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

to Lapointe:
    â€œYou’ll have to go back there. I’m afraid I forgot my pipe in the room upstairs.”
    Maigret had never forgotten his pipe anywhere. And besides, he never carried less than two in his pockets.
    â€œDid you do it on purpose?”
    â€œYes. Keep the glamorous Mariette talking for a few minutes, and then come back and join me here.”
    He pointed to a little bar, which also sold coal and logs. He himself made a dash for the telephone, and dialed the number of Police Headquarters.
    â€œPut me through to Lucas, please…Is that you, Lucas? I want you to make arrangements immediately to have this telephone number tapped: Bastille 2251.”
    Then, as he had nothing to do while waiting for Lapointe but to sip his liqueur at the bar counter, he took a closer look at the photograph. It surprised him that Louis should have picked on a mistress who, outwardly at least, so closely resembled his wife. He wondered if there was any similarity of temperament. It was not impossible.
    â€œYour pipe, chief.”
    â€œWas she, by any chance, on the telephone when you arrived?”
    â€œI don’t know. She had two women with her.”
    â€œIncluding the naked girl?”
    â€œYes, but she had slipped on a dressing gown.”
    â€œYou can go off to lunch now. I’ll see you at the Quai this afternoon. I’ll keep the car.”
    He told the driver to take him to Léone’s little shop in the Rue de Clignancourt. On the way, he stopped at a confectioner’s to buy a box of chocolates. He hid it under his coat, before crossing the pavement to get into the car. He felt that the last place he should be visiting with his clothes sopping wet was a shop like this one, overflowing with so many light and fragile garments. But he had no choice. Awkwardly he held out the box of chocolates, saying:
    â€œFor your mother.”
    â€œHow kind of you to think of her.”
    Probably on account of the humidity, the place was even hotter than last time.
    â€œWouldn’t you like to give them to her yourself?”
    He preferred to remain in the shop, which had at least some slight contact with the world outside.
    â€œI just wanted you to take a look at this photograph.” She glanced at it, and said, without hesitation:
    â€œWhy, it’s Madame Machère!”
    This was most satisfactory. It wasn’t a sensational discovery, such as the newspapers revel in. It was nothing really, but it did prove that he had not been mistaken in his assessment of Monsieur Louis’s character. He was not the sort of man to pick up a woman on the street or in a bar. The chief superintendent could not see him making advances to a strange woman.
    â€œHow did you get to know her?”
    â€œShe worked at Kaplan’s. Not for very long, though. Only about six or seven months. Why did you want me to see her photograph?”
    â€œShe was a very close friend of Monsieur Louis.”
    â€œOh!”
    He would have spared her the pain if he could, but there was no way of avoiding it.
    â€œDidn’t you suspect anything when they were both working in the Rue de Bondy?”
    â€œThere was nothing to suspect, I’m sure of it. She worked with ten to fifteen other women in the packing room, depending on the time of year. She was married to a policeman. I remember her well.”
    â€œWhy did she leave the job?”
    â€œI believe she needed to have an operation.”
    â€œThank you. Please forgive me for troubling you again.”
    â€œIt’s no trouble. Have you been to see Monsieur Saimbron?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOne other question. Was Monsieur Louis living with that woman?”
    â€œHe had rented a room near the Place de la République. She used to visit him there.”
    â€œI’m convinced that she was just a friend, and that there was nothing else between them.”
    â€œYou may be right.”
    â€œIf the business records