Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    â€œWhat’s the Veau Marengo like?”
    â€œExcellent, 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.
    â€œBeer, sir?”
    â€œNo. 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 Antibes 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.
    â€œMonsieur Saimbron?” he had inquired of the concierge.
    â€œTop 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.
    â€œMonsieur Saimbron?”
    â€œI am Monsieur Saimbron. Do please come in.”
    This little speech, brief as it was, brought on a fit of hoarse coughing.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œI am Chief Superintendent Maigret of the Police Judiciaire.”
    â€œYes. 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.
    â€œWere 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.
    â€œThere’s no hurry.”
    â€œDo please carry on, just as if I wasn’t here.”
    â€œMy egg will be hard by this time, anyway.”
    All the same, the old man decided to go and fetch it. The