Lock No. 1 (8 page)

‘“Might need forceps
…”

‘There's not much room to
move. They keep getting in each other's way. And then the doctor starts
talking about crushing the child's head.

‘“But you can't do
that!” cries Louis.

‘“Do
you want me to save the mother?”

‘The doctor is almost asleep.
He's almost out on his feet. He's floundering. An hour later, he
straightens up. Louis sees that his wife has stopped screaming, is no longer moving
…'

Gassin stared Maigret straight in the
eye and finished:

‘Louis killed him.'

‘Killed the doctor?'

‘Coolly, no fuss, put a bullet in
his head, then he fired another into his gut, then he opened his own mouth as if he
intended eating the barrel, and there was a third shot. They sold the barge at
auction three months later.'

Why was Gassin smiling? Maigret
preferred him dead drunk and venomous, as he had been on previous days.

‘What are you going to do with me
now,' he asked, without curiosity.

‘Will you promise not to do
anything stupid?'

‘What do you mean by
stupid?'

‘Ducrau has always been your
friend, hasn't he?'

‘We come from the same village.
We've shipped together.'

‘He's … very fond of
you.'

Maigret stumbled over the words.

‘Maybe.'

‘Tell me, Gassin, who have you got
it in for? I'm talking man to man now.'

‘And you?'

‘I don't follow.'

‘I'm asking who you've
got it in for. You're looking for something. Well? Have you found
it?'

It was
unexpected. Where Maigret had seen only an old soak, there was a man who might drink
himself silly in his little corner but had in fact been carrying out an
investigation of his own. So that was what Gassin meant!

‘I haven't come up with
anything definite yet.'

‘Nor me.'

But he was on the point of doing so!
That was the meaning of the heavy, cold look in his eye.

Maigret had been right to give him back
his laces and tie. This whole business no longer had any connection with this
scruffy cell nor even with the police. They were two men sitting opposite each
other.

‘You had nothing to do with the
attack on Ducrau, did you?'

‘Absolutely nothing,' came
the sardonic reply.

‘Nor did you have anything to do
with the suicide of Jean Ducrau?'

Gassin did not answer but shook his head
slowly.

‘You weren't related to
Bébert and you weren't a friend of his. You had no reason to hang
him.'

The boatman stood up with a sigh, and
Maigret was shocked to see him so small, so old.

‘Tell me what you know, Gassin.
Your Châlons friend left nothing behind him. But you have a daughter.'

He regretted the words for he was given
a look of such desperate questing that he felt he had no choice but to lie, and lie
well, whatever the consequences.

‘Your daughter will get
better.'

‘Maybe she will and maybe she
won't.'

It was as if it didn't matter to
him either way. Dammit,
that
wasn't the issue, and Maigret knew it. They had reached the point where he
wished he hadn't come. But Gassin asked nothing. He remained silent and
watched, that was all, and it was painful.

‘You've been happy on the
barge until now …'

‘Do you know why I always do the
same run? Because it's the one we did after I got married.'

His face looked leathery, and the skin
was criss-crossed with fine black lines.

‘Answer me, Gassin: do you know
who attacked Ducrau?'

‘Not yet.'

‘Do you have any idea why his son
said he did it?'

‘Maybe.'

‘Do you know why the lock-keeper
was hanged?'

‘No.'

He was telling the truth, that much was
beyond doubt.

‘Will I be sent to
prison?'

‘I can't keep you under
arrest much longer for carrying a prohibited firearm. All I ask is that you should
stay calm and patient and wait until my investigations are complete.'

The small, light-coloured eyes had
turned aggressive again.

‘I'm not the doctor from
Châlons,' added Maigret.

Gassin smiled as the inspector got to
his feet, exhausted by this encounter which was supposed to be an interrogation.

‘I'm going to let you go
now.'

It was the only thing he could do.
Outside, it was still the same implausible spring weather – not a drop of rain,
never a shower and a cloudless sky. The ground under the
chestnut trees in the small square was hard and white.
All day, council watering carts kept sprinkling the tarmac, which was now as soft as
at the height of summer.

On the Seine, the Marne and even on the
canal itself small boats, some painted, others newly varnished, rowed by men with
their shirt-sleeves rolled up, threaded their way through the barges.

There were pavement cafés everywhere,
and to stroll past one of them was to walk through a smell of cold beer. Many
boatmen had not yet rejoined their boats; they were rolling from one bar to another,
in their starched collars, their faces growing redder and redder.

An hour later, Maigret learned in the
bar on the quay that Gassin hadn't gone back to his barge but that he'd
taken a room at Catherine's, above the dance hall.

It was a Sunday, one of those Sundays
which do not exist outside childhood memories, everything spruce and newly minted,
from the periwinkle-blue sky to the water which reflected elongated images of the
houses. Even the taxis were redder or greener than on other days, and the empty,
echoing streets playfully bounced the smallest sounds back and forth.

Maigret ordered the driver to stop just
before he got to the Charenton lock, and Lucas, whom he'd detailed to keep an
eye on Gassin, emerged from the bar and came over to meet him.

‘He hasn't moved. He spent
last night drinking with the woman who runs the dance hall, but he hasn't left
the place. Maybe he's still asleep.'

The decks of the barges were as deserted
as the streets. There was just one small boy sitting on a rudder, who was putting on
his Sunday socks. Lucas, nodding towards the
Golden Fleece
, went on:

‘Yesterday, the crazy girl got
worked up. She popped out of the hatch five or six times and once she ran as far as
the bar on the corner. Some boatmen saw her and went off to find the old man, but he
wouldn't go home. After the funeral and the rest of it, it created an awkward
atmosphere. Until midnight you could see people on the boats all the time, and they
were all looking in this direction. I
should also mention that the dance hall has opened again
for business. You can hear the music as far away as the lock. The men from the boats
were still all dressed up. Anyway, the girl must have gone to sleep in the end, but
this morning it wasn't properly light before she was wandering around the
place, not wearing shoes, like a cat worrying about her kittens. On the way she woke
up the neighbours on three or four barges: two hours ago you'd have seen men
and women in nightshirts peering out of all the hatches. But despite it all, no one
told her where the old man was. I think it was for the best. One woman brought her
back to the
Golden Fleece
, and they're both there now, cooking up
breakfast for themselves. Look, you can see the smoke coming from the
stove-pipe.'

Smoke was rising straight into the air
from most of the boats, where people were getting dressed amid a warm aroma of
coffee.

‘Keep watching him,' said
Maigret.

Instead of getting back into his taxi,
he walked into the dance hall. The door was open. The woman was sprinkling water on
the floor before sweeping it.

‘Is he upstairs?' asked the
inspector.

‘I think he's just got up. I
can hear footsteps.

Maigret climbed several stairs and
listened. Someone was indeed moving about. Then a door opened, and Gassin stuck out
his face covered with shaving soap, shrugged his shoulders and went back inside.

Ducrau's house in the country, at
Samois, was separated from the Seine by the towpath. It was a substantial
building consisting of three wings and
a central courtyard.

When the taxi stopped, Ducrau was
waiting by the gate. He was wearing navy blue as usual, and there was a new cap on
his head.

‘You needn't keep the
cab,' he told Maigret. ‘My car will take you back.'

He waited while Maigret paid the driver.
He applied surprisingly meticulous attention to locking the gate himself. He then
put the key in his pocket and called to his chauffeur, who was at the far end of the
courtyard cleaning a grey car with a hose.

‘Edgar! Don't let anybody in
and if you see anyone prowling round the house, come and tell me.'

After which he looked solemnly at
Maigret and asked:

‘Where is he?'

‘Getting dressed.'

‘What about Aline? What sort of
state is she in?'

‘She went out looking for him. But
now she's on the barge, and a neighbour is with her.'

‘Fancy a bite to eat? We
won't be having lunch before one.'

‘No thanks.'

‘Maybe a glass of
something?'

‘Not just now.'

Ducrau stayed in the courtyard, looking
at the buildings and pointed to a window with the end of his walking stick.

‘The old girl isn't dressed
yet. As for the young couple, you can hear them bickering.'

Indeed raised voices could be heard
through the open windows of a room on the first floor.

‘The
vegetable garden is at the back, as are the original stables. The house on the left
belongs to a big publisher, and some English people live in the one on the
right.'

There were country houses and villas in
the area round about, between the Seine and the forest of Fontainebleau. Maigret
made out the dull thud of balls coming from a nearby tennis court. The gardens were
contiguous. An old lady in white was sitting in a rocking-chair by the side of a
lawn.

‘Sure you won't have a
drink?'

Ducrau seemed disconcerted, as if he was
asking himself what on earth he was going to do with his visitor. He hadn't
shaved. His eyelids drooped wearily.

‘Well, this is where we spend
Sundays.'

The tone of voice was the same as if he
had sighed:

‘Do you have any idea of how awful
life can be?'

Around the two men all was calm, with
contrasts of light and shade, white walls, climbing roses and a shingle of gravel
underfoot. The Seine flowed gently by, its surface furrowed by small boats. People
on horses rode past on the towpath.

Ducrau made his way to the vegetable
garden, filling his pipe as he walked, pointed out a peacock which was floundering
through a bed of lettuce and growled:

‘My daughter's idea. She
thinks it adds a touch of class. She wanted swans too, but there's no
lake!'

He was giving so little thought to what
he was saying that suddenly, looking Maigret straight in the eye, he said very
distinctly:

‘I don't suppose
you've changed your mind?'

It wasn't
a question he was asking lightly. He'd had it ready for some time, probably
since the evening before, and it was all he had been thinking about. He attached
such importance to it that it hung over him like a brooding cloud.

Maigret was smoking and watched the
smoke rising in the clear air.

‘I'm leaving the force on
Wednesday.'

‘I know.'

They understood each other perfectly,
though neither wanted to let it be known. Ducrau had not shut and locked the gate
casually, and there was nothing casual now about the way he walked round the
deserted vegetable garden.

‘Isn't this enough for
you?' asked Maigret so quietly and with such unconcern that anyone would have
wondered if in fact he'd spoken at all.

Ducrau halted and spent ages staring at
a melon cloche. When he looked up again, his expression was quite different. Before,
he hadn't been wearing a mask: he'd been a man who was worried,
hesitant, anxious.

But that was all changed. His features
had hardened. An unpleasant smile lurked around his mouth. He did not look at his
visitor but all around him, at the sky, at the windows of the large white house.

‘He'll see me, won't
he?'

And his roaming eyes finally hit Maigret
full in the face. It was the gaze of a man forcing himself to look on the bright
side but, as his confidence ebbs, tries to look threatening.

‘Let's talk about something
else. What if we had that
drink after
all? Know what surprises me? The fact that your inquiries have not included Decharme
and my mistress, and …'

‘I thought you wanted to change
the subject?'

But a genial Ducrau laid a hand on
Maigret's shoulder and carried on:

‘Hold on! Let's play this
straight. You start by telling me who you think is guilty.'

‘Guilty of what?

They were both smiling. From a distance,
it would have appeared that they must be talking about something quite
insignificant.

‘Of everything.'

‘What if there are different
persons who are guilty of different things?'

Ducrau frowned: he did not like the
answer. He opened a door, the door to the kitchen, where his wife, still in her
dressing gown, was giving instructions to a maid. She was very put out to have been
caught with her hair undone and, holding on to her chignon with one hand, stammered
her excuses while her husband growled:

‘That'll do! The inspector
doesn't give a damn about that! Mélie, I want you to go down to the cellar and
bring us up a bottle of … what shall it be? … champagne? No? In that case
we'll make do with the aperitifs in the drawing room.'

He slammed the door behind them and when
they reached the drawing room he rummaged among bottles which cluttered a
window-sill.

‘Pernod? Gentian? Did you see? And
her daughter is even worse! If she wasn't in mourning, she'd come down
later in a pink or green silk dress,
with her very best smile and sugary manners.'

He filled two glasses and pushed a chair
towards the inspector.

‘It doesn't bother me if the
neighbours look down on us, especially when, as we shall soon be doing, we eat
outside, on the terrace!'

His glance wandered slowly from one
object to another. The drawing room was expensively done out, and there was an
enormous grand piano.

‘Good health! When I was buying my
first tug, I had of course to pay for it by instalments. I had twelve drafts, which
the bank was willing to accept provided I could find a guarantor. I asked my
father-in-law to back me. Know what? He refused, saying he didn't have the
right to reduce his family to beggary! And now I'm the one responsible for
keeping the old woman.'

It seemed that his bitterness was so
deeply rooted in him that it made him ill even to talk about it. He looked round for
something else to talk about. He reached for a box of cigars.

‘Want one? If you'd prefer
to stick to the pipe, feel free.'

As he spoke, he crumpled up the
embroidered napkin which lay on the table.

‘That's how they spend their
time! And then there's the officer who solves those prize chess problems you
find on the back pages of newspapers!'

He was thinking about something else,
and Maigret, who was beginning to get to know him, just smiled now when
Ducrau's eyes were at variance with what he said.

What about those
eyes? They were constantly on Maigret. They never stopped trying to size him up.
They kept wondering all the time if their first impression was right and especially
what his weak spot might be.

‘What did you do about your
mistress?'

‘I told her to make herself scarce
and I don't even know where she went. On the other hand, she turned up for the
funeral tastefully rigged out in full mourning with her face made up like some
ageing tart!'

His frustration was obvious. Everything
rubbed him up the wrong way. It was as if he'd got to the point where he even
hated inanimate objects like the napkin which he was still torturing with his
fingers.

‘In the Maxim, she was delightful,
full of fun. She embodied something, you know, something different from my wife and
women like her! I set her up in her own apartment and what happened? She ran to fat,
took to washing her own clothes and cooked like a concierge …'

Maigret had long since understood how
Ducrau's tragicomic situation had poisoned his existence. He had started with
nothing. He now earned money hand over fist, he did deals with powerful men of
business and had glimpses of their way of life. Meanwhile his family had held him
back. At Samois, Madame Ducrau was still doing the same things and behaving in the
same way as when she used to do the washing in the stern of the tug and his daughter
was a caricature of a lower middle-class, shopkeeper's wife.

Ducrau felt it like a personal affront
and he was absolutely convinced that the neighbours didn't take him
seriously despite the huge white
mansion, the chauffeur and the gardener.

He would watch them on their lawns and
on their terraces and envy them. He was filled with rage and, by way of protest,
spat on the floor, kept his hands in his pockets and swore loudly.

There were footsteps on the stairs. He
sighed and said with a wink:

‘Here come the others!'

It was his daughter and son-in-law, in
black, formally dressed and well turned out. They advanced with their heads bowed,
exuding the pained self-effacement of those who have been visited by grievous
misfortune.

‘Delighted to meet you, inspector.
Father has often spoken of you and …'

‘That's enough of that! Have
something to drink instead!'

His irritation grew stronger in their
presence. From the window, he kept his eyes on the gate, which stood out against the
Seine behind it.

‘You must excuse us,
inspector.'