Free Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard by Georges Simenon

off in the direction of the Place de la République.”
    â€œNothing else?”
    â€œThese 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.
    â€œThey 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.
    â€œAm I to carry on?”
    â€œOf course.”
    Maigret felt a pang. He wished he could do the job himself, as he used to when he was only an inspector.
    â€œWhere are you going, chief?”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œIf 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?
    â€œYou mean you want them rounded up?”
    â€œAnything but! I just want you to sit down beside them and get into conversation.”
    â€œVery 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.

4
A FUNERAL IN THE RAIN
    The next day, Wednesday, Maigret had to attend the Assizes to