So reticent had the newspapers been on the subject of the murder that not a single one of the passers-by stopped to peer at the paving stones, in the hope of finding traces of blood.
He stood for quite a time gazing into one of the two display windows of the jeweler’s shop. Inside, he could see five or six assistants of both sexes. The jewelery was, for the most part, second-rate stuff. Many of the pieces on view were described as bargain offers. Both windows were crammed with goods: wedding rings, paste diamonds, and possibly one or two genuine ones, alarm clocks, watches, and hideous mantel clocks.
A little old man, who had been watching Maigret from inside the shop, must have decided that he was a potential customer, since he came to the door with a smile on his face, intending to invite him in. But the chief superintendent thought it was time he took himself off, and a few minutes later he was getting into the Headquarters car.
“Rue de Clignancourt,” he said to the driver.
It was a good deal quieter than the Boulevard Saint-Martin, but this too was a district of small tradespeople, and Mademoiselle Léone’s shop—from the sign above it, he gathered it was called Le Bébé Rose—was so completely eclipsed by a horse-meat butcher’s on one side and a cabmen’s eating place on the other that one would have to be in the know to find it.
Going into the shop, he could see in the back room an old woman in an armchair, with a cat on her lap. Another, younger woman came forward to meet him. He looked at her with a slight sense of shock. She did not conform to his preconceived notion of what a shorthand typist who had worked for the firm of Kaplan should look like. What was it about her? he wondered. He could not say. Presumably she was wearing felt slippers, as her footsteps made no sound. For this reason, she reminded him a little of a nun, and her deportment also was that of a nun, for she advanced seemingly without moving her body.
She wore a faint smile, which was not confined to her mouth, but played about all her features. She had a very gentle expression and a self-effacing manner.
How strange that she should be called Léone, the more so as she had a broad pug-nose, such as one might see on an aged lion slumbering in a cage.
“What can I do for you, monsieur?”
She was dressed in black. Her face and hands were colourless, ethereal. Comforting gusts of warmth blew into the shop from the big black stove in the back room, and everywhere, on the shelves and on the counter, there were fragile knitted garments, bootees threaded through with pink or blue ribbons, bonnets, christening robes.
“I am Chief Superintendent Maigret of the Police Judiciaire.”
“Oh?”
“I have to inform you that Louis Thouret, a former colleague of yours, I believe, was murdered yesterday.”
No one else had taken the news to heart as she did. And yet, she didn’t cry, or fumble for a handkerchief, or screw up her face. The shock of it froze her where she stood and, for a moment, he could have sworn, arrested the beating of her heart. And he saw her lips, which were pale anyway, turn as white as the baby clothes all around her.
“Please forgive me. I ought not to have put it so bluntly.”
She shook her head, wishing him to understand that she did not hold it against him. The old lady in the back room stirred.
“If I am to find his murderer, I need to learn everything there is to be known about him.”
She nodded, but still did not speak.
“I believe you knew him well?”
For an instant, her face lit up.
“How did it happen?” she finally asked, with a lump in her throat.
She must have been ugly even as a little girl, and, no doubt, she had always been conscious of the fact. Glancing toward the other room, she murmured:
“I’m sure you’d be more comfortable sitting down.”
“I don’t think your mother…”
“We can talk freely in front of Mother. She’s stone deaf. But she does like company.”
He could not possibly have admitted to her that he felt suffocated in this airless room, where the two women spent the greater part of their cramped existence.
Léone was ageless. In all probability she was over fifty, perhaps a lot older than that. Her mother looked all of eighty, as she darted a glance at the chief superintendent with her bright little birdlike eyes. It was not from her that Léone had inherited her broad pug-nose, but from her father, if the enlarged photograph on the wall was anything to go by.
“I’ve just come from seeing the concierge in the Rue de Bondy.”
“It must have been a great shock to her.”
“Yes. She was very fond of him.”
“Everyone was.”
She colored a little as she spoke.
“He was such a good man!” she hastened to add.
“You saw quite a lot of him, isn’t that so?”
“He came to see me several times. You couldn’t say I saw him often. He was a very busy man, and he lived a long way out of town.”
“Do you happen to know how he spent his time latterly?”
“I never asked him. He seemed to be doing well. I presumed he was self-employed, as he didn’t have to keep office hours.”
“Did he never talk to you about the people he met?”
“We mostly reminisced about the Rue de Bondy, and Kaplan’s, and Monsieur Max, and stocktaking. What an upheaval that used to be every year, with more than a thousand different lines in stock.”
She hesitated.
“I presume you’ve seen his wife?”
“Yesterday evening, yes.”
“How did she take it?”
“She couldn’t understand how her husband came to be wearing light brown shoes when he was killed. She claims that the murderer must have put them on him.”
She, like the concierge, had noticed the shoes.
“No. He often wore them.”
“Even when he was working in the Rue de Bondy?”
“No, only after he left. Some time after.”
“How long after?”
“About a year.”
“Did it surprise you that he should be wearing light brown shoes?”
“Yes. It was different from his usual style of dress.”
“What did you think about it?”
“That he had changed.”
“Did you notice any actual change in him?”
“He wasn’t quite the same man. His sense of fun had changed. Sometimes he laughed as if he would never stop.”
“Did he never laugh in the old days?”
“Not in that way. Something new had come into his life.”
“A woman?”
It was cruel, but he had to ask.
“Perhaps.”
“Did he never confide in you?”
“No.”
“Did he ever make love to you?”
Vehemently, she protested:
“Never! I swear it! I’m sure no such thought ever entered his head.”
The cat had jumped off the old lady’s lap and on to Maigret’s.
“Let it stay,” he said, as Léone seemed about to shoo it off.
He had not the courage to light his pipe.
“I daresay it was a bitter blow to you all when Monsieur Kaplan announced that he was about to close down the business?”
“We were all hard hit, yes.”
“And especially Louis Thouret?”
“Monsieur Louis was particularly attached to the firm. It had become a habit with him. Just think of it, he’d been working there from the age of fourteen, when he joined as a messenger boy.”
“Where was he from?”
“From Belleville. From what he told me, his mother was a widow. She brought him along one day to see old Monsieur Kaplan. He was still in short trousers. He had had practically no schooling.”
“Is his mother dead?”
“She has been for many years.”
Why was it that Maigret had the feeling that she was hiding something? She had spoken f
reely, and had looked him straight in the eye, and yet there was something evasive about her, as though she were gliding furtively away from him on silent, felt-shod feet.
“I believe he had some difficulty in finding another job?”
“Who told you that?”
“I gathered it from some of the things the concierge told me.”
“It’s never easy for someone over forty to find work, particularly if one has no specialist qualifications. I myself…”
“Did you look for a job?”
“Only for a few weeks.”
“And Monsieur Louis?”
“He persisted longer.”
“Is that just a supposition, or do you actually know he did?”
“I know he did.”
“Did he ever come and see you during that period?”
“Yes.”
“Did you help him financially?”
He was by now convinced that Léone was the sort of person to have saved every penny she could.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because, until I have a clear picture of the kind of man he was during the last few years of his life, I have no hope of laying my hands on his murderer.”
“It’s true,” she admitted, after a pause for thought. “I’ll tell you the whole story, but I’d be grateful if you would keep it to yourself. Above all, his wife mustn’t find out. It would be a bitter blow to her pride.”
“Do you know her then?”
“No, he told me. His brothers-in-law both occupy positions of responsibility, and both had houses built for them.”
“So did he.”
“He had no choice. His wife had set her heart on it. She was the one who insisted on moving to Juvisy, like her two sisters.”
Her voice had somehow changed, and one could sense the underlying rancor, that must have been festering for a long time.
“Was he afraid of his wife?”
“He hated to hurt anyone. When we all got the sack, a few weeks before the Christmas holidays, he was determined to see it didn’t cast a blight on the family festivities.”
“You mean he didn’t say anything to them, but just let them go on believing that he was still working in the Rue de Bondy?”
“He thought at first it would only be a matter of days before he got another job. Later, he thought it might take weeks. The only thing that worried him was the house.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He was paying off the mortgage, and I gathered that it would have been a very serious matter if he had fallen behind with his monthly payments.”
“Who lent him the money?”
“Monsieur Saimbron and I between us.”
“Who is Monsieur Saimbron?”
“He was the bookkeeper. He’s retired now. He lives alone in rooms on the Quai de la Mégisserie.”
“Has he got money?”
“He’s very poor.”
“And yet you both lent money to Monsieur Louis?”
“Yes. If we had not done so, the house would have been sold over their heads, and they would have been out in the street.”
“Why didn’t he go to Monsieur Kaplan?”
“He knew he would get no help from him. That’s the way he is. When he told us that the firm was closing down, he handed each of us an envelope containing three months’ salary. Monsieur Louis dared not keep his share at home, because his wife would have been sure to find it.”
“Used she to go through his wallet?”
“I don’t know. Probably she did. At any rate, I kept the money for him, and every month I would hand over the equivalent of his salary. Then, when there was no more left…”
“I understand.”
“He paid me back.”
“After how long?”
“Eight or nine months. Almost a year.”
“When did you next see him, after you’d lent him the money?”
“I lent him the money in February, and didn’t see him again until August.”
“Didn’t that worry you?”
“No. I knew he’d be back eventually. And, besides, even if he had not paid me back…”
“Did he tell you whether he’d found another job?”
“He said he was in work.”
“Was that when he took to wearing brown shoes?”
“Yes. After that, he came to see me several times. He always had some little present for me, and sweets for Mother.”
Maybe that was why the old woman was looking so crestfallen. No doubt most of her visitors arrived armed with sweets for her, and here was Maigret empty-handed. He made a mental note to bring a box of sweets if ever he had occasion to visit the shop again.
“Did he ever mention any names to you?”
“What sort of names?”
“I don’t know. Employers, friends, workmates, perhaps.”
“No.”
“Did he ever refer to any particular district of Paris?”
“Only the Rue de Bondy. He went back there several times. It made him feel bitter to see that they hadn’t even started on the demolition work.
“‘We could have stayed on another year at least,’ he used to say, with a sigh.”
The doorbell tinkled. Léone poked her head forward, as no doubt she did many times in the course of a day, to see who was in the shop.
Maigret stood up.
“I mustn’t keep you any longer.”
“Come back whenever you like. You’ll always be welcome.”
A pregnant woman was standing beside the counter. He picked up his hat and made for the door.
“I’m much obliged to you.”
He got into the car, watched by the two women, who were gazing at him over the pink and white woollies piled on the counter.
“Where to now, chief?”
It was just eleven o’clock.
“Stop at the first bistro you come to.”
“There’s one next door to the shop.”
Somehow, he felt shy of going in there, under Léone’s watchful eye.
“We’ll find one round the corner.”
He wanted to ring Monsieur Kaplan, and to consult the street guide, to find Monsieur Saimbron’s exact address on the Quai de la Mégisserie.
While he was there, having started the day with a Calvados, he thought he might as well have another, and drank it standing at the bar counter.
3
THE BOILED EGG
Maigret lunched alone at his usual table in the Brasserie Dauphine. This was significant, especially as nothing urgent had cropped up to prevent him from going home to lunch. As usual, there were several inspectors from the Quai having an aperitif at the bar, and they turned to look at him, as he made his way to his own special table near a window, from which he could watch the Seine flow by.
Without a word, the inspectors exchanged glances, although none worked directly under him. When Maigret walked with a heavy tread, his eyes somewhat glazed and his expression, as some mistakenly supposed, ill-humored, everyone in the Police Judiciaire knew what it all signified. And even though it might make them smile, they nevertheless viewed the signs with some respect, because they always pointed to the same conclusion: sooner or later someone, man or woman, would be persuaded to confess to their crime.
“What’s the Veau Marengo like?”
“Excellent, Monsieur Maigret.”
Without realizing it, he was subjecting the waiter to a look that could not have been sterner if he had been a suspect under interrogation.
“Beer, sir?”
“No. A half-bottle of claret.”
He was just being perverse. If the waiter had suggested wine, he would have ordered beer.
So far today, he had not set foot in his office. He had just come from calling on Saimbron on the Quai de la Mégisserie, and the experience had left him feeling a little queasy.
As a first step, he had telephoned Monsieur Max Kaplan at his home address, only to be told that he was staying at his villa in Antib
es and that it was not known when he would be returning to Paris.
The entrance to the building on the Quai de la Mégisserie was sandwiched between two pet shops selling birds, many of which, in their cages, were strung out along the pavement.
“Monsieur Saimbron?” he had inquired of the concierge.
“Top floor. You can’t miss it.”
He searched in vain for a lift. There was none, so he had to climb six flights of stairs. The building was old, with dark and dingy walls. Right at the top, the landing was comparatively bright, due to a skylight let into the ceiling. There was a door on the left, beside which hung a thick red and black cord, resembling the cord of a dressing gown. He pulled it. This produced an absurd little tinkle inside the flat. Then he heard light footsteps, the door was opened, and he saw a ghostly face, narrow, pale and bony, covered with white bristles of several days’ growth, and a pair of watering eyes.
“Monsieur Saimbron?”
“I am Monsieur Saimbron. Do please come in.”
This little speech, brief as it was, brought on a fit of hoarse coughing.
“I’m sorry. It’s my bronchitis.”
Inside, there was a pervasive smell, stale and nauseating. Maigret could hear the hissing of a gas ring. There was a pan of water on the boil.
“I am Chief Superintendent Maigret of the Police Judiciaire.”
“Yes. I’ve been expecting a visit from you or one of your inspectors.”
On a table, which was covered with a flower-embroidered cloth such as are now only to be found on flea market junk stalls, lay a morning paper, open at the page on which Louis Thouret’s death was reported in a few brief lines.
“Were you about to have lunch?”
Next to the newspaper stood a plate, a glass of water to which a drop of wine had been added, and a hunk of bread.
“There’s no hurry.”
“Do please carry on, just as if I wasn’t here.”
“My egg will be hard by this time, anyway.”
All the same, the old man decided to go and fetch it. The hissing of the gas ceased.
“Do please sit down, chief superintendent. I advise you to take off your coat. I am obliged to keep the place excessively warm, on account of my rusty bronchial tubes.”
Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard Page 4
