Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard by Georges Simenon

usual table in the Brasserie Dauphine.
    It was a gray day. There were no glittering flecks on the Seine. He drank another small glass of Calvados with his coffee, and returned to his office, where a mass of paper work awaited him. A little later, Coméliau, the examining magistrate on the case, rang through to him.
    â€œWhat do you think of this business of Thouret? The public prosecutor took it upon himself this morning to tell me that you were working on the case. It was the usual sort of thing, a mugging or a case of thieves falling out, I presume?”
    Maigret merely grunted, preferring not to commit himself one way or the other.
    â€œThe family want to know when they can have the body. I didn’t want to say anything definite until I had consulted you. Have you finished with it yet?”
    â€œHas Doctor Paul completed his examination?”
    â€œHe’s just rung me to let me know the result. I shall have his written report by tonight. The knife punctured the left ventricle, and death was virtually instantaneous.”
    â€œAny signs of a struggle?”
    â€œNone.”
    â€œI see no reason why the family shouldn’t collect the body as soon as they like. There’s just one thing, though. I’d be glad if you’d arrange for the clothes to be sent on to the Forensic Laboratory.”
    â€œI’ll see to that. Keep me in the picture, won’t you?”
    Judge Coméliau was unusually affable. This was, no doubt, because the press had barely mentioned the matter, and because he himself had come to the conclusion that it was just an ordinary case of mugging. He was not interested. No one was interested.
    Maigret poked the fire in the stove, filled his pipe and, for the next hour or so, immersed himself in his paper work, scribbling notes in the margins of some documents, and signing others. Then he made a few unimportant telephone calls.
    â€œMay I come in, chief?”
    It was Santoni, dressed up to the nines as usual. And, as usual, reeking of hair oil, a habit which frequently caused his colleagues to protest:
    â€œYou smell like a tart!”
    Santoni was looking very pleased with himself.
    â€œI think I’m on to something.”
    Maigret, evincing no emotion, looked at him with wide, troubled eyes.
    â€œFirst of all, it may interest you to know that Geber et Bachelier, the firm where the Thouret girl works, are debt collectors. Nothing very big. What they actually do is to take over hopeless defaulters for a small consideration, and then squeeze the money out of them. It isn’t so much a matter of office work as of house-to-house harassment. Mademoiselle Thouret is only in her office in the Rue de Rivoli in the mornings. Every afternoon, she’s out and about visiting the defaulters in their homes.”
    â€œI get it.”
    â€œThey’re little people, mostly, because they are the ones most likely to be intimidated, and to pay up in the end. I didn’t see either of the partners. I waited outside until the staff came out at lunchtime. I took good care to avoid being seen by the young lady, and spoke to one of the other employees, a woman past her first youth, who, as it turned out, had no very warm feelings towards her colleague.”
    â€œAnd what did you find out?”
    â€œThat our little Monique has a boyfriend.”
    â€œDo you know his name?”
    â€œAll in good time, chief. They’ve known each other for about four months, and they meet every day for a set lunch at a restaurant in the Boulevard Sébastopol. He’s very young, only nineteen, and has a job as a salesman in a big bookshop in the Boulevard Saint-Michel.”
    Maigret was fiddling with the row of pipes strung out on his desk, then, although the one he was smoking was still alight, he started to fill another.
    â€œThe kid’s name is Albert Jorisse. I thought I might as well take a look at him, so I went along to the restaurant. You never saw such a