Lock No. 1

by Georges Simenon

  Maigret did not bat an eyelid, but for the first time in ages he was revelling in the company of someone who was really worth knowing.

  ‘Drink up. Have a cigar. Put a few in your pocket for later. Go ahead! Do your job but no fancy tricks. When the people from the prosecutor’s office came to see me yesterday, there was an examining magistrate, a real martinet, who walked around in cream-coloured gloves as if he was afraid to get his hands dirty. So what did I do? I told him to take his hat off and put his cigarette out, while I blew smoke in his face. Are you with me? Now I’m listening.’

  ‘My turn to ask a question. Do you still intend to pursue your case? Yes? And do you really want me to find the guilty man?’

  The shadow of a smile flickered on Ducrau’s lips. Instead of answering, he murmured:

  ‘Next question.’

  ‘That’s it. It’s not too late.’

  ‘Do you have anything else to say to me?’

  ‘No.’

  Maigret got up and, his pupils made smaller by the sun, stood stock still by the open window.

  ‘Mathilde! Mathilde!’ shouted the man in the chair. ‘First, you must try to come when I call. Second, put on a clean apron. Now, off you go and fetch a bottle of champagne. One of the eight bottles at the back on the left-hand side.’

  ‘I don’t drink champagne,’ said Maigret when the maid had gone.

  ‘You’ll drink this one. It’s an 1897 Brut, sent to me by the manager of the biggest vintners in Rheims.’

  He was mellower now. There even stirred in him a flicker of excitement, though it was barely perceptible.

  ‘What are you looking at?’

  ‘Gassin’s boat.’

  ‘Gassin is an old friend, you know, the only one who still treats me like in the old days!

  ‘The first time we went to sea, we went together. I gave him command of one of my boats which does the Belgian run mainly.’

  ‘He’s got a pretty daughter …’

  It was merely an impression, for the distance was too great for Maigret to see more than a silhouette. And yet it was enough to make it certain that the girl was good-looking.

  Yet she was just a hazy figure! A black dress and a white apron, and feet bare in her clogs.

  Ducrau did not respond and after a few moments of silence he barked as if he had reached the end of his patience:

  ‘Go on! The woman upstairs, the serving girl and the rest of them! I know where you’re headed …’

  The kitchen door opened. Before fully emerging, Madame Ducrau coughed discreetly and said hesitantly:

  ‘Shall I go for some ice?’

  He became incandescent:

  ‘Why don’t you traipse all the way to Rheims for the champagne?’

  She vanished without a word. The door stayed partly open while Ducrau resumed:

  ‘This is the way of it. On the second floor, directly above this room, I’ve installed a young woman, name of Rose, who used to be a hostess at the Maxim.’

  He made no effort to keep his voice down, the very opposite. His wife must have heard. There was a rattle of glasses from the kitchen. The maid, in a clean apron, entered carrying a tray.

  ‘If you want to know more, I give her two thousand francs a month plus dresses, but she makes nearly all of them herself. That’ll do, girl! Just put it down and get out! Would you like to open the bottle, inspector?’

  Maigret was getting used to being there. He was hardly aware of the noise either of the crusher or of the street, which mingled with the buzzing of two large bluebottles in the room.

  ‘We were talking about the day before yesterday. My daughter and her idiot of a husband were here, as usual. I went out after we’d had dessert. I can’t stand pests, and my son-in-law is a pest. Here’s to you!’

  He smacked his lips and sighed:

  ‘That’s all. It was around ten o’clock. I walked along the pavement. I had a drink with Catherine, who runs the dance hall a little way along the street. Then I went on and reached the corner of the narrow alley, further along, where there’s a streetlamp. I much prefer drinking a beer or two with tarts than being with my son-in-law.’

  ‘When you left that establishment, did you notice if anyone was following you?’

  ‘I never saw anything at all.’

  ‘Which way did you go next?’

  ‘No idea.’

  It was curt. His voice had turned aggressive again. Ducrau, taking too large a gulp of champagne, spluttered, coughed, then spat on the faded carpet.

  The medical report said that the wound in the barge-owner’s back was superficial and that he had been in the water for three or four minutes and had perhaps surfaced once or twice.

  ‘Of course, you don’t suspect anybody?’

  ‘I suspect everybody!’

  He had a strange face. His head was large, fleshy and slack-featured and yet he gave out an impression of hardness and exceptional strength. When he was watching out for a reaction from Maigret, he had the look of old peasants who clinch deals at farmers’ fairs, but a split-second later the expression in his blue eyes was disarmingly naive.

  One minute he was threatening, yelling, cursing and the next it was far from clear if he wasn’t behaving that way because it amused him.

  ‘That was what I wanted to make a point of telling you. Because I’m entitled to suspect everybody: my wife, my son, my daughter, her husband, Rose, the maid, Gassin …’

  ‘… and his daughter …’

  ‘Yes, Aline too if you like.’

  But there was a subtle difference in his voice.

  ‘And there’s something else I will add. You have my permission to make life unpleasant for all these people connected to me. I know the police. I know they’ll go sniffing around, even in their dustbins. We might as well make a start now. Jeanne! … Jeanne! …’

  His wife appeared looking surprised and very apprehensive.

  ‘Come in, for God’s sake! It’s no good meeting company behaving like a servant. Get yourself a glass. Go on! And clink with the inspector. Now, can you guess what he wants to know?’

  Pale and impassive, she was badly dressed, her hair was badly combed, and she had aged as badly as the furniture in the living room. The sun hurt her eyes, and after twenty-five years of marriage she still jumped each time her husband raised his voice.

  ‘He wants to know what we talked about all through dinner when Berthe came with her husband.’

  She tried to smile. The hand holding her glass of champagne shook. Maigret noticed her fingers, which were wrinkled from working in the kitchen.

  ‘Answer. Have a drink first.’

  ‘We talked about all sorts.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘I’m sorry, inspector, but I don’t understand what my husband means.’

  ‘Of course you do! Listen, I’ll help you …’

  She was standing up, next to the red armchair in which Ducrau was so firmly ensconced that he and it looked as if they were one and the same.

  ‘Berthe started it. Try and remember. She said …’

  ‘Émile!’

  ‘Don’t Émile me! She said she was afraid to have a baby, and that if they did Decharme couldn’t stay in the army because he doesn’t earn enough to pay for a wet-nurse and all the rest of the things they’d need. I advised him to get a job selling peanuts. Is that true or not?’

  She smiled weakly and tried to make excuses for him.

  ‘You should get some rest …’

  ‘And what did that great booby suggest? Answer! What did he suggest? That part of my estate should be divided up now, since it’s going to have to be done sooner or later! And with his share, he would move to Provence, where it seems the climate would best suit his progeny. Meanwhile, we could go and visit them in the holidays.’

  He was not worked up. This was no passing rage. The very opposite! He doled out his words slowly, harshly, one after the other.

  ‘And what did he add when I was putting my ha
t on? I want you to say it.’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  She was near to tears. She put her glass down so that she would not upset it.

  ‘Say it!’

  ‘He said you were spending a lot of money on other things.’

  ‘He didn’t say “other things”.’

  ‘On …’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘On women …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘On her upstairs.’

  ‘Did you hear that, inspector? Isn’t there anything else you want to ask her? I ask because she’s going to start crying, and that’s no fun for anybody. You can go!’

  He sighed again, a long sigh which could only have sprung from that barrel chest.

  ‘That was just a sample. If you find it entertaining, you can carry on by yourself, without me. I’ll be back on my feet tomorrow, whatever the doctor says. You’ll find me where I am every morning from six onwards, on site. Another glass? You’ve forgotten to take some cigars. Gassin has just brought five hundred through for me, smuggled them in on his boat. As you see, I have no secrets from you.’

  He got heavily to his feet, pushing himself up on the arms of his chair.

  ‘Thank you for all your assistance,’ said Maigret who had tried to find the most prosaic form of words.

  There was amusement in Ducrau’s eyes. In the inspector’s too. They stood looking at each other with the same stifled mirth which was full of unspoken thoughts, perhaps of defiance and maybe too of an odd respect.

  ‘Shall I call the girl to show you out?’

  ‘No thanks. I know the way.’

  They did not shake hands, and that also happened as if by mutual consent. Ducrau remained by the open window, a black shadow against the brightness outside. He was doubtless more tired than he wished to appear, for he was breathing quickly.

  ‘Good hunting! Maybe you’ll win the twenty thousand francs yourself!’

  As he passed the kitchen door, Maigret heard crying coming from inside. He let himself out on to the landing, went down a few steps, stopped in the shaft of sunlight, which had changed place, in order to look at a document from the file he had in his pocket. It was the pathologist’s report, which, among other things, said:

  The tentative hypothesis of suicide should be discarded since it is impossible for a man to stab himself with a knife in the place where the wound is situated.

  Someone was moving around in the semi-darkness inside the concierge’s lodge. She had just got back.

  Emerging on to the pavement outside was like stepping into a bath of heat, light, noise, coloured dust and movement. A number 13 stopped then set off immediately. The bell on the door of the bar to the right rang out, while stones clattered down inside the crushing mill and a small tug with a blue triangle hooted as loudly as it could, venting its fury at the sluice of the lock, which had just been slammed shut in its face.

  3.

  Above the steam vessel in the middle of the dazzling-blue sign-board flew a swarm of seagulls, and underneath were the words: ‘Eagles’ Rest. Marne and Haute-Seine River Pilots’ Bar.’

  It was the bar on the right. Maigret pushed the door open and sat down in a corner, while silence closed in all around him. There were only five men there, sitting around a table, their legs crossed, chairs tilted back, caps pulled down over their eyes because of the sun’s glare. Four were wearing blue jerseys with high necks, and all had the same well-tanned skin, with lines so fine they scarcely showed, and hair which was greying on the back of their necks and at the temples.

  The man who got up and came over to Maigret was the landlord.

  ‘What’ll it be?’

  The café was clean. There was sawdust on the floor, the metal surface of the counter gleamed, and everywhere there was that bittersweet smell which signals the aperitif hour.

  ‘Aha!’ muttered one of the men as he relit his half-smoked cigarette.

  This ‘Aha!’ was clearly intended for Maigret who had ordered a beer and was gently pressing tobacco down in his pipe. Directly facing him in the group was a shrunken old man with a yellowish beard who drank the contents of his glass in one gulp and as he wiped his moustache grunted:

  ‘Fill her up again, Fernand!’

  There was a bandage round his right arm, and this confirmed that he was old man Gassin. The others had started making knowing signs to each other as they nodded in the direction of the boatman who was glaring at Maigret with such venom that the hairy skin of his face was screwed up tight.

  He had been drinking, as was obvious from the fuddled clumsiness of his movements. In Maigret he had smelled police, and his comrades sniggered at his agitated state.

  ‘Happy days, Gassin!’

  By now he was fuming.

  ‘Seems like you got something to say, a tale to tell to this gentleman!’

  And one of the men gave Maigret a wink which meant:

  ‘Pay no attention! You can see the state he’s in!’

  The landlord was perhaps the only one who felt slightly uneasy, but his customers were enjoying themselves hugely, and there was a feeling of genuine friendliness in the air. Through the window, only the railing of the quay was just about visible, along with the masts and helms of barges, and the roof of the lock-keeper’s house.

  ‘When are you off, then, Gassin?’

  Then another man said, in a whisper:

  ‘Go on, tell him!’

  It seemed that his advice would be followed. The old man stood up and with the forced casualness of drunks shambled to the counter.

  ‘Another one, Fernand!’

  He was still watching Maigret. There was something very complex in his expression, for in his look there was a hint of insolence to be sure but also a degree of underlying hopelessness.

  The inspector tapped the table with a coin to summon the landlord.

  ‘What do I owe you?’

  Fernand, leaning over the table, told him the amount then added in a whisper:

  ‘Don’t provoke him. He’s been drunk for two days.’

  The words were only half spoken, but from where he was sitting the old man thundered:

  ‘What you saying?’

  Maigret was on his feet. He wasn’t looking for trouble. He put on his most inoffensive expression and made for the door. When he had crossed the road, he turned and saw Gassin, who was now at the window, glass in hand, watching his every move.

  The air was warmer now, and dark gold in colour. A sleeping tramp lay stretched out on the stone flags of the quayside. There was a newspaper over his head.

  Cars drove past along with the trucks and trams, but by now Maigret had realized that they were not important. Whatever roared by like this along the road was not part of the landscape. Paris came this way to get to the banks of the Marne, but it was just traffic noise. What really counted was the lock, the hooting of the tugs, the stone-crusher, the barges and the cranes, the two pilots’ bars and especially the tall house where he could make out Ducrau’s red chair framed by a window.

  People felt at home out of doors. Workmen from a crane were sitting on a pile of sand, having a bite to eat. A woman was setting up a table on the deck of her barge, and her neighbour was doing the washing.

  The inspector walked unhurriedly down the stone steps and rediscovered the same slow, strong rhythm of things he had felt once before when investigating a crime in Haute-Marne. Even the distinctive smell of the canal prompted images to flash into his mind of barges gliding without breaking the surface of the water.

  He was nearly at the Golden Fleece, with its hull built of wood coated with red-coloured resin. The deck, which had just been washed, was drying in patches, and the young woman was nowhere to be seen.

  Maigret took a couple of steps on the gangplank, turned, saw the old man leaning down over the railing above him. He went on and, once on board, called out:

  ‘Anyone about?’

  On a nearby boat, the woman who was doing her washing watched him as
he headed towards a double door with blue and red glass panes.

  ‘Hello?’

  A short flight of stairs led down to what he could dimly make out as a clean, neat room. In one corner, he could even see a table with a cloth on it.

  He continued down the stairs and, when he reached the last step, he came face to face with the young woman with fair hair, who was sitting on a straw-bottomed chair holding a baby to her breast.

  It was so unexpected and at the same time so natural a thing that the inspector removed his hat awkwardly, stuffed his still hot pipe into a pocket and took a step back.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry …’

  The young woman must have felt scared. She scrutinized him as if she were trying to guess his intentions, but she did not move from where she was, and the child’s tiny mouth remained clamped on her breast.

  ‘I didn’t know … I’m in charge of the investigation and I came on board to ask you for some information.’

  As Maigret looked at her he felt vaguely uneasy. Some sort of misgiving took root, though he could not say what it was exactly.

  Around him, the room was big, with varnished pine everywhere. In one corner was a bed with a quilt over it, and above the headboard hung an ebony crucifix. The middle section of the cabin was used as a dining area, and the table was laid for two.

  ‘Sit down,’ said the young woman.

  Her voice too was quite unexpected, and yet, from Ducrau’s window, Maigret had already had had a sense of Aline’s strangeness. From a distance, there seemed to be something ethereal about her.

  But she was not slim, nor was she fragile And close to, her body was noticeably healthy and firm, fully alive. Her features were regular, and her tanned complexion formed a contrast with the fairness of her hair.

  So why did the sum of the parts suggest frailty and make one want to protect and console her?