Georges Simenon - Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard (Inspector Maigret Mysteries)

Georges Simenon

Maigret and the Man on the Bench

(Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard)

A book in the Inspector Maigret series

1953

Detective Maigret investigates the murder of Louis Thouret, a respectable Parisian frequently observed sitting on a city bench.

THE BROWN SHOES

Afterward, Maigret had no difficulty in recalling the date, October 29, because it happened also to be his sister-in-laws birthday. He even remembered the day, a Monday, since, as everyone at Quai des Orfvres knows, murder is rarely committed on a Monday. And furthermore, as it happened, this case, unlike any other that year, had a flavor of winter about it.

A thin, cold drizzle had fallen all that Sunday, and the roads and pavements were black and glistening. A kind of yellowish fog seeped in through the chinks in the windows, so much so that Madame Maigret had said:

Maybe I ought to get them fitted with draft stoppers.

For the past five years at least, as autumn approached, Maigret had been promising to fit them himself the following Sunday.

Youd better wear your winter coat.

Where is it?

Ill get it.

It was half past eight, still so dark that lights were on in all the houses, and Maigrets coat smelled of moth balls.

It did not rain that day, at least not noticeably, although the pavements were still wet, and as the day wore on, and more and more people trampled them, they grew very slippery. Then, around four in the afternoon, the yellowish fog, which had cleared since morning, returned, blurring the light from the street lamps and windows.

When the telephone rang, neither Lucas nor Janvier nor even young Lapointe was in the inspectors office. It was answered by Santoni, a Corsican, who was new to the crime squad, having spent ten years first in the gaming squad and then in the vice squad.

Its Inspector Neveu of the Third Arrondissement, Chief. Hes asking to speak to you personally. He says its urgent.

Maigret lifted the receiver.

What is it, my boy?

Im speaking from a bistro on Boulevard Saint-Martin. A man has just been found. Hes been stabbed with a knife.

Right there on the boulevard?

No, not quite. In a sort of blind alley.

Neveu, who was an old hand at this game, knew very well what Maigret must be thinking. There is seldom much of interest to the investigator in a stabbing. Usually, especially in overcrowded areas, it is the result of some drunken brawl or a quarrel between rival gangs of Spaniards or North Africans.

Neveu hastened to add:

There are one or two odd features about this case. I think you ought to come and see for yourself. The alley runs between the big jewelers and the artificial-flower shop.

Ill come right away.

Maigret had never before worked on a case with Santoni. In the confined space of the little black police car, he was uncomfortably conscious of the powerful smell emanating from the Inspector, a little man, who wore high-heeled shoes. He used hair oil, and on his fourth finger wore a big yellow diamond, probably paste.

People flitted by like black shadows in the dark streets, and their shoes went flip-flap on the greasy pavements. On Boulevard Saint-Martin, two policemen wearing capes were holding back a crowd of some thirty people. Neveu, who was watching for Maigret, opened the door of the car.

I persuaded the doctor to stay until you got here.

The Grands Boulevards are always jammed with people, but at this time of day the crowds were at their thickest. Above the jewelers shop was a big clock. The hands on the illuminated dial stood at half past five. As for the artificial-flower shop, which had only one window, grimy and thick with dust, it was so dimly lighted and looked so neglected that one wondered if anyone ever went into it.

Between the two shops ran a little alley, so narrow as to be easily missed. It was no more than a gap between two walls, unlighted and apparently leading to the sort of paved courtyard to be found all over this district.

Neveu, followed by Maigret, elbowed his way through the crowd. A few yards inside the dark alley, several men were standing about. Two of them had flashlights. Their faces were a blur.

It was colder and damper here than on the boulevard. There was an unremitting draft. A dog, though roughly shoved aside by all and sundry, kept slinking back and getting under everyones feet.

On the ground, against the dripping wall, lay a man, one arm bent under him, the other stretched out so that the ghostly hand almost touched the opposite wall, barring the way.

Is he dead?

The doctor, a local man, nodded.

Death must have been instantaneous.

As if to underline these words, one of the flashlights played its circular beam back and forth over the corpse, throwing the projecting handle of the knife into eerie relief. The other one illuminated the mans profile, a staring eye, and a cheek grazed where he had scraped it against the wall as he fell.

Who found the body?

One of the uniformed men, who had been waiting for this opportunity, came forward. His features were barely visible. All one could tell was that he was young and distressed.

I was on my rounds. I always take a quick look into all the little passages, because people get up to all sorts of beastliness in the dark in this kind of place. I saw someone lying on the ground. At first I thought it was a drunk.

Already dead, was he?

Yes, I think so. But the body was still warm.

What time was this?

A quarter to five. I blew my whistle, and as soon as reinforcements arrived I went off to telephone the station.

Neveu interposed:

I took the call myself and came right over.

The local police station was only a few yards away, in Rue Notre-Dame-de-Nazareth.

Neveu went on:

I left it to a colleague to call the doctor.

Did no one hear anything?

Not as far as I know.

Maigret noticed a little farther on a door with a dimly lighted fanlight.

Where does that lead?

Into the offices at the back of the jewelers shop. Its hardly ever used.

Before leaving Quai des Orfvres, Maigret had been in touch with the Forensic Laboratory. The technicians had just arrived with their cameras and other equipment. Like all specialists, they concentrated solely on their job, asking no questions, worrying about nothing except how they were going to be able to manage in such a restricted space.

Where does the courtyard lead to? Maigret asked.

Nowhere, just blank walls. Theres only one door, which was condemned years ago, leading to a building on Rue Meslay.

The man, it was plain to see, had been stabbed in the back when he was ten paces or so inside the alley. Someone had silently crept in after him, and the crowds on the boulevard had streamed past unaware.

I slipped my hand into his pocket and found this.

Neveu held out a wallet to Maigret. Without having to be asked, one of the men from Criminal Records shone a flashlight on it much more powerful than the Inspectors.

It was just an ordinary wallet, not new, but not particularly worn either. The best one could say of it was that it was of quite good quality. It contained three thousand-franc notes, a few of one hundred francs, and an identity card in the name of Louis Thouret, warehouse foreman, of 37 Rue des Peupliers, Juvisy. There were also a voters registration card in the same name, a sheet of paper on which were scribbled five or six words in pencil, and a very old photograph of a little girl.

Can we get started?

Maigret nodded. Cameras clicked and bulbs flashed. The crowd at the entrance to the little passage was growing, and the police were having difficulty in holding them back.