Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard by Georges Simenon Page A

against the atmosphere of the house in Juvisy.
    â€œDid he ever go to the races?”
    â€œI don’t think so. He never mentioned racing.”
    â€œDid he talk to you much?”
    â€œSometimes, in passing, he would come into the sitting room for a chat.”
    â€œWas he generally cheerful?”
    â€œHe seemed to enjoy life.”
    Also by way of flouting his wife’s notions of good taste, he had bought himself a flowered dressing gown and a pair of scarlet kid slippers.
    The room was tidy, with everything in its proper place, and not a speck of dust anywhere. In a cupboard, Maigret found an open bottle of port and two wine glasses on stems. And, hanging from a hook, a raincoat.
    He had not thought of that. If a rainy day should be followed by a fine evening, Monsieur Louis couldn’t risk arriving home with wet clothes.
    Clearly, he had spent hours reading. On the chest of drawers stood a whole row of books in cheap editions, popular novels, cloak and dagger romances, and one or two detective stories. Maigret suspected that he had not cared for these, since he had not added to his store.
    His armchair was placed near the window. Next to it was a small table, on which stood a photograph of a woman in a mahogany frame. She was about forty, with very dark hair, and was dressed in black. She fitted the description given by the jeweler’s assistant. She seemed tall, about the same height as Madame Thouret, big-boned as she was, and almost equally lacking in suppleness. She was what the people of the neighborhood would no doubt call a fine figure of a woman.
    â€œIs she the one who came to see him fairly regularly?”
    â€œYes.”
    In the drawer he found some other photographs, polyfotos mostly, including a somewhat blurred one of Monsieur Louis himself, wearing the pearl gray hat.
    Apart from two pairs of socks and several ties, there were no personal possessions to be seen, no shirts or pants, no papers of any sort, no old letters, in other words, none of the usual clutter which tends to fill up most people’s drawers.
    Maigret, recalling the many occasions in his childhood when he had something he wanted to hide from his family, picked up a chair and carried it across to the glass-fronted wardrobe. He climbed on to it to take a look at the top of the wardrobe. As in most houses, it was covered in a thick layer of dust, but plainly to be seen in the middle was a large, clean rectangle, where something like a big envelope or a book, or perhaps a box, had recently lain.
    He made no comment. The woman was watching him intently, and, just as Lapointe had said, one of her breasts, always the same one, limp and soggy as dough, seemed to be on the point of slipping out of her dressing-gown.
    â€œDid he have a key to this room?”
    The only key found on him had been the key of his house in Juvisy.
    â€œYes, he did, but he always left it with me when he went out.”
    â€œIs that common practice?”
    â€œNo. He said he had a habit of losing things, so he’d rather I kept it for him, and gave it to him when he got in. And as he never came in in the evening, or late at night…”
    Maigret took the photograph out of its frame. Before leaving, he gave the canary some fresh drinking water, and wandered about the room for a few more minutes.
    â€œI’ll be back soon, I daresay,” he said.
    She led him downstairs.
    â€œI suppose I can’t tempt you to a little something to drink?”
    â€œAre you on the telephone? I’d be obliged if you’d let me have your number. I may need to call you for assistance again.”
    â€œIt’s Bastille 2251.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œMariette. Mariette Gibon.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œIs that all?”
    â€œFor the moment.”
    He and Lapointe almost had to swim to the car through the rain, which was still pelting down.
    â€œDrive us to the corner,” ordered Maigret.
    And