Lock No. 1 (7 page)

‘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.

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.

‘Inspector!'

It was Ducrau, who was already almost up
with him. He must have abandoned his mourning family and cut short the condolences
to catch him up.

‘What are
your lot up to with Gassin?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I was watching you back there
when your inspector was talking to you. Is he going to be arrested?'

‘He has been.'

‘Why?'

Maigret wondered for a moment whether he
should say anything or not.

‘He bought himself a revolver this
morning.'

Ducrau said nothing, but his eyes became
very small and hard.

‘I assume he did so with you in
mind?' Maigret went on.

‘It's quite likely,'
muttered Ducrau thrusting one hand in his pocket from which he produced a
Browning.

He gave a defiant laugh.

‘Are you going to arrest
me?'

‘Hardly worth the bother.
We'd have to let you go in next to no time.'

‘How about Gassin?'

‘Gassin as well.'

They were standing in a patch of
sunlight on the kerb, in a narrow street where housewives were doing their shopping.
It was there, as he thought about having two men each with a revolver on the loose
in Paris, that the crazy idea came to Maigret that he must look as if he was playing
God the Father.

‘Gassin won't kill
me,' said Ducrau.

‘Why not?'

‘Because!'

And changing tack:

‘Will you
have lunch with me tomorrow, out in the country? At Samois?'

‘I'll see. Thanks
anyway.'

He let him walk away, with his revolver
and his detachable collar, which was too tight and was hurting him. Maigret felt
tired. He remembered that he had promised to phone his wife and let her know if he
was coming down on Sunday to spend the day with her. But first he went into the
police station. At least it was cool inside! The station head had gone to lunch, and
his office clerk greeted Maigret enthusiastically.

‘Your man is in the cell on the
left. I've got the contents of his pockets here.'

They were laid out on a sheet of
newspaper: first the revolver, which was a cheap affair, with a cylinder; then a
meerschaum pipe, a red rubber tobacco pouch and a handkerchief edged with blue; and
finally a limp, rusty-brown wallet which Maigret juggled in his hand for a moment
before opening it.

There was hardly anything in it. In one
compartment were the
Golden Fleece'
s registration documents, and the
clearance certificate with the signatures of the lock-keepers. In addition there was
a small amount of money and two photographs, one of a woman and the other of a
man.

The photo of the woman was at least
twenty years old. The picture, badly printed, had faded but it was still possible to
make out the features of a young, slim woman with a tentative smile not unlike
Aline's.

It was Gassin's wife and, given
her delicate health and natural languor, she must have seemed refined, ladylike
to the rugged denizens of the canal –
including Ducrau, who had slept with her! Did it happen on board the boat when
Gassin was out drinking in a bar or in some shabby hotel room?

The other photograph was of Jean Ducrau,
whom they had just buried. It was a casual snap. The young man was wearing white
trousers and standing on the deck of the barge. On the back, he had written:
To
my sweet Aline who might perhaps read these words one day, Jean.

He was dead too! Hanged!

‘Here you go,' said
Maigret.

‘Did you find anything?'

‘Just dead people,' he
murmured as he opened a cell door.

‘Well now, Gassin.'

The old man was sitting on a bench. He
stood up, and Maigret scowled when he saw his gaping shoes, his collar undone and
his tie gone. He called the clerk:

‘Who was responsible for
this?'

‘It's routine …'

‘Lace his shoes and knot his tie
for him.'

For the boatman was in such a pitiful
state that the whole process felt like an insult or plain malice.

‘Sit down, Gassin. Here are your
possessions, except for the revolver, of course. Is the drinking binge over? Is your
head clear?'

He sat down opposite him, elbows on
knees, while the old man, bending down, was threading his shoe-laces.

‘Let's be clear. I've
never bothered you. I've let you come and go as you pleased and drink like a
hole in sand. Oh
stop fiddling with that
now! You can get dressed later. Are you listening?'

Gassin looked up, and Maigret realized
that if he'd kept his head down earlier it was probably to hide an odd sort of
smile.

‘Why do you want to kill
Ducrau?'

The smile had already vanished. Instead,
there was the deeply lined face of a boatman which, now that it was turned towards
Maigret, wore an expression of total composure.

‘I've not killed anybody
yet.'

Wasn't this the first time
he'd spoken? He said the words calmly, in a muted growl which was probably his
natural voice.

‘I know. But do you intend to kill
anybody?'

‘I might kill somebody.'

‘Ducrau?'

‘Maybe him, maybe someone
else.'

He wasn't drunk, that much was
obvious. But he had been drinking. Either that or there was something left over from
previous libations. On those other days, he exaggerated his exasperated reactions.
Now he was too calm.

‘Why did you buy a gun?'

‘What are you doing in
Charenton?'

‘I don't see the
connection.'

‘But there is one!'

And as Maigret fell momentarily silent,
disconcerted by this bewilderingly reductive turn of the conversation, he added:

‘Except that it really has nothing
to do with you.'

He picked up the
second lace, bent over and once more began feeding it through the eyeholes of his
shoe. Maigret had to listen very hard so as not to miss a word of what he was saying
because words tended to get lost in his beard. Perhaps he didn't care whether
he was heard or not. Perhaps it was one last rambling of a drunk.

‘Ten years ago, at Châlons, the
master of the
Cormorant
moored his boat just by a grand house where a
doctor lived. His name was Louis – not the doctor, the boatman. He was over the
moon, he could hardly wait: his wife, who was thirty, was at last
expecting.'

At intervals the walls shook as a tram
went past, and the bell of a shop nearby was just audible as the door kept
constantly opening and closing.

‘A baby! They'd been hoping
for one for eight years. To have one, Louis would have spent every penny he'd
saved. So he goes and talks to the doctor, a short dark man with glasses. I used to
know him. Louis explains that he's afraid the birth will happen out in the
sticks, in some village or other, and that he'd rather stay at Châlons for as
long as it took.'

Gassin sat up, blowing hard, the result
of remaining bent over.

‘A week goes by. The doctor calls
every evening. Eventually, one day at about five in the afternoon, the contractions
start coming. Louis can't sit still. He goes out on deck, on to the quay. He
hangs on the doctor's doorbell. He wills him to come. The doctor assures him
that all is well, very well, that everything is going without a hitch and that all
he needs do is to send for him at the last moment.'

Gassin was speaking as if he were
reciting a litany.

‘You
don't know that part of the town? I can see the house as clearly as if I was
there, a large, brand-new detached house, with big windows which were all lit up
that evening, for the doctor was giving a party. He was prinked and perfumed, and
his moustaches freshly curled. Twice he comes in a great hurry, his breath smelling
the first time of burgundy and then of spirits.

‘“Good! Excellent!” he
kept saying. “I'll be back shortly …”

‘Louis ran across the quay. There
were sounds of a gramophone playing. On the curtains there were shadows of people
dancing.

‘His wife was screaming, and
Louis, like one demented, was weeping dry tears. What was happening terrified him.
An old woman whose boat was moored a little way away was convinced that the child
was presenting badly.

‘At midnight, Louis goes and rings
the doctor's doorbell. He is told the doctor will come soon.

‘At half past midnight, he rings
again. The corridor is full of music.

‘And Louis' wife is
screaming so loudly that passers-by stop for a moment on the quay and then go
hurrying on their way.

‘Finally the guests leave. The
little doctor appears, not entirely drunk, but not exactly clear-headed. He removes
his jacket and rolls up his sleeves.