Free Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard by Georges Simenon Page A

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.
    â€œWill 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.
    â€œSeventeen hours.”
    â€œAnd during all that time, he had nothing to eat?”
    â€œLecœur 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!
    â€œDoes 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?”
    â€œI do deny it.”
    â€œIs the witness denying that he ever struck the accused?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œHave you a daughter, chief superintendent?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHave 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.
    â€œAny news of young Jorisse?”
    â€œNothing 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.
    â€œAny word from Neveu?”
    Maigret had been expected back in his office long before this.
    â€œHe rang through half an hour ago. He said he’d try again at six.”
    Maigret