Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard Read Free

business,” added Maigret, keeping his voice down.
    At this, she slid back the chain and unbolted the door. Then, opening it a crack through which only a narrow segment of her face could be seen, she looked searchingly at the two men waiting on the threshold.
    â€œWhat is it you want?”
    â€œI have something to tell you.”
    â€œHow do I know you’re really from the police?”
    By the merest chance, Maigret happened to have his badge in his pocket. As a rule, he left it at home. He held it out to her so that it was illuminated by the beam of light from inside the house.
    â€œVery well! It is genuine, I suppose?”
    She let them in. The entrance lobby was poky, the walls were white, and the doors and door frames were of varnished wood. The kitchen door had been left open, but she led them past it into the adjoining room. Having switched on the light, she ushered them in.
    She was about the same age as her husband, but a good deal more heavily built, although she couldn’t be called fat. It was her frame that was large, and covered in firm flesh. The gray dress she was wearing, covered with an apron which she now mechanically took off, did nothing to soften her appearance.
    The room to which she had taken them was a dining room furnished in rustic style. Presumably, it was also used as a sitting room. There was an impersonal tidiness about everything which was reminiscent of a window display, or the interior of a furniture shop. Nothing had been left lying about, not even a pipe or a packet of cigarettes. There was not even a newspaper or a piece of needlework to be seen, nothing to suggest that people actually lived here. She did not ask them to sit down, but kept a wary eye on their feet, fearful lest they might dirty the linoleum.
    â€œI’m listening.”
    â€œYour husband’s name is Louis Thouret, is it not?”
    She nodded, frowning as she tried to guess the purpose of their visit.
    â€œIs his place of work in Paris?”
    â€œHe’s assistant manager with the firm of Kaplan et Zanin, in the Rue de Bondy.”
    â€œHas he ever worked as a storekeeper?”
    â€œThat used to be his job.”
    â€œHow long ago?”
    â€œSome years. Even then, he was the one who really kept the business going.”
    â€œHave you, by any chance, a photograph of him?”
    â€œWhat do you want it for?”
    â€œI want to be sure…”
    â€œSure of what?”
    She was becoming more and more suspicious.
    â€œHas Louis met with an accident?”
    Mechanically, she glanced at the kitchen clock, then frowned, as if trying to recall where her husband should be at this time of the day.
    â€œI’d like to satisfy myself that he is the man in question.”
    â€œOn the sideboard,” she said.
    There were five or six photographs in metal frames on the sideboard, one of a young girl standing beside the man who had been found stabbed in the cul-de-sac. He looked a good deal younger, and was dressed in black.
    â€œDo you know if your husband had any enemies?”
    â€œWhy on earth should he have enemies?”
    She went out for a moment, to turn down the gas under a saucepan that was bubbling on the stove.
    â€œWhat time does he usually get back from work?”
    â€œHe always catches the same train, the 6:22 from the Gare de Lyon. Our daughter comes on the train after that, as she finishes work a little later than he does. She has a very responsible job…”
    â€œI’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to return with me to Paris.”
    â€œIs Louis dead?”
    She looked him up and down, defying him to lie to her.
    â€œI want the truth.”
    â€œHe was murdered this afternoon.”
    â€œWhere did it happen?”
    â€œIn a little passage off the Boulevard Saint-Martin.”
    â€œWhat was he doing there?”
    â€œI’ve no idea.”
    â€œWhat time was it?”
    â€œAs far as one can tell, round about