual, there were several inspectors from the Quai having an aperitif at the bar, and they turned to look at him, as he made his way to his own special table near a window, from which he could watch the Seine flow by.

Without a word, the inspectors exchanged glances, although none worked directly under him. When Maigret walked with a heavy tread, his eyes somewhat glazed and his expression, as some mistakenly supposed, ill-humored, everyone in the Police Judiciaire knew what it all signified. And even though it might make them smile, they nevertheless viewed the signs with some respect, because they always pointed to the same conclusion: sooner or later someone, man or woman, would be persuaded to confess to their crime.

“What's the Veau Marengo like?”

“Excellent, Monsieur Maigret.”

Without realizing it, he was subjecting the waiter to a look that could not have been sterner if he had been a suspect under interrogation.

“Beer, sir?”

“No. A half-bottle of claret.”

He was just being perverse. If the waiter had suggested wine, he would have ordered beer.

So far today, he had not set foot in his office. He had just come from calling on Saimbron on the Quai de la Mégisserie, and the experience had left him feeling a little queasy.

As a first step, he had telephoned Monsieur Max Kaplan at his home address, only to be told that he was staying at his villa in Antibes and that it was not known when he would be returning to Paris.

The entrance to the building on the Quai de la Mégisserie was sandwiched between two pet shops selling birds, many of which, in their cages, were strung out along the pavement.

“Monsieur Saimbron?” he had inquired of the concierge.

“Top floor. You can't miss it.”

He searched in vain for a lift. There was none, so he had to climb six flights of stairs. The building was old, with dark and dingy walls. Right at the top, the landing was comparatively bright, due to a skylight let into the ceiling. There was a door on the left, beside which hung a thick red and black cord, resembling the cord of a dressing gown. He pulled it. This produced an absurd little tinkle inside the flat. Then he heard light footsteps, the door was opened, and he saw a ghostly face, narrow, pale and bony, covered with white bristles of several days' growth, and a pair of watering eyes.

“Monsieur Saimbron?”

“I am Monsieur Saimbron. Do please come in.”

This little speech, brief as it was, brought on a fit of hoarse coughing.

“I'm sorry. It's my bronchitis.”

Inside, there was a pervasive smell, stale and nauseating. Maigret could hear the hissing of a gas ring. There was a pan of water on the boil.

“I am Chief Superintendent Maigret of the Police Judiciaire.”

“Yes. I've been expecting a visit from you or one of your inspectors.”

On a table, which was covered with a flower-embroidered cloth such as are now only to be found on flea market junk stalls, lay a morning paper, open at the page on which Louis Thouret's death was reported in a few brief lines.

“Were you about to have lunch?”

Next to the newspaper stood a plate, a glass of water to which a drop of wine had been added, and a hunk of bread.

“There's no hurry.”

“Do please carry on, just as if I wasn't here.”

“My egg will be hard by this time, anyway.”

All the same, the old man decided to go and fetch it. The hissing of the gas ceased.

“Do please sit down, chief superintendent. I advise you to take off your coat. I am obliged to keep the place excessively warm, on account of my rusty bronchial tubes.”

He must have been almost as old as Mademoiselle Léone's mother, but he had no one to take care of him. In all probability, no one ever came to see him in his lodgings, the only merit of which was a view of the Seine and of the Palais de Justice and the flower market beyond.

“How long ago did you last see Monsieur Louis?”

Their conversation had lasted half an hour, partly because of the old man's frequent bouts of coughing, and partly because he was so incredibly slow over eating his egg.

And what, in the end, had Maigret learned from him? Nothing that Léone and the concierge in the Rue de Bondy had not already told him.

The liquidation of the firm of Kaplan had been a tragedy for Saimbron as well. He had not even attempted to find another job. He had saved a little money. For years and years, he had believed that it was enough to keep him in his old age. But owing to successive devaluations of the franc he now literally had barely enough to stave off total starvation. That boiled egg was probably his only solid food for that day.

“I'm one of the lucky ones. I have at least been able to call this place home for the last forty years!”

He was a widower. He had no children, and no surviving relatives.

When Louis Thouret had been to see him and asked him for a loan, he had lent him the money without hesitation.

“He told me it was a matter of life and death, and I could tell that he was speaking the truth.”

Mademoiselle Léone had also been only too glad to lend him money.

“He paid me back a few months later.”

But had he never wondered, during those months, whether he would ever see Monsieur Louis again? If he had not done so, how would Monsieur Saimbron have managed to pay for his daily boiled egg?

“Did he come and see you often?”

“Two or three times. The first time was when he came to return the money. He brought me a present, a meerschaum pipe.”

He went to fetch it from the drawer of a whatnot. No doubt he had to be sparing with his tobacco as well.

“How long is it since you saw him last?”

“About three weeks. He was sitting on a bench in the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle.”

Was it that the old bookkeeper was so much attached to the district where he had worked for so long that he returned to it from time to time by way of pilgrimage?

“Did you speak to him?”

“I sat down beside him. He offered to buy me a drink in a café nearby, but I declined. The sun was shining. We chatted, and watched the world go by.”

“Was he wearing light brown shoes?”

“I didn't pay any attention to his shoes. I can't tell you, I'm afraid.”

“Did he say anything about his job?”

Monsieur Saimbron shook his head. Like Mademoiselle Léone, he was reluctant to discuss it. Maigret could understand why. He was growing quite attached to Monsieur Louis, though he had never seen him, except as a corpse who had met his death with a wide-eyed stare of astonishment.

“How did your meeting end?”

“Someone was hovering around the bench. I had the impression that he was trying to attract my friend's attention.”

“A man?”

“Yes. A middle-aged man.”

“What was he like?”

“The sort of person one often sees sitting on a bench in that particular district. In the end, he came and sat beside us, but he didn't speak. I got up and left. When I looked back, the two of them were deep in conversation.”

“Did they seem friendly?”

“They certainly weren't having an argument.”

And that was that. Maigret had gone down the stairs, intending to return home for lunch, but in the end had decided to eat at his usual table in the Brasserie Dauphine.

It was a gray day. There were no glittering flecks on the Seine. He drank another small glass of Calvados with his coffee, and returned to his office, where a mass of paper work awaited him. A little later, Coméliau, the examining magistrate on the case, rang through to him.

“What do you think of this business of Thouret? The public prosecutor took it upon himself this morning to tell me that you were working on the case. It was the usual sort of thing, a mugging or a case of thieves falling out, I presume?”

Maigret merely grunted, preferring not to commit himself one way or the other.

“The family want to know when they can have the body. I didn't want to say anything definite until I had consulted you. Have you finished with it yet?”

“Has Doctor Paul completed his examination?”

“He's just rung me to let me know the result. I shall have his written report by tonight. The knife punctured the left ventricle, and death was virtually instantaneous.”

“Any signs of a struggle?”

“None.”

“I see no reason why the family shouldn't collect the body as soon as they like. There's just one thing, though. I'd be glad if you'd arrange for the clothes to be sent on to the Forensic Laboratory.”

“I'll see to that. Keep me in the picture, won't you?”

Judge Coméliau was unusually affable. This was, no doubt, because the press had barely mentioned the matter, and because he himself had come to the conclusion that it was just an ordinary case of mugging. He was not interested. No one was interested.

Maigret poked the fire in the stove, filled his pipe and, for the next hour or so, immersed himself in his paper work, scribbling notes in the margins of some documents, and signing others. Then he made a few unimportant telephone calls.

“May I come in, chief?”

It was Santoni, dressed up to the nines as usual. And, as usual, reeking of hair oil, a habit which frequently caused his colleagues to protest:

“You smell like a tart!”

Santoni was looking very pleased with himself.

“I think I'm on to something.”

Maigret, evincing no emotion, looked at him with wide, troubled eyes.

“First of all, it may interest you to know that Geber et Bachelier, the firm where the Thouret girl works, are debt collectors. Nothing very big. What they actually do is to take over hopeless defaulters for a small consideration, and then squeeze the money out of them. It isn't so much a matter of office work as of house-to-house harassment. Mademoiselle Thouret is only in her office in the Rue de Rivoli in the mornings. Every afternoon, she's out and about visiting the defaulters in their homes.”

“I get it.”

“They're little people, mostly, because they are the ones most likely to be intimidated, and to pay up in the end. I didn't see either of the partners. I waited outside until the staff came out at lunchtime. I took good care to avoid being seen by the young lady, and spoke to one of the other employees, a woman past her first youth, who, as it turned out, had no very warm feelings towards her colleague.”

“And what did you find out?”

“That our little Monique has a boyfriend.”

“Do you know his name?”

“All in good time, chief. They've known each other for about four months, and they meet every day for a set lunch at a restaurant in the Boulevard Sébastopol. He's very young, only nineteen, and has a job as a salesman in a big bookshop in the Boulevard Saint-Michel.”

Maigret was fiddling with the row of pipes strung out on his desk, then, although the one he was smoking was still alight, he started to fill another.

“The kid's name is Albert Jorisse. I thought I might as well take a look at him, so I went along to the restaurant. You never saw such a crowd! In the end, I managed to spot Monique sitting at a table, but she was on her own. I sat at a table on the opposite side of the room, and had a very nasty meal. The young lady seemed very much on edge, and never stopped glancing toward the door.”

“Did he arrive eventually?”

“No. She made her food last as long as she could. In a dump of that sort, the meals are served with the utmost speed, and dawdling is frowned on. In the end, she had no choice but to get up and go, but she hung about outside, pacing up and down for nearly a quarter of an hour.”

“What happened next?”

“She was so concerned about the young man, that she didn't notice me. Next she made for the Boulevard Saint-Michel. I followed her. You know that big corner bookshop, where they have trays of books outside on the pavement?”

“Yes, I know the one you mean.”

“Well, she went in there, and spoke to one of the salesmen, who referred her to the cashier. I could see that she was being very persistent, but to no avail. In the end, looking very crestfallen, she left.”

“Didn't you follow her?”

“I thought I'd do better to concentrate on the young man, so I, in my turn, went into the bookshop, and asked the manager whether he knew anyone of the name of Albert Jorisse. He said yes, he worked in the shop, but only in the mornings. When I expressed surprise, he explained that it was common practice with them, as most of their employees were students, who were unable to work full time.”