Read Online Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard by Georges Simenon - Free Book Online
Authors: Georges Simenon
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take his lunch with him, wrapped in a square of oilcloth, as he had always done.
But how had he spent his time, after he had got off the train at the Gare de Lyon? That was still a mystery.
Except, that is, for the first few months, when, in all probability, he had spent every moment desperately looking for another job. Like so many others, he must have joined the queues outside the offices of one of the newspapers, waiting to pounce on the Situations Vacant columns. Maybe he had even tried his hand at selling vacuum cleaners from door to door?
Apparently he had not succeeded, since he had been driven to borrow money from Mademoiselle Léone and the old bookkeeper.
After that, for several months, he had disappeared from view. By this time, he had not only somehow had to lay his hands on a sum of money equivalent to his salary at Kaplanâs, but also to pay back the two loans.
During all that time, he had returned home every evening, just as if nothing had happened, and looking every inch the family breadwinner.
His wife had suspected nothing. Nor had his daughter, nor his sisters-in-law, nor his two brothers-in-law, who both worked on the railways.
And then, one day, he had turned up at the Rue de Clignancourt to pay his debt to Mademoiselle Léone, armed with a present for her, and sweets for her aged mother.
Not to mention the fact that he had taken to wearing light brown shoes!
Had those brown shoes of his anything to do with the keen interest that Maigret was beginning to take in the fellow? He would certainly never admit it, even to himself. He too had longed at one time to own a pair of goose-dung shoes. They had been all the rage then, like those very short fawn raincoats, known at that time as bum-freezers.
Once, early on in his married life, he had made up his mind to buy a pair of light brown shoes, and had felt himself blushing as he went into the shop. Come to think of it, the shop was in the Boulevard Saint-Martin, just opposite the Théâtre de lâAmbigu. He had not dared to put them on at first. Then, when he had finally plucked up the courage to open the parcel in the presence of his wife, she had looked at him, and then laughed in rather an odd way.
âYou surely donât intend to wear those things?â
He never had worn them. It was she who had taken them back to the shop, on the pretext that they pinched his feet.
Louis Thouret had also bought a pair of light brown shoes, and that, in Maigretâs view, was symbolic.
It was above all, Maigret was convinced, a symbol of liberation. Whenever he wore those shoes, he must have thought of himself as a free man, which meant that, until the moment when he changed back into his black shoes, his wife, sisters-in-law, and brothers-in-law had no hold on him.
The shoes meant something else as well. On the day when Maigret had bought his pair, he had just been informed by the superintendent of the Saint-Georges District, whose subordinate he was at the time, that he was to have a rise in salary of ten francs a month. And, in those days, ten francs really were ten francs.
Monsieur Louis, too, must have been feeling weighed down with riches. He had presented a meerschaum pipe to the old bookkeeper, and repaid the two people who had been prepared to trust him. As a result, he had been able to go back from time to time and see them both, especially Mademoiselle Léone. And at the same time, he had felt free to call on the concierge in the Rue de Bondy.
Why had he never told any of them how he spent his time?
Quite by chance, the concierge had seen him one morning round about eleven sitting on a bench in the Boulevard Saint-Martin.
She had not spoken to him, but had gone back by a roundabout route, so that he should not see her. Maigret could understand that. It was the bench that had ruffled her. For a man like Monsieur Louis, who had worked ten hours a day for most of his life, to be caught idling on a park bench! Not on a
But how had he spent his time, after he had got off the train at the Gare de Lyon? That was still a mystery.
Except, that is, for the first few months, when, in all probability, he had spent every moment desperately looking for another job. Like so many others, he must have joined the queues outside the offices of one of the newspapers, waiting to pounce on the Situations Vacant columns. Maybe he had even tried his hand at selling vacuum cleaners from door to door?
Apparently he had not succeeded, since he had been driven to borrow money from Mademoiselle Léone and the old bookkeeper.
After that, for several months, he had disappeared from view. By this time, he had not only somehow had to lay his hands on a sum of money equivalent to his salary at Kaplanâs, but also to pay back the two loans.
During all that time, he had returned home every evening, just as if nothing had happened, and looking every inch the family breadwinner.
His wife had suspected nothing. Nor had his daughter, nor his sisters-in-law, nor his two brothers-in-law, who both worked on the railways.
And then, one day, he had turned up at the Rue de Clignancourt to pay his debt to Mademoiselle Léone, armed with a present for her, and sweets for her aged mother.
Not to mention the fact that he had taken to wearing light brown shoes!
Had those brown shoes of his anything to do with the keen interest that Maigret was beginning to take in the fellow? He would certainly never admit it, even to himself. He too had longed at one time to own a pair of goose-dung shoes. They had been all the rage then, like those very short fawn raincoats, known at that time as bum-freezers.
Once, early on in his married life, he had made up his mind to buy a pair of light brown shoes, and had felt himself blushing as he went into the shop. Come to think of it, the shop was in the Boulevard Saint-Martin, just opposite the Théâtre de lâAmbigu. He had not dared to put them on at first. Then, when he had finally plucked up the courage to open the parcel in the presence of his wife, she had looked at him, and then laughed in rather an odd way.
âYou surely donât intend to wear those things?â
He never had worn them. It was she who had taken them back to the shop, on the pretext that they pinched his feet.
Louis Thouret had also bought a pair of light brown shoes, and that, in Maigretâs view, was symbolic.
It was above all, Maigret was convinced, a symbol of liberation. Whenever he wore those shoes, he must have thought of himself as a free man, which meant that, until the moment when he changed back into his black shoes, his wife, sisters-in-law, and brothers-in-law had no hold on him.
The shoes meant something else as well. On the day when Maigret had bought his pair, he had just been informed by the superintendent of the Saint-Georges District, whose subordinate he was at the time, that he was to have a rise in salary of ten francs a month. And, in those days, ten francs really were ten francs.
Monsieur Louis, too, must have been feeling weighed down with riches. He had presented a meerschaum pipe to the old bookkeeper, and repaid the two people who had been prepared to trust him. As a result, he had been able to go back from time to time and see them both, especially Mademoiselle Léone. And at the same time, he had felt free to call on the concierge in the Rue de Bondy.
Why had he never told any of them how he spent his time?
Quite by chance, the concierge had seen him one morning round about eleven sitting on a bench in the Boulevard Saint-Martin.
She had not spoken to him, but had gone back by a roundabout route, so that he should not see her. Maigret could understand that. It was the bench that had ruffled her. For a man like Monsieur Louis, who had worked ten hours a day for most of his life, to be caught idling on a park bench! Not on a
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