Read Online Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard by Georges Simenon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Georges Simenon
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Sunday! Not after working hours! At eleven in the morning, when there was always a bustle of activity in every shop and every office.
Monsieur Saimbron had also recently spotted his former colleague sitting on a bench. In his case, in the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, within easy walking distance of the Boulevard Saint-Martin and the Rue de Bondy.
This had been in the afternoon, and Monsieur Saimbron, showing less delicacy than the concierge, had spoken to him. Or perhaps Louis Thouret had seen him first?
Had the former storekeeper come there by appointment? Who was the man who had hovered near the bench, apparently waiting for an invitation to sit down?
Monsieur Saimbron had not described him. Probably, he had not paid much attention to him. All the same, his comment had been illuminating:
â He was the sort of man one often sees sitting on a bench in that area .â
In other words, one of those individuals without any visible means of support, who spend hours sitting on benches on the boulevards, absently watching the world go by. The occupants of the benches in the Saint-Martin district were different from those to be seen in many of the squares and public gardens of the city, such as the Parc Montsouris, which are mostly patronized by local residents with private means.
People of that sort are not to be found sitting in the Boulevard Saint-Martin, or if they are, it is on the terrace of a café.
There were the light brown shoes on the one hand, and the bench on the other. As far as the chief superintendent was concerned, they did not seem to fit together.
Finally, there was the overriding fact that, at about half-past four on a wet and gloomy afternoon, Monsieur Louis, for no apparent reason, had turned into a cul-de-sac, followed soundlessly by someone who had knifed him between the shoulder blades, barely ten yards from the milling throng of people on the boulevard.
His photograph had appeared in all the papers, and no one had telephoned. Maigret was still making notes on documents and signing official forms. Outside, the dusk was deepening, and would soon turn to darkness. He had to switch on the light, and when he saw that the hands of the mantel clock stood at three, he got up, and took his heavy winter overcoat down from its hook.
Before leaving, he put his head round the door of the Inspectorsâ Duty Room.
âIâll be back in an hour or two.â
There was no point in using a car. At the end of the Quai, he jumped on to the platform of a bus, from which he alighted a few minutes later at the junction of the Boulevard Sébastopol and the Grands Boulevards.
At this same hour on the previous day, Louis Thouret had still been alive. He too had roamed around the district, with plenty of time to spare, before having to change back into his black shoes, and make his way to the Gare de Lyon, to catch his train to Juvisy.
The pavements were jammed with people. On every corner they were bunched together like grapes, waiting to cross the road, and when the traffic lights changed, they all surged forward.
That must be the bench, he thought, noticing one on the pavement opposite, in the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle.
It was occupied, but even at that distance he could see a piece of crumpled, greasy paper which, he could have sworn, had recently contained ham or slices of pork sausage.
Prostitutes were to be seen loitering on the corner of the Rue Saint-Martin. There were more of them in one of the little bars, and, at a round, tripod table, four men could be seen playing cards.
A familiar figure was standing at the bar counter. It was Inspector Neveu. Maigret stopped to wait for him, and one of the women thought that he was interested in her. Absently, he shook his head.
If Neveu was there, it meant that he had already questioned them. This was home ground to him, and he knew them all.
âEverything all right?â Maigret asked him, when he came out of the bistro.
âSo youâre
Monsieur Saimbron had also recently spotted his former colleague sitting on a bench. In his case, in the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, within easy walking distance of the Boulevard Saint-Martin and the Rue de Bondy.
This had been in the afternoon, and Monsieur Saimbron, showing less delicacy than the concierge, had spoken to him. Or perhaps Louis Thouret had seen him first?
Had the former storekeeper come there by appointment? Who was the man who had hovered near the bench, apparently waiting for an invitation to sit down?
Monsieur Saimbron had not described him. Probably, he had not paid much attention to him. All the same, his comment had been illuminating:
â He was the sort of man one often sees sitting on a bench in that area .â
In other words, one of those individuals without any visible means of support, who spend hours sitting on benches on the boulevards, absently watching the world go by. The occupants of the benches in the Saint-Martin district were different from those to be seen in many of the squares and public gardens of the city, such as the Parc Montsouris, which are mostly patronized by local residents with private means.
People of that sort are not to be found sitting in the Boulevard Saint-Martin, or if they are, it is on the terrace of a café.
There were the light brown shoes on the one hand, and the bench on the other. As far as the chief superintendent was concerned, they did not seem to fit together.
Finally, there was the overriding fact that, at about half-past four on a wet and gloomy afternoon, Monsieur Louis, for no apparent reason, had turned into a cul-de-sac, followed soundlessly by someone who had knifed him between the shoulder blades, barely ten yards from the milling throng of people on the boulevard.
His photograph had appeared in all the papers, and no one had telephoned. Maigret was still making notes on documents and signing official forms. Outside, the dusk was deepening, and would soon turn to darkness. He had to switch on the light, and when he saw that the hands of the mantel clock stood at three, he got up, and took his heavy winter overcoat down from its hook.
Before leaving, he put his head round the door of the Inspectorsâ Duty Room.
âIâll be back in an hour or two.â
There was no point in using a car. At the end of the Quai, he jumped on to the platform of a bus, from which he alighted a few minutes later at the junction of the Boulevard Sébastopol and the Grands Boulevards.
At this same hour on the previous day, Louis Thouret had still been alive. He too had roamed around the district, with plenty of time to spare, before having to change back into his black shoes, and make his way to the Gare de Lyon, to catch his train to Juvisy.
The pavements were jammed with people. On every corner they were bunched together like grapes, waiting to cross the road, and when the traffic lights changed, they all surged forward.
That must be the bench, he thought, noticing one on the pavement opposite, in the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle.
It was occupied, but even at that distance he could see a piece of crumpled, greasy paper which, he could have sworn, had recently contained ham or slices of pork sausage.
Prostitutes were to be seen loitering on the corner of the Rue Saint-Martin. There were more of them in one of the little bars, and, at a round, tripod table, four men could be seen playing cards.
A familiar figure was standing at the bar counter. It was Inspector Neveu. Maigret stopped to wait for him, and one of the women thought that he was interested in her. Absently, he shook his head.
If Neveu was there, it meant that he had already questioned them. This was home ground to him, and he knew them all.
âEverything all right?â Maigret asked him, when he came out of the bistro.
âSo youâre
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