Lock No. 1 Read online

  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.

  6.

  ‘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 t
he 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.

  ‘My wife left this evening to arrange the furniture in the new house.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Between Meung and Tours.’

  The quays were deserted. By the time they reached Rue Saint-Antoine, they had passed only two cars. The driver lowered the glass between them.

  ‘Which way?’

  Ducrau replied as if he were rising to a challenge.

  ‘You can drop me at the Maxim.’

  And that was where he got out, ponderous and determined in his large blue suit with the black band on one sleeve. The hotel commissionaire probably knew him but sprang into action all the same.

  ‘Coming in for a moment, inspector?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Ducrau was already halfway through the revolving door, so they did not shake hands or even have time to nod a goodnight.

  It was 1.30 a.m. The commissionaire asked Maigret:

  ‘Taxi?’

  ‘Yes … no …’

  There was no one in the flat on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, and the double bed had been dispatched to the country. Maigret followed Ducrau’s example: he found a hotel room at the far end of Rue Saint-Honoré.

  His wife, who had arrived safely, was sleeping in their new house for the first time.

  7.

  The slow, steady sound of shuffling feet could still be heard coming from the far end of the cemetery even though the front of the funeral procession was already back at the main gate. The crunch of gravel, the dust which clouded the air and hatched little bursts of iridescence, the ponderous progress of this moving herd which was forced at intervals to stop and mark time, all combined to heighten further the effects of the heat.

  With his back against the open gate of the cemetery, Émile Ducrau, dressed entirely in black with a very white shirt, was wiping his forehead with his balled-up handkerchief, shaking the hand of all those who paid their respects as they left. No one could have said for sure what he was thinking. He had shed no tears and more, he had not stopped looking at people as if he had nothing at all to do with this funeral. His son-in-law, spare and smartly turned out, had red eyes. The faces of the women were not visible under their mourning veils.

  The procession had choked the streets of Charenton. Behind the two carriages full of flowers and wreaths had walked hundreds of men from the canal boats, all scrubbed and well turned out, wearing blue and holding their caps in their hands.

  They gave little bows, one by one, as they left the cemetery murmuring their condolences, after which they formed embarrassed groups and then went off in search of a bar. Pearls of sweat stood out on their foreheads. Their skin was patently clammy inside their double-breasted jackets.

  Maigret was on the pavement opposite standing next to the flower stall and wondering if he was going to stay any longer. A taxi pulled up nearby. One of his inspectors got out and looked round for him.

  ‘Over here,
Lucas!’

  ‘Has anything happened? I’ve just learned that at half past eight this morning old Gassin bought a revolver from a gunsmith’s near the Bastille.’

  Gassin was there, still fifty metres from the family, who were standing in a line. He was moving with the crowd, not speaking to those next to him, dull-eyed and showing no sign of impatience.

  Maigret had already noticed him because it was the first time he had seen him in his Sunday best, beard trimmed, wearing a new shirt and suit. Had he finally abandoned his drinking bout? But in any case he was more dignified and much calmer. He no longer kept muttering words under his breath, and it was actually somewhat disconcerting to see him looking so distinguished.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Certain. He got them to show him how to use it.’

  ‘A little later, when he’s a bit further away from here, I want you to arrest him and bring him to me at the station.’

  Meanwhile, Maigret crossed the road quickly and took up a position not three metres from Ducrau, who looked up in surprise. People were still filing past, all of them wearing blue, their faces red and their hair damp. Maigret’s eye caught Gassin’s as he came closer, but the old man showed neither surprise nor exasperation.

  He took his turn. He marked time behind the others. Eventually he held out his old, gnarled hand and shook that of his employer.

  That was all. Then he left. Maigret watched the way he walked but could not say whether or not he had been drinking, for too much drink can sometimes make a man seem too composed.

  Lucas was waiting at the first street corner. Maigret gave him the nod, and the two men walked away, one behind the other.

  ‘Remember to call in at the shop in Rue du Sentier, opposite the post-office, and buy a hundred metres of curtain cord,’ Madame Maigret had said over the phone that morning.

  In Charenton, men from the barges were everywhere, and soon there would be men from the barges wearing their best clothes in all the bars along the quays, from the canal all the way to Auteuil. How had old Gassin reacted when Lucas had arrested him? Maigret had decided to go off in the opposite direction and now he did not know which street he was in. Someone called his name.