Lock No. 1 (5 page)

‘That's fine for a week on Sunday,' came
Ducrau's voice from behind him.

And for Maigret's benefit, he
added:

‘A little party he's
organizing at Nogent for one of my men who's been working on the same barge
for thirty years.'

He was hot. They had been walking for
more than an hour. Shopkeepers were raising their blinds and typists who were late
were scurrying along the pavement.

Ducrau stopped speaking. Perhaps he was
waiting for Maigret to pick up the conversation where they had left it, but the
inspector seemed lost in thought.

‘I'm sorry for dragging you
all this way. Do you know the Henri IV, the tobacconist's in the middle of the
Pont-Neuf? It's not far from the Police Judiciaire. But I bet you never knew
it's also a café? Five or six of us, sometimes more, meet up there every day.
It's a kind of club or guild for shippers.'

‘Has Aline always been
mad?'

‘She's not mad. Either you
weren't seeing straight or else you know nothing about such things. Her
trouble is more a kind of late development. Yes, that's how the doctor
explained it, very clearly. She's nineteen, and you can say she's got a
mental age of a girl of ten. But she can still make up for lost time. They said
there was some hope it would happen after she … had the baby.'

He had spoken the words in a whisper,
shamefacedly.

‘Does she know you are her
father?'

He gave a start, his face suddenly
crimson.

‘Whatever
happens, you must never say that to her! In the first place, she wouldn't
believe you. And secondly, Gassin must never, and I mean absolutely never,
suspect!'

At this time of day, if he was up and
about as early as he was the day before, the old boatman would no doubt be drunk in
one or other of the two bars.

‘And you believe he doesn't
suspect anything?'

‘Positive.'

‘And does anyone else
…?'

‘Nobody has ever known, except
me.'

‘Is this the reason why the
Golden Fleece
spends longer loading or unloading than the other
boats?'

The answer was so obvious that Ducrau
shrugged his shoulders and then, with a different tone in his voice and with a
different expression on his face, he said:

‘Cigar? Let's not discuss
this any more, if you don't mind.'

‘But what if it's the key to
what happened?'

‘That is not true!'

He was categorical, almost
threatening.

‘Come inside with me. I'll
only be two minutes.'

They were now at the Henri IV. The
drinkers leaning on the bar were ordinary boatmen. But there was a second room
divided off by a partition wall. There, Ducrau shook hands with one or two
customers. He did not introduce Maigret to them.

‘Is it true that somebody accepted
Charleroi coal at a rate of fifty-two francs?'

‘A Belgian.
He operates with three motorized boats.'

‘Waiter! Half a bottle of white
wine! You drink white wine?'

Maigret nodded and smoked his pipe as he
watched the comings and goings on the Pont-Neuf, with only half an ear on the
conversation being carried on. It was some time before he was aware of an unusual
hum in the air and even longer before he realized that it was a barge hooter. It did
not sound two or three times, as is usual when a boat passes a bridge, but emitted a
single, continuous sound so protracted that passers-by stopped, as surprised as the
inspector.

The landlord of the Henri IV was the
first to look up. Two boatmen followed him to the door, where Maigret had taken up a
position.

A barge powered by a diesel engine was
coming downstream. It slowed when it saw the arches of the Pont-Neuf and went into
reverse to check its way. The hooter was still sounding and, while the wife took the
helm, her husband jumped into the dinghy and rowed smartly towards the bank.

‘It's François!' said
one of the boatmen.

They all walked down on to the quayside
and were standing above the stone wall when the wherry touched land. The woman at
the helm was having difficulty keeping the long boat on a straight course.

‘Is the boss there?'

‘In the café'

‘Got to tell him, break it gently
– don't ask me how – but don't come out with it too sudden, it's
his son …'

‘Well?'

‘He's been found dead …
It's all a big mess back there. Seems he …'

A gruesome movement of his hand across
his throat. He didn't need to say more.

Besides, a tug coming upstream was
hooting because the barge had now strayed into its lane, and the boatman wasted no
time in pushing his wherry out again.

A few people who had stopped on the
bridge were already moving off, but down on the quayside three men stood staring at
each other, not knowing what to do. Their unease increased when they saw Ducrau at
the door of the Henri IV, from which he was trying to see what was going on.

‘Is it for me?'

He was so accustomed to it always being
for him! Was he not one of the five or six men who ruled the world of water?

Maigret preferred to leave it to the
men, who wavered, nudging each other with their elbows until one of them, out of
desperation, stammered:

‘Boss, you got to go back straight
away. It's …'

Ducrau looked at Maigret, with a frown
on his face.

‘It's what?'

‘Trouble at home …'

‘Well, what sort of
trouble?'

He was getting angry now. It seemed as
if he suspected them all of something.

‘It's Jean …'

‘Spit it out, man!'

‘He's
dead!'

This was happening in the doorway of a
café in the middle of the Pont-Neuf, in bright sunshine, with glasses of golden wine
still standing on the bar and the landlord with his sleeves rolled up and the
multicoloured display of cigarette packets.

Ducrau looked around him with eyes so
blank that it was as if he had not understood. His chest heaved, but all that came
out was a faint sneer.

‘It's not true!' he
said, and his eyes began to brim.

‘That was François, he'd
come down from the port, he stopped to say …'

Though short, he was enormous, so broad,
so solid that no one would have dared offer him their sympathy. Yet he turned to
look at Maigret with eyes full of distress, then snorted and barked at the men he
had been talking to:

‘I'll do it for
forty-eight!'

But even as he spoke the words, thus
allowing Maigret to see his hard-boiled toughness, his face wore an expression of
helpless, childish pride. With a wave of his arm, he flagged down a red taxi. He did
not stop to ask the inspector to get in with him, for he assumed that such a thing
was too natural to need saying. As natural as not speaking!

‘The lock at Charenton!'

They drove back along the Seine, where
only an hour before he had described the life of the river boat by boat,
mooring-ring by mooring-ring. He still looked out at it now but without seeing it,
and they were already approaching the gates of the port at Bercy when he burst
out:

‘The stupid
little fool!'

The last word was choked off. There was
a sob in his throat, and he kept it there, not letting it out until he reached his
front door.

The port beneath the lock looked
different. People had recognized the boss through the windows of the taxi.

The lock-keeper stopped cranking the
sluices so that he could remove his cap. On the quayside, workmen stood still, as if
life had been suspended. A foreman was waiting for him by the door.

‘Were you the one who stopped the
crusher?'

‘I thought …'

Ducrau was first to start up the stairs.
Maigret followed. He heard footsteps and voices coming from much higher up. A door
on the first floor opened, and Jeanne Ducrau flung herself into her husband's
arms. She was limp. He straightened her up, looked round for something to support
her, deposited her like a parcel in the care of a fat neighbour who was
snivelling.

He continued up the stairs. Oddly
enough, he turned round to check if Maigret was still with him. Between the third
and fourth floors, they met a police inspector coming down, who took off his hat and
began:

‘Monsieur Ducrau, may I say
…'

‘Dammit!'

He swept him aside and continued up the
stairs.

‘Detective Chief Inspector, I
…'

‘Later,' growled
Maigret.

‘He left a note which …'

‘Give it to me!'

He grabbed it
literally on the wing and pushed it into his pocket. Only one thing really counted:
the man climbing the stairs, his breath laboured, who stopped outside a door with a
brass knob, which was opened at once to admit him.

It was an attic room. The light entered
from above, and fine dust particles danced in a shaft of sunlight. There was a table
with books on it, a chair covered with the same red plush as the one downstairs.

The doctor was seated at the table
signing the preliminary report and was too late to prevent Ducrau from snatching
back the sheet that covered the body of his son.

He did not say anything, not one word.
He seemed more surprised than anything else, as if he had been confronted by some
inexplicable sight. And utterly inexplicable it was, a strange ruination: a tall,
slim young man whose pallid white chest was visible though a gap in the jacket of
his pyjamas, which were blue with thin stripes. Around his neck was a wide blue
circle. His features were horribly convulsed.

Ducrau took a step forwards, perhaps to
kiss the dead boy, but he did not do so. He seemed frightened. He looked away, at
the ceiling, then at a spot by the door.

‘From the attic window,' the
doctor said quietly.

He had hanged himself, at first light,
and it was his parents' maid, bringing him his breakfast as she always did,
who had found him.

At the same moment, Ducrau, showing
surprising presence of mind, turned to Maigret and barked:

‘The letter!'

So he had seen and
heard everything during those terrible moments as he climbed the stairs!

The inspector took the letter from his
pocket, and his companion grabbed it from his hands and read it at a glance then
lowered his arms wearily.

‘How stupid can anyone
be!'

That was all. And it was truly what he
thought. It sprang from the depths of his soul, more tragic than any number of
rolling phrases.

‘Read it, then!'

He turned his anger on Maigret, who had
not been quick enough to pick up the note which had fallen on to the floor.

I was the one who attacked my
father and I have taken the law into my own hands. I say sorry to everyone.
Mother must not be sad.

Jean

For the second time, Ducrau was
overcome by a fit of laughter which left him gasping.

‘Can you imagine?'

He had not protested when the doctor had
put the sheet back over the body and was not sure whether he should stay there, go
downstairs, stand or walk about.

‘It's not true!' he
said once again.

Eventually, he laid a large hand on
Maigret's shoulder, a heavy, weary hand.

‘I'm thirsty!'

His cheeks were almost purple, his
forehead glistened
with sweat, and his
hair was stuck to his temples. And the undeniable smell of ether, which had been
used on a woman who had fainted, filled that attic room.

It was shortly before nine o'clock
the following morning when Maigret arrived at the Police Judiciaire to be told by
the office boy that there had already been a phone call for him.

‘They gave no name but said
they'd call back.'

On top of the pile of mail was a duty
report.

The assistant lock-keeper at
Charenton was found dead this morning, hanging by the neck from the upper sluice
gate.

Maigret did not even have time to be
shocked, for the phone was already ringing. He picked up the receiver irritably and
was very surprised when he recognized the voice at the other end of the line, which
spoke simply, with deference and even a hint of unexpected diffidence.

‘Hello? Is that you, inspector?
It's Ducrau. Would you be so good as to come to see me here? I'd come to
you, but it wouldn't be the same … Are you still there? … I'm not at
Charenton. I'm at the office, 33 Quai des Célestins … You're coming? …
I'm most obliged.'

Every morning for the last ten days, the
same sun had shone with the tart aftertaste of gooseberries. There was
a stronger smell of springtime in the air
along the Seine than elsewhere, and when Maigret reached Quai des Célestins he cast
an envious glance at a student and several elderly gentlemen who were rummaging
through the dusty boxes of the booksellers.

Number 33 was a building on three
floors, already old. Fixed to the door were several brass plates. The interior had
the typical feel of those small town-houses which have been converted into offices.
There were notices on the doors:
Cashier
,
Office
and so on.
Directly in front of the inspector was a staircase which led up to the first floor,
and it was at the top of it that Ducrau appeared as Maigret was looking round for
someone to ask.

‘Would you come this
way?'

He took his visitor into a drawing room
which had become an office. It had retained its moulded ceiling, the large mirrors
and gilt decoration, but it all had an old-fashioned look and clashed with the plain
deal furniture.

‘Did you read the brass
plates?' asked Ducrau, motioning Maigret to a chair. ‘Downstairs is the
Marne Quarry Company. Here it's towing, and upstairs handles river and canal
transportation. That's what the name Ducrau is all about!'

But he said it without pride, as if this
information was no longer of importance. He was sitting with his back to the light
and Maigret noticed that he was wearing a black armband on one sleeve of his heavy
blue jacket. He had not shaved, with the result that his cheeks looked flabbier.

He sat for a
moment without speaking, fiddling with his pipe, which had gone out. It was at this
point that Maigret realized that there were in fact two distinct Ducraus, one who
boasted, even to himself, talked loudly and puffed his chest out in an endless
theatrical display, and another who would suddenly forget to watch himself and was a
quite shy, awkward man.

But he obviously found it difficult to
be that Ducrau! He had a pressing need to stay a notch above ordinary reality.
Already his eyes had that spark in them which heralded a new burst of
play-acting.

‘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.