Lock No. 1

by Georges Simenon

  ‘I come to the office as little as possible. There are enough minions to get through the work that’s done here. This morning, I just didn’t know where else to hide.’

  He felt irritated by Maigret’s silence and passivity because, to play his part, he needed the reactions of others to respond to.

  ‘Know where I spent last night? In a hotel in Rue de Rivoli! Because they all descended on the house: the wife’s elderly mother, my daughter, her moronic husband, not to mention the neighbours! They turned it into a funereal carnival, so I decided to make myself scarce!’

  He meant it. Even so, he was pleased with the word ‘carnival’.

  ‘I just trailed around. I’m sick of myself. Does it ever happen to you, to feel sick of yourself?’

  And then he suddenly snatched from the table a newspaper which was several days old, got to his feet, stood over Maigret and pushed the paper under his nose, using a fingernail to point out a brief paragraph.

  ‘Did you see this?’

  We have learned that Divisional Chief Inspector Maigret, of the Police Judiciaire, although still some way off the age limit, has applied for, and been given, early retirement. He will leave his post next week and is likely to be replaced by Chief Inspector Ledent.

  ‘Well?’ said Maigret, rather taken aback.

  ‘So how many days have you got left? Six, isn’t it?’

  He did not sit down. He needed to walk. He walked up and down, sometimes with his back to the light and sometimes facing the window, with his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his waistcoat.

  ‘I asked you yesterday how much the police force paid you, remember? Well today I can tell you this: I know you better than you think. As of next week, I am ready to offer you a hundred thousand francs a year to come and work for me. Wait before you answer.’

  With an impatient gesture he opened a door and beckoned to the inspector to join him. In the light-filled office, a man of thirty years of age with already receding hair was sitting in front of a pile of files. There was a long cigarette-holder in his mouth. A secretary was ready to take dictation.

  ‘The head of towage,’ declared Ducrau as the man got hurriedly to his feet.

  The shipping magnate added:

  ‘Don’t let me disturb you, Monsieur Jaspar. (He stressed the Monsieur.) But since you’re here, tell me again what it is you do every evening. Because, if I’m not mistaken, you are a champion at something or other.’

  ‘Crosswords.’

  ‘Is that so! Perfect! Did you hear that, inspector? Monsieur Jaspar, head of towage, at thirty-two years of age, is a crossword champion!’

  He had pronounced each syllable separately and on the last he slammed the door shut violently and then stood facing Maigret, looking him straight in the eye.

  ‘Did you see that knuckle-head? There are more like him downstairs and up on the next floor, all neatly turned-out, respectable, and what is called hard-working. You can be sure that at this very moment Monsieur Jaspar is going green at the gills wondering what he can have done to get on the wrong side of me. His secretary will spread what happened all round the building, and they’ll all spend the next ten days drooling over it like it was chocolate. Just because I give them a title like department head they honestly believe they’re in charge of something. Cigar?’

  There was a box of Havanas on the mantelpiece, but the inspector preferred his pipe, which he filled.

  ‘I wouldn’t give you a title. You’re beginning to get some idea of what my business is about. Carriage of freight on the one hand, that is towage, and then the quarries and the rest of it. Actually the rest could be built up in all sorts of ways. I’d let my staff know that you are to be given a free hand. You’d come and go as and when you liked. You’d stick your nose into everything …’

  Once more, Maigret saw in his mind’s eye long canals lined with trees, old women in black straw hats and tip-up-trucks making their way towards the barges. Ducrau had rung a bell, and a secretary had stepped smartly in, her dictation pad at the ready.

  ‘Take this down. We the undersigned, Émile Ducrau and Maigret … first name? … and Maigret, Joseph, are in agreement as follows. As of 18 March next, Monsieur Joseph Maigret shall become an employee of …’

  He looked at Maigret, frowned then spoke sharply to the secretary:

  ‘You can go!’

  He paced round the room, hands behind his back, darting anxious glances at his companion, who, however, had not said a word.

  ‘Well?’ he said finally.

  ‘No go.’

  ‘A hundred and fifty thousand? Ah no! It’s not about money.’

  He opened the window, exposing the room to the rumble of the city. It was warm. He tossed his cigar into empty space.

  ‘Why are you leaving the force?’

  Maigret smiled as he puffed on his pipe.

  ‘But you must admit you’re not the type who can sit still doing nothing.’

  Deflated, impatient, his temper began to rise, and yet the way he looked at Maigret was full of respect and goodwill.

  ‘Nor has that got anything to do with money either.’

  Maigret looked towards the door of the adjacent office, at the ceiling, at the floor, and murmured:

  ‘Maybe my reasons are the same as yours?’

  ‘You mean you’ve got a lot of morons working for you too?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  The inspector was in a good mood, or rather he was fully himself. He felt on top form. It was a state of heightened receptivity which allowed him to think what the other person was thinking, and sometimes even before he thought it.

  Ducrau did not exactly give up and retreat. But he lost confidence, gave ground, and the effort was visible in his face.

  ‘I bet you believe you’re doing your duty,’ he growled waspishly.

  And then, with renewed energy, he added:

  ‘It looks as if I’m trying to buy you. Fair enough. But let’s just suppose I put the same question to you next week?’

  Maigret shook his head. Ducrau would gladly have shaken him furiously, affectionately. The phone rang.

  ‘Yes, speaking … What about it? … Funeral directors? I don’t give a damn about funeral directors! If you bother me again, I won’t go to the funeral!’

  But all the same, he had turned pale.

  ‘A lot of hoo-ha,’ he sighed, screwing up his nose with distaste after replacing the receiver. ‘They’re all there, flapping round the boy, who, if he could, would send them packing. You’d never guess where I went last night. If I said, people would treat me like a monster. But it was in a common brothel that I was at last able to cry my eyes out, surrounded by women who thought I was drunk and helped themselves from my wallet.’

  He no longer needed to remain standing. It was over. He sat down, ran his hand through his hair the wrong way and leaned his elbows on the desk. He tried to pick up the thread of his ideas and though he continued looking at Maigret he did not seem to register his presence. The inspector allowed him a moment’s respite, then murmured:

  ‘Did you know someone else has been found hanged at Charenton?’

  Ducrau raised his heavy eyelids and waited for the rest.

  ‘A man you probably know because he was one of the lock-keeper’s assistants …’

  ‘Bébert?’

  ‘I couldn’t say if it was Bébert, but they found him this morning, hanging from the upper lock gate.’

  Ducrau sighed like a man who is dog-tired.

  ‘Have you anything to say on this new development?’

  Ducrau shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I could ask you to be specific about where you were last night.’

  This time, a smile flickered on the lips of the canal boss, and he seemed about to say something. But he changed his mind at the last moment and gave another shrug.

  ‘Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?’

  ‘What day is it today?’

  ‘Thursday.
’

  ‘On what day next week are you due to leave the force?’

  ‘Wednesday.’

  ‘Let me ask something else. What if your investigation isn’t over and done with by then: what will happen?’

  ‘I’ll hand over my case-notes to a colleague, who’ll take it from there.’

  The smile on Ducrau’s face grew wider and with almost boyish glee he said softly:

  ‘A moron?’

  Maigret couldn’t help smiling too.

  ‘They’re not all knuckle-heads.’

  And there they had to leave matters, on this unexpectedly upbeat note. Ducrau got to his feet and held out an enormous hand.

  ‘Goodbye, inspector. No doubt I’ll be seeing you again between now and then.’

  Maigret shook his hand and stared directly into his companion’s blue eyes but failed to wipe the smile off the man’s face, perhaps merely causing his mask to slip slightly.

  ‘Until then.’

  Ducrau walked him back to the landing and even remained leaning over the banister. When Maigret emerged into the blinding warmth of the quays, he had a feeling that a pair of eyes was following him from a high window.

  And it was the smile on his own face which faded as he waited for a tram.

  It was the concierge’s idea, thinking she was doing the right thing: all the tenants in the house had closed their blinds as a sign of mourning. The boats moored in the port all had their flags at half mast. As a result the canal had a morbid look about it.

  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 a
bout 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 …”’