Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard Read online

  “Well?”

  “There’s one person who used to be a regular visitor, but who hasn’t set foot in the house since Monsieur Louis’s death.”

  Her pupils seemed to contract.

  Once again she went to the door, but there was no one behind it.

  “Well, anyway, he didn’t come here to see me.”

  “Who then?”

  “You must know the answer to that. I think I’d better get dressed.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, after this little talk of ours, I’d be safer out of this house.”

  She let her dressing gown slip to the floor, but this time with no thought of being provocative. Then she snatched up a bra and a pair of briefs, and opened the wardrobe.

  “I might have known that this was how it would end.”

  She was talking to herself.

  “You’re a clever bastard, I’ll say that for you.”

  “Arresting criminals is my job.”

  “Have you arrested him?”

  She had taken a black dress from the wardrobe, and was now wearing it. She proceeded to daub her mouth with lipstick.

  “Not yet.”

  “But you do know who he is?”

  “You are going to tell me.”

  “You seem very sure of yourself.”

  He took his wallet from his pocket, and extracted a photograph of a man. He was about thirty, and there was a scar on his left temple. She glanced at the photograph, but said nothing.

  “Is that him?”

  “You seem to think so.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “Where can I go to be safe while he’s still at large?”

  “I’ll arrange for one of my inspectors to look after you.”

  “Which one?”

  “Which one would you prefer?”

  “The dark one with lots of hair.”

  “That’s Inspector Lapointe.”

  Returning to the subject of the photograph, Maigret asked:

  “What do you know about Marco?”

  “That he was the landlady’s lover. Must we talk here?”

  “Where is he now?”

  Without replying, she began bundling all her clothes and personal possessions into a large suitcase. She couldn’t wait to be out of the house, it seemed.

  “We can finish this conversation somewhere else.”

  And, as he bent down to pick up her suitcase, she added:

  “Well, well! So you can be chivalrous, when you want to!”

  The door of the downstairs sitting room was open. Mariette Gibon was standing in the doorway, looking drawn and anxious.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Wherever the chief superintendent is taking me.”

  “Is she under arrest?”

  She dared not question them further. She watched them go out, then she went to the window and raised the curtain a little. Maigret pushed the suitcase into the back of the car, and said to Lapointe:

  “I’ll send someone along here to relieve you. As soon as he arrives, come and join us at the Brasserie de la République.”

  “Right you are, chief.”

  He gave instructions to the driver, but did not get into the car.

  “Let’s go.”

  “To the Brasserie de la République?”

  “For the time being, yes.”

  It was only a few hundred yards away. They sat down at a table at the back of the room.

  “I have to make a phone call. Take my word for it, it will be better for you if you don’t try and give me the slip.”

  “I understand.”

  He telephoned the Quai, to give instructions to Torrence. When he got back to the table, he ordered two aperitifs.

  “Where is Marco?”

  “I don’t know. After you came to the house that first time, the landlady told me to telephone him and tell him not to attempt to get in touch with her until he heard from her again.”

  “When did you give him the message?”

  “Half an hour after you left. I rang from a restaurant in the Boulevard Voltaire.”

  “Did you actually speak to him?”

  “No. I left a message with one of the waiters in a bar in the Rue de Douai.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Félix.”

  “And the name of the bar?”

  “Le Poker d’As.”

  “Hasn’t she had any news of him since?”

  “No. She’s going through hell. She’s not blind to the fact that she’s twenty years older than he is, and she’s forever imagining him chasing girls.”

  “Is he the one who’s got the money?”

  “I don’t know. But he was in the house that day.”

  “What day?”

  “The Monday that Monsieur Louis was murdered.”

  “What time did he get to the Rue d’Angoulême?”

  “About five. He and the landlady went and shut themselves up in her room.”

  “Did she, at any time, go into Monsieur Louis’s room?”

  “She may have done. I didn’t notice. He left after about an hour. I heard the door slam behind him.”

  “Didn’t she attempt to get in touch with him again through one of you girls?”

  “She was afraid we might be followed.”

  “Did she know that the telephone was being tapped?”

  “She wasn’t taken in by that business of your pipe. She’s quick on the uptake. I don’t like her much, but she’s really rather pathetic. She’s obviously crazy about him. It’s making her ill.”

  Young Lapointe found them sitting contentedly over their drinks.

  “What will you have?”

  The girl was looking Lapointe over from head to foot, and smiling. Lapointe was studiously avoiding her eyes.

  “The same as you.”

  “I want you to take her to some quiet little hotel, and book a couple of adjoining rooms with a communicating door. You’re not to let her out of your sight until I give you the word. As soon as you’re settled in, ring me and let me know where you are. You shouldn’t have to go very far. They might have rooms at the Hôtel Moderne just opposite. I’d rather she didn’t talk to anyone. You’d better arrange to have her meals sent up to her room.”

  When she and Lapointe went off together, it looked to Maigret as if she were taking him into custody, rather than the other way round.

  The search continued for another two days. Someone—no one ever found out who—must have tipped off Félix, the barman in the Rue de Douai. At any rate, he had gone into hiding with a friend, and was not traced until the following night.

  It took the greater part of the night to get him to admit that he knew Marco, and to persuade him to reveal his whereabouts.

  Marco had left Paris, and taken a room in a country inn on the banks of the Seine, mainly patronized by anglers. At this time of the year, he had the place to himself.

  Before the police could disarm him, he fired two shots. Mercifully, no one was hurt. He had the banknotes stolen from Monsieur Louis in a money belt that had probably been made for him by Mariette Gibon.

  “Is that you, Maigret?”

  “Yes, judge.”

  “How are things progressing in the Thouret case?”

  “It’s all over. I’ll be handing the murderer and his accomplice over to you very shortly.”

  “Who are they? Shady characters, as we thought?”

  “They couldn’t be shadier. The woman runs a bawdy house, and the man is a thug from Marseilles. Monsieur Louis was fool enough to hide the money on top of the wardrobe and…”

  “What’s that you said…?”

  “He couldn’t possibly be allowed to find out that the money had gone. Marco saw to that. We’ve found the shop where he bought the knife. My report will be on your desk by tonight…”

  This was always the most boring part. Maigret spent all afternoon writing, with the tip of his tongue protruding like a schoolboy.

  It wasn
’t until after dinner that night that he suddenly remembered Arlette and young Lapointe.

  “Damn! There’s something I forgot to do!” he exclaimed.

  “Is it important?” asked Madame Maigret.

  “Not all that important, come to think of it. It’s so late, I might as well leave it till the morning. Let’s go to bed.”