Maigret's Dead Man by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page B

for thirty years,
Maigret had been seeing those words, and under them the huge warehouse doors and two or three
lorries branded with the same names eternally parked on either side of them, and he was still
not sick of the view.
    On the contrary! He liked it. He would let his
eyes linger on it, almost lovingly. Then without fail he would raise them to the rear of a
distant house, where washing was put out of the windows to dry and a red geranium would appear
in one of them as soon as the weather turned warm enough.
    It was probably not the same geranium. He would
have sworn, however, that the same flower pot had been there, as he had, for the last thirty
years. And during all that time not once had Maigret ever seen anyone lean on the sill and look
out or water the plant. Obviously someone lived in that room, but his or her hours could never
have coincided with his.
    â€˜Are you sure,
Monsieur Maigret, that in your absence your subordinates are conducting the inquiry with the
necessary zeal?’
    â€˜I believe so, Monsieur Coméliau.
Indeed, I am certain of it. You cannot imagine how helpful it is, when directing an
investigation of this sort, to be in a quiet, overheated room, sitting in an armchair in
one’s own home, far from all the usual distractions, with nothing but a phone within easy
reach and a pot of herbal tea to hand. I will let you in on a little secret: I’m
wondering, if this case had not cropped up, if I would have been feeling unwell at all.
Obviously I wouldn’t be ill since it was in Place de la Concorde on the night the body was
discovered that I caught cold. Or perhaps it was early that morning, while Dr Paul and I walked
along the bank of the river at first light, after the autopsy. But that isn’t what I mean.
If it hadn’t been for this investigation, my cold would have been just a cold and I would
have ignored it. Do you see what I’m getting at?’
    In his office, Coméliau’s face had
probably turned yellow, possibly green, and poor Madame Maigret, who had such respect for rank
and hierarchies of all kinds, did not know where to put herself.
    â€˜So let’s just say that, that I have
much more peace here, at home, with my wife looking after me, to think about the case and manage
it. I’m not disturbed by anyone, or hardly anyone …’
    â€˜Maigret!’ chided his wife.
    â€˜Sh!’
    Coméliau was speaking.
    â€˜You think it usual
that after three days the man still has not been identified? His picture has been in all the
papers. I understand from what you told me that there was a wife.’
    â€˜Indeed so, he told me himself.’
    â€˜Please let me speak. He had a wife and
probably friends. He also had neighbours, a landlord and so on and so forth. People were used to
seeing him walking along the street at certain times. But no one so far has come forward to
identify him or report his disappearance. Still, not everyone knows how to get to Boulevard
Richard-Lenoir.’
    Poor Boulevard Richard-Lenoir! Why on earth
should it have such a bad name? Obviously, it led into Place de la Bastille. Equally obviously
it was flanked on both sides by narrow, teeming streets. And the area was full of small
workshops and warehouses. But the Boulevard itself was wide and even had a grassy central
reservation. Admittedly, the grass grew above the Métro line, and here and there air-vents
exhaled warm fumes which smelled of disinfectant, and every couple of minutes when trains
trundled by underneath the houses shook in the most curious way. But people were used to it.
Many times over the last thirty years, friends and colleagues had found other apartments for him
in what they called more ‘vibrant’ parts of town. He would go to see them and
mutter:
    â€˜It’s very nice, I see that
…’
    â€˜But what about the view,
Maigret?’
    â€˜Yes …’
    â€˜The rooms are big and
airy …’
    â€˜Agreed