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

was feeling a little weary. He was haunted by the memory of René Lecœur sitting in the dock. And also by the voice of the lawyer, the judges still as statues, the crowds of people in the dimly lit courtroom, with its dark oak paneling. It was no longer any concern of his. Once a suspect left Police Headquarters to be handed over to the examining magistrate, the chief superintendent’s responsibility was ended. He was not always happy at the way things were done from then on. He could never be quite sure of what would happen next. And if it had been left to him…
    â€œNothing from Lapointe?”
    By now, each one of his men had been assigned to a specific task. Young Lapointe’s was to go from one lodging house to another, outward in ever widening circles from the Boulevard Saint-Martin. Monsieur Louis must have taken a room somewhere, if only so as to be able to change his shoes. He had rented the room either in his own name or in the name of someone else, such as the woman with the fox fur, toward whom he behaved as if she were his wife, and for whom he had bought a ring. As for Santoni, he was still on Monique’s tail, in the hope that Albert Jorisse would try and get in touch with her, either in person or by way of a message.
    The family had claimed Thouret’s body the previous day. An undertaker’s van had collected it. The funeral was to take place next day.
    There were more documents to be signed; the paperwork never seemed to end. A number of telephone calls were put through to him, none of them of any interest. It was odd that not a single person had telephoned, written or called in person on the subject of Monsieur Louis. It was almost as if he had vanished, leaving no trace behind.
    â€œHello! Maigret speaking.”
    It was Inspector Neveu, calling from a bistro. Maigret could hear music in the background, coming from a radio, no doubt.
    â€œThere’s still nothing very positive to go on, chief. I’ve found three more people, one of them an old woman, who spend a great deal of their time sitting on benches in the boulevards. They all remember him, and they all say the same thing: he was very likeable, always polite, and never slow to enter into conversation. According to the old woman, when he left her he always made towards the Place de la République, but she would soon lose sight of him in the crowd.”
    â€œWas he never with anyone else when she saw him?”
    â€œNo. But one of the others, a tramp, said to me:
    â€œâ€˜He was always waiting for someone. As soon as the man turned up, they would go off together.’
    â€œBut he couldn’t give me a description of the other man. All he could say was:
    â€œâ€˜There was nothing special about him. One sees thousands like him every day.’”
    â€œKeep up the good work!” said Maigret, with a sigh.
    He telephoned his wife to say that he would be late home, then went down into the forecourt, got into the car, and told the driver to take him to Madame Thouret’s address in Juvisy. There was a strong wind blowing. Dense clouds made the sky appear low overhead. They swirled about, as they do on the coast when a storm is brewing. The driver had difficulty in finding the Rue des Peupliers. When they finally got there, not only were the kitchen lights on, but also those in the bedroom on the floor above.
    The bell wasn’t working. It had been disconnected as a sign of mourning. But someone had heard him arrive. The door was opened by a woman whom he had not seen before. She bore a family resemblance to Madame Thouret, but was four or five years older.
    â€œChief Superintendent Maigret…” he said.
    She looked towards the kitchen, and called out:
    â€œEmilie!”
    â€œI heard. Bring him in.”
    He was shown into the kitchen, the dining room having been transformed into a memorial chapel. The narrow entrance was filled with the scent of flowers and candles. A cold