Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard by Georges Simenon

supper was laid out, and several people were seated at the table.
    â€œI’m sorry to have to disturb you…”
    â€œAllow me to introduce my brother-in-law, Monsieur Magnin, who is a railway inspector.”
    â€œPleased to meet you.”
    Magnin was both humorless and stupid. He had a ginger moustache, and an Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down.
    â€œYou’ve already met my sister Jeanne. This is my elder sister Céline.”
    There was barely room for all of them in the cramped little kitchen. Monique alone had not risen to greet him. She was subjecting the chief superintendent to an unwavering stare. She must have been thinking that he had come for her, to question her on the subject of Albert Jorisse, and she was frozen with terror.
    â€œMy brother-in-law Landin, Céline’s husband, will be coming home on the Blue Train tonight. He’ll just be in time for the funeral. Won’t you sit down?”
    He shook his head.
    â€œWould you like to see him?”
    She wanted him to know that they had done things in style. He followed her into the adjoining room, where Louis Thouret was laid out in his coffin. The lid had not yet been screwed down. Very softly, she whispered:
    â€œHe looks as if he was asleep.”
    He went through all the proper motions, dipping a sprig of rosemary into a bowl of holy water, crossing himself, moving his lips as though in prayer, and then crossing himself again.
    â€œHe never thought about dying…” she said, and added:
    â€œHe did so love life!”
    They tiptoed out, and she shut the door behind her. The others were waiting for Maigret to leave, before returning to their meal.
    â€œWill you be attending the funeral, chief superintendent?”
    â€œI’ll be there. As a matter of fact, that was what I came to see you about.”
    Monique still did not stir, but she was obviously relieved to hear this. Maigret did not seem to have noticed her, so she kept very still, almost as if, in that way, she could ward off what fate had in store for her.
    â€œI take it you and your sisters know most of the people who will be attending the funeral? I don’t, of course.”
    â€œI understand!” said Magnin, the brother-in-law, implying that great minds think alike.
    And he turned to the others, as if to say:
    â€œThis is going to be good!”
    â€œAll I’m asking is that, if you should spot anyone there whose presence strikes you as odd, you should simply point them out to me.”
    â€œYou mean you think the murderer might be there?”
    â€œNot necessarily the murderer. I can’t afford to ignore any possibility, however remote. You must remember that much of your husband’s life during the past three years is still shrouded in mystery.”
    â€œAre you insinuating that he was mixed up with another woman?”
    It was not only her face that had assumed a hard expression, but those of her two sisters as well.
    â€œI’m not insinuating anything. I’m just feeling my way. If you notice anything out of the way tomorrow, just give me a sign. I shall understand.”
    â€œDo you mean we should be on the lookout for any stranger?”
    He nodded, and then apologized again for disturbing them. It was Magnin who saw him to the door.
    â€œHave you anything to go on yet?” he asked, man to man, in the tone of voice one adopts with the doctor just after he has seen the patient.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNot even the tiniest glimmer of an idea?”
    â€œNone at all. Goodnight.”
    His purpose in visiting the Rue des Peupliers had not been to alleviate the feeling of oppression which had weighed upon him ever since he had sat waiting to be called as witness in the Lecœur trial. In the car, on the way back to Paris, he was occupied with random and seemingly irrelevant thoughts. He was remembering that when, at the age of twenty, he had first arrived in the capital, what had most