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

hissing of the gas ceased.
    â€œDo 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.”
    He must have been almost as old as Mademoiselle Léone’s mother, but he had no one to take care of him. In all probability, no one ever came to see him in his lodgings, the only merit of which was a view of the Seine and of the Palais de Justice and the flower market beyond.
    â€œHow long ago did you last see Monsieur Louis?”
    Their conversation had lasted half an hour, partly because of the old man’s frequent bouts of coughing, and partly because he was so incredibly slow over eating his egg.
    And what, in the end, had Maigret learned from him? Nothing that Léone and the concierge in the Rue de Bondy had not already told him.
    The liquidation of the firm of Kaplan had been a tragedy for Saimbron as well. He had not even attempted to find another job. He had saved a little money. For years and years, he had believed that it was enough to keep him in his old age. But owing to successive devaluations of the franc he now literally had barely enough to stave off total starvation. That boiled egg was probably his only solid food for that day.
    â€œI’m one of the lucky ones. I have at least been able to call this place home for the last forty years!”
    He was a widower. He had no children, and no surviving relatives.
    When Louis Thouret had been to see him and asked him for a loan, he had lent him the money without hesitation.
    â€œHe told me it was a matter of life and death, and I could tell that he was speaking the truth.”
    Mademoiselle Léone had also been only too glad to lend him money.
    â€œHe paid me back a few months later.”
    But had he never wondered, during those months, whether he would ever see Monsieur Louis again? If he had not done so, how would Monsieur Saimbron have managed to pay for his daily boiled egg?
    â€œDid he come and see you often?”
    â€œTwo or three times. The first time was when he came to return the money. He brought me a present, a meerschaum pipe.”
    He went to fetch it from the drawer of a whatnot. No doubt he had to be sparing with his tobacco as well.
    â€œHow long is it since you saw him last?”
    â€œAbout three weeks. He was sitting on a bench in the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle.”
    Was it that the old bookkeeper was so much attached to the district where he had worked for so long that he returned to it from time to time by way of pilgrimage?
    â€œDid you speak to him?”
    â€œI sat down beside him. He offered to buy me a drink in a café nearby, but I declined. The sun was shining. We chatted, and watched the world go by.”
    â€œWas he wearing light brown shoes?”
    â€œI didn’t pay any attention to his shoes. I can’t tell you, I’m afraid.”
    â€œDid he say anything about his job?”
    Monsieur Saimbron shook his head. Like Mademoiselle Léone, he was reluctant to discuss it. Maigret could understand why. He was growing quite attached to Monsieur Louis, though he had never seen him, except as a corpse who had met his death with a wide-eyed stare of astonishment.
    â€œHow did your meeting end?”
    â€œSomeone was hovering around the bench. I had the impression that he was trying to attract my friend’s attention.”
    â€œA man?”
    â€œYes. A middle-aged man.”
    â€œWhat was he like?”
    â€œThe sort of person one often sees sitting on a bench in that particular district. In the end, he came and sat beside us, but he didn’t speak. I got up and left. When I looked back, the two of them were deep in conversation.”
    â€œDid they seem friendly?”
    â€œThey certainly weren’t having an argument.”
    And that was that. Maigret had gone down the stairs, intending to return home for lunch, but in the end had decided to eat at his