Lock No. 1 (6 page)

Movement of any
kind felt questionable. There were curious bystanders everywhere, especially on the
walls of the lock, and in the end they all pointed to one of the brackets and rather
shamefacedly asked:

‘Is that where …?'

The corpse had already been taken to the
Forensic Institute, a long, bony body which had been a familiar sight to Marne canal
regulars for a long time.

No one knew where Bébert had come from,
and he had no family. He had fitted out a nook in a Waterways Department dredger
which for the last ten years had been gently rusting in a quiet corner of the
port.

He would catch mooring ropes thrown from
barges; he cranked the sluices and gates open and shut; he helped out in small ways
and collected tips. That was all.

The lock-keeper was moving around his
territory looking important because that same morning three reporters had
interviewed him, and one of them had taken his picture.

As soon as Maigret got off the tram, he
walked into Fernand's bar, where there were more customers than usual. Voices
sank to a whisper. Those who knew him told the others what he did for a living. The
landlord came up to him, his manner familiar.

‘A beer? Not too much of a head on
it?'

With a wink he motioned to the far
corner of the bar. Old Gassin was there, as bad-tempered as a sick dog, his eyes
even more red-rimmed than ever.

He stared at Maigret, never taking his
eyes off him, but
on the contrary screwed
his face into a grimace intended to express his disgust.

But the inspector swallowed a large
mouthful of cold beer, wiped his mouth and started filling a fresh pipe. Through the
bar's window, behind Gassin, he could see the barges moored one against the
other and was vaguely disappointed not to catch a sight of Aline.

The landlord leaned close to him again
and pretended to wipe the top of a table to give him an opportunity to mutter:

‘You ought to do something, give
him a hand. He doesn't even hardly know where he is any more. See those bits
of paper on the floor? It's the notification to go and get loaded up on the
Quai de la Tournelle. That's what he did with it!'

But the old drunk knew very well they
were talking about him and he stood up, unsteady on his legs, approached Maigret,
looked him defiantly in the eye and then went off, elbowing the landlord out of his
way.

They saw him hesitate when he reached
the door. For a moment, it looked as if he might rush out into the road without
seeing the bus that was bearing down on him. But he swayed for a moment before
making straight for the bar opposite, while all the customers watched.

‘What did you make of that,
inspector?'

The conversation became general. People
talked to Maigret as if they had known him a long time.

‘… on top of which, old Gassin is
the straightest, most decent man you could wish to meet. But it looks like he
hasn't quite got over his experience of the other night, and
I can't help wondering if he'll ever shake it
off. And what do you think about Bébert? Is it number two in a series or
what?'

They were friendly and familiar. They
weren't taking the latest turn of events too seriously. Even so, when they
laughed, there was a slight edge to the sound.

Maigret just nodded and replied with
smiles and grunts.

‘Is it true the boss won't
be going to the funeral?'

So the news had already reached the bar!
And it was not quite an hour since the phone call had taken place!

‘He's a hard-headed one, all
right! Hard as they come! But have you heard that someone saw Bébert at the Gallia
cinema yesterday? Must have been after that he was jumped, just as he was getting
back on the dredger.'

‘I was at the cinema too,'
someone said.

‘Did you see him?'

‘I didn't see him but I was
there.'

‘So what does that
prove?'

‘It proves I was there!'

Maigret smiled as he got to his feet. He
paid and waved a general goodbye to all. He had instructed two inspectors to dig up
anything that was relevant and now, on the other side of the water, he thought he
made out one of them, Lucas, looking around the Waterways dredger.

He walked past Ducrau's house.
Ever since that morning and maybe since the previous evening, the Decharmes'
car had been parked at the kerb. He could have gone in, but what was the point? He
could imagine all too clearly what Ducrau had called their
‘carnival'.

He sauntered
along. He knew nothing for sure. He was not exactly thinking but he felt that
something was taking shape in his mind which he shouldn't try to force.

He turned round when he heard someone
hailing a taxi. It was the concierge. Moments later a blowzy young woman with
red-rimmed eyes, wearing black silk and looking upset, stepped into it while the
concierge piled suitcases on to the back seat.

It had to be Rose! It was enough to make
anyone smile! Maigret was still smiling when he walked up to the concierge, who gave
him a starchy look.

‘Was that the lady from the second
floor?'

‘And who might you be?'

‘Detective Chief Inspector
Maigret, Police Judiciaire.'

‘Then you know the answer as well
as I do.'

‘Was it the son-in-law who told
her to leave?'

‘Well, it wasn't me. Anyway,
it's their business.'

It was obvious. The family upstairs, in
their mourning clothes, whispering for hours trying to decide whether it was proper
or not to let the creature stay in the house in such solemn circumstances. And no
doubt Captain Decharme had been delegated to convey to her the verdict reached by
the family council.

It was entirely by chance that Maigret
stopped by the sign saying
Dance Hall
in white lettering on a large blue
metal panel. Outside the recessed door were climbing plants, which supplied a fresh,
country note and made it feel like a suburban
café dansant
. Inside it was
dark and cool after the dazzling pavement, and the brass flourishes on the
mechanical piano sparkled like real diamonds.

There were a few
tables, some benches then an empty space and, on one wall, an old backcloth which
had once seen service as scenery in a theatre.

‘Who's there?' a voice
called from the top of the stairs.

‘Someone.'

The owner of the voice was finishing
getting washed, for a tap was running and water was heard splashing in a wash-basin.
A woman in slippers and dressing gown came down.

‘Ah!' she murmured.
‘It's you.'

Like everyone else in Charenton, she
already knew about Maigret. She had once been pretty. Now on the stout side and
sapped by a life spent in this hothouse, she nevertheless still had a certain charm,
which was a mix of unconcern and an equable temperament.

‘You want something to
drink?'

‘Pour us both an aperitif.
Doesn't matter what.'

She drank gentian-bitters. She had a
particular way of putting both elbows together and leaning them on the table so that
her breasts pressed against each other and were half pushed out of her dressing
gown.

‘I thought you'd come. Your
very good health!'

She wasn't afraid. The police did
not impress her.

‘Is it true what they're
saying?'

‘About what?'

‘About Bébert, Oh, I'm
talking too much. What the hell. Not to mention that none of it is at all certain.
They're saying old man Gassin was the one …'

‘… who did it?'

‘At least he talks about it as if
he knew. Another glass?'

‘What about
Ducrau?'

‘What about him?'

‘Didn't he come here
yesterday?'

‘He often comes, to keep me
company. We go back a long way, even though he's now a rich man. He's
not proud. He sits where you're sitting now. We both have a drink. From time
to time he'll ask me for a five-
sou
piece for the piano.'

‘Was he here yesterday?'

‘Yes. There's dancing only
on Saturdays and Sundays and sometimes on a Monday. I don't usually close on
the other days, but I'm here more or less on my own. When my husband was
around things were different, because we served food.'

‘What time did he
leave?'

‘So that's how you're
thinking? Well let me tell you: you've got it all wrong. I know him. He used
to cosy up to me now and then when all he had was the one tug. But he never ever
tried anything more on with me, why I couldn't tell you. Still, that's
how it was … But you know this as well as I do! Yesterday, he was very down
…'

‘Did he drink much?'

‘Two, maybe three glasses, but
that much has no effect on him. He said: “If you only knew how sick I am of
those morons! I fancy a night just hanging around in some whorehouse. When I think
of them all up there crowding round my boy …”'

This time, Maigret did not smile when he
found the morons cropping up again. He looked around at the shabby walls, the
tables, the benches, the backcloth and
then at this good, decent woman who was now slowly
sipping the last of her second gentian.

‘You really don't know what
time he left?'

‘Maybe midnight? Perhaps earlier?
But I'll say one thing: it's a sad thing to have all that money and not
be happy!'

Maigret still did not smile.

‘The strange thing,' said
Maigret, ‘is that I'm convinced that this whole business is actually
very simple.'

They were in the office belonging to the
commissioner of the Police Judiciaire at that time of day when the rest of the
building is empty. A crimson sun was sinking over Paris, and the Seine, straddled by
the Pont-Neuf, was splashed with red, blue and deep yellow. The two men were
standing by a window, chatting in a desultory fashion.

‘As for my man …'

The phone rang. The commissioner picked
up the receiver.

‘Hello? … Are you keeping well? …
I'll give him to you …'

It was Madame Maigret. She was in
something of a state.

‘You forgot to phone … You did! We
agreed that you'd phone at four … Anyway, the furniture has got there and I
have to go. Can you come home straight away?'

Before he left, Detective Chief
Inspector Maigret explained to the commissioner:

‘I'd forgotten we were
moving house today. The removal van came for the furniture yesterday. My wife has to
be in the country to see to it.'

The commissioner
shrugged, and Maigret, who noticed, stopped in the doorway.

‘What are you thinking,
chief?'

‘That you'll be just like
all the rest, by which I mean that within a year you'll be back to work, only
this time it will be for a bank or some insurance company.'

That evening, in the gathering dark, the
office had a gloominess about it, a pervasive melancholy which both men pretended
not to notice.

‘You have my word that I
won't!'

‘I'll see you tomorrow.
Remember, no slip-ups with Ducrau. He's bound to have two or three members of
the Assembly in his pocket.'

Maigret took a taxi and a few minutes
later was in his apartment in Rue Richard-Lenoir. His wife was rushing around. Two
rooms were empty and in the others assorted bundles were piled high on the
furniture. Something was simmering, not on the cooker which had already gone, but on
a spirit stove.

‘And you really can't come
with me? Well, you'll just have to get the train tomorrow evening then. We
have to decide where the furniture will go.'

Not only was it not possible for him to
go with her, Maigret didn't want to. It certainly gave him an odd feeling to
come back to their ravaged home, which they were about to leave for ever, but odder
still was the sight of certain objects which his wife was packing up to take away
and the running commentary which she kept up as she busied around.

‘Have you seen those folding
chairs they delivered?
What's the
time now? Madame Bigaud herself phoned about the furniture. She says the weather is
wonderful and the cherry trees are white with blossom. The goat she told us about
isn't for sale, but the owner will give us a kid if there is one this
year.'

Maigret, who smiled approvingly, was not
in the mood.

‘Eat up!' cried Madame
Maigret from the next room. ‘I'm not hungry.'

Neither was he. He picked at his food.
Then he took the bulky, awkward items downstairs – there were even garden tools!
They filled a taxi.

‘Gare d'Orsay.'

On the platform, he kissed his wife at
the door of her carriage and at about eleven o'clock found himself alone by
the Seine, feeling cross about something or somebody.

A little further along, on Quai des
Célestins, he walked past Ducrau's offices. There were no lights showing. The
slanting illumination from a gas lamp made the brass plates gleam. And all along the
riverbanks boats were lying indolently on the water.

Why had the chief said that to him? It
was stupid! Maigret genuinely longed for the countryside, peace and quiet, books …
He was exhausted.

Yet he could not for the life of him
keep his thoughts on what his wife had talked about. He tried to remember what she
had said about the goat and various other things. But actually all he wanted now was
to watch the swarm of lights on the opposite side of the Seine.

‘I wonder where Ducrau is at this
time of night. Did
he go home in the end,
despite hating all the “carnival”? Is he having dinner, elbows on the
table, in an expensive restaurant or in some truck-drivers' café? Is he
trailing from one bawdy-house to another, wearing his mourning for his son on his
sleeve?'

They had found nothing on Jean Ducrau,
zero! There are people like that, individuals about whom no one has anything to say.
Two inspectors had been on his case. They had made inquiries in the Quartier Latin,
in the École de chartes and around Charenton.

‘A delightful young man, a little
withdrawn, has poor health …'

He was not known to have any bad habits
or to be passionate about anything. No one knew what he did of an evening.

‘He must have stayed in, catching
up with his work, because since his illness he'd found it hard to
work.'

No family life. No friends. No
girlfriend. And then one fine morning he hangs himself, accusing himself of trying
to kill his father!

Still, there were those three months
spent on board the
Golden
Fleece
with Aline.

Jean … Aline … Gassin … Ducrau …

Maigret recognized the gates at Bercy
and then, on the right, the chimney stacks of the power station. Trams clattered
past him. At times he would pause for no reason and then set off again.

A long way off Lock No. 1 awaited him,
as did the tall house, the barges, the two bars, the small dance hall that made up a
stage set or rather a self-contained world heavy
with reality, smells and snarled-up lives which he was
trying to untangle.

It was his last case. The furniture had
been delivered to their little place on the banks of the Loire.

He hadn't kissed his wife properly
when he left her. He had carried their possessions with bad grace. He had not even
waited for the train to start moving.

Why had the chief said that?

On an impulse, he jumped on a tram
instead of continuing on his uncertain way along the quays on foot.

The landscape looked all the emptier
for being lit by a moon which illuminated its darkest corners. The bar on the left
was already closed, and in the other, Fernand's, three men were playing cards
with him.

When Maigret walked past on the
pavement, they all heard the sound of his footsteps from inside. Fernand looked up
and must have recognized the inspector, for he opened the door for him.

‘Still here at this time of night?
Nothing else has happened, I hope?'

‘Nothing new.'

‘Won't you have a
drink?'

‘No thanks.'

‘Suit yourself. We were just
chatting …'

Maigret stepped inside, feeling that he
was making a mistake. The players were waiting, their cards in their hands. The
landlord poured himself a glass of white-brandy then a second for him.

‘Cheers!'

‘Are you
playing or not?'

‘Coming! If you don't mind
excusing me, inspector …?'

Maigret remained standing, sensing that
something strange was going on.

‘Won't you pull up a chair?
A trump!'

Maigret looked through the window but
saw nothing but the utterly still scene outside and the moon outlining the contours
of things.

‘Odd isn't it, this business
with Bébert?'

‘Play! You can talk
later.'

‘How much do I owe you?'
asked Maigret.

‘On the house.'

‘No …'

‘On me. Just wait a second and
then I'm all yours! Belote!'

He laid down his cards and headed for
the counter.

‘What'll you have? Another
of the same? And what about you, boys?'

There was something in the air, in their
manner and voices, that was not frank and open. It was particularly true of the
landlord, who was doing his level best to prevent silence breaking out.

‘Did you know Gassin is still as
drunk as ever? Looks like he's going for the full novena! A large one, Henry?
And what about you?'

The only sign of life on the sleeping
quayside came from the bar. Maigret, who was trying to keep an eye on what was
happening inside and outside, made his way to the door.

‘Oh, by the
way, inspector, I just wanted to tell you …'

‘Tell me what?' he snapped
as he turned round.

‘Wait a moment … No, it's
gone … Stupid of me … What'll you have?'

It was so obvious that his friends
looked at him in embarrassment. Fernand himself felt it too, and his cheeks turned a
deeper red.

‘What's going on?'
asked Maigret.

‘What do you mean?'

He held the door open and stared out at
the boats embedded in the canal.

‘Why are you trying to keep me
here?'

‘Me? I swear …'

And then at last Maigret dimly made out,
in the bulky shadow formed by the dark hulls, masts and cabins, a faint glimmer of
light. Without stopping to close the door behind him, he strode across the quayside
and found himself at the gangway of the
Golden Fleece
.

A man was standing not two metres away.
Maigret almost didn't see him.

‘What are you doing
here?'

‘Waiting for my fare.'

As he turned, Maigret saw that a little
further along stood a taxi without lights.

Under his weight, the narrow gangplank
creaked as it shifted position. There was a faint light behind the glass panes in
the door. He opened it without hesitating and put one foot on the steps.

‘May I come in?'

He sensed a
presence. After a few steps, he could see the whole of the cabin, which was lit by
an oil-lamp. The blankets on the bed had been made up for the night. On the waxed
tablecloth was a bottle and two glasses.

Two men were sitting facing each other,
silent and watchful, old Gassin, whose eyes were full of menace, and, elbows on the
table, Émile Ducrau, who had pushed his cap to the back of his head.

‘Come in, inspector! I thought you
might turn up …'

This wasn't bravado. He was
neither embarrassed nor surprised. The large oil-lamp gave off great gusts of heat,
and the quiet was so absolute that you would have sworn that before Maigret arrived
the two of them had spent hours neither speaking nor moving. The door to the second
cabin was bolted shut. Was Aline asleep? Was she inside, very still, listening in
the dark?

‘Is the cab driver still
there?'

Like a man half asleep, Ducrau struggled
to throw off his torpor.

‘Do you like Dutch gin?'

It was he who went and got a glass from
the sideboard, which he filled with a colourless liquid, and then reached out for
his own glass. At that moment Gassin, with a crude swipe of his hand, brushed
everything off the table. Bottle and glasses rolled across the floor. By some
miracle, the bottle did not break but it lost its cork and went on gurgling for some
time.

Ducrau had not batted an eyelid. Perhaps
he'd been expecting something of the sort? But Gassin, only moments
away from an eruption of fury, was
breathing heavily, fists bunched and his upper body arched forward.

Someone stirred in the other cabin. The
taxi-driver was still walking up and down outside on the quayside.

Gassin remained as he was for a moment
as if suspended in time, then slumped back on to his chair, his head in his hands,
sobbing.

‘Hell's teeth!'

Ducrau motioned Maigret towards the
hatch and, as he passed the old man, he merely touched him on the shoulder. It was
over. Out on deck, they drank in the fresh air, relishing its coolness. The
taxi-driver ran back to his cab. Ducrau paused a moment, one hand on the arm of his
companion.

‘I've done what I could. Are
you going back to Paris?'

They climbed back up the stone steps to
where the car's engine was running with its rear door open. Through the window
of the bar, Maigret saw the figure of Fernand, who must have been keeping an eye on
the car.

‘Was it you who gave the order
that you were not to be disturbed?'

‘Who to?'

Maigret gestured with one hand, and his
companion understood.

‘Did he do that?'

Ducrau smiled, both flattered and
irritated.

‘They're good men but not
very bright!' he growled. ‘Get in. Straight ahead, driver. Town
centre.'

He took his cap off and ran his hand
through his hair.

‘Were you looking for
me?'

Maigret had no
answer to this. In any case, one was not expected.

‘Have you thought any more about
the proposal I made this morning?'

But Ducrau had no high hopes. Perhaps he
might even have been disappointed by a positive response.