Lock No. 1 by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page A

and Ducrau turned away for a moment to give orders to the
     crane-driver. He did not go far, and Maigret could hear every word they said.
    On the daughter and son-in-law, there
     were only routine details. Captain Decharme was from Le Mans, the son of an
     accountant. The couple lived in a nice brand-new house on the outskirts of
     Versailles, and every morning one orderly brought the officer his horse and another
     cleaned the house.
    â€˜Are you going back to
     Paris?’ asked Ducrau as he returned. ‘It’s as the fancy takes you,
     but for me, this is always my morning walk, all along the quays.’
    He glanced up at
     his house. The skylights on the sixth floor were still shut, and the curtains had
     not been opened. The trams were all full, and small carts loaded with vegetables
     were scurrying into Paris, for the market.
    â€˜Can I count on you?’ Ducrau
     called to the lock-keeper.
    â€˜All in hand, boss.’
    Ducrau winked at Maigret to draw
     attention to the word ‘boss’, which was the name by which a public
     servant called him.
    The two men were now strolling along the
     Seine, where convoys of boats were lining up, using the full width of the river to
     go about and, propellers thrashing, moving off either upstream or down, with the
     current.
    â€˜Know what made me my money? I
     realized that when my boats were lying idle they could be working for me instead. So
     I bought sand pits and chalk quarries, further north, and then anything that came up
     for sale, even brick-works, as long as it was next to a waterway!’
    He shook the hand of a passing boatman,
     who merely said:
    â€˜Morning, Mimile.’
    The port at Bercy was piled high with
     barrels, and the arms of the wine town they came from were stamped on all of
     them.
    â€˜Anything classed as champagne
     among that lot was carried by me. Hey, Pierrot, is it true that Murier’s old
     tin tub snagged a pier of the bridge at Château-Thierry?’
    â€˜It’s true enough,
     boss.’
    â€˜If you see him, tell him it
     serves him right!’
    He walked on,
     still laughing. On the opposite bank of the river, the enormous concrete buildings
     of the Magasins Généraux reached into the sky, all straight lines and right angles,
     while two cargo boats, one from London and the other from Amsterdam, brought a whiff
     of the high seas into the very heart of Paris.
    â€˜I don’t want to be nosy,
     but how are you going to proceed with your investigations?’
    It was now Maigret’s turn to
     smile, for this walk clearly had no other purpose than to lead up to this question.
     Ducrau was aware of it. He sensed that his companion could read his thoughts and he
     smiled again, faintly, as though he were mocking his own simple-mindedness.
    â€˜As you see, just like
     this,’ replied Maigret, playing the role of a man out for a relaxed
     stroll.
    They walked on in silence for perhaps
     another four hundred metres, their eyes trained on the Pont d’Austerlitz, a
     pyrotechnic display of metal fretwork, from which the architecture of Notre-Dame
     could be just made out against a blaze of blue and pink.
    â€˜Hey, Vachet! Your brother has
     broken down at Larzicourt. He said to tell you the christening has been
     postponed.’
    Ducrau went on walking steadily. After a
     sideways glance at Maigret, he framed a question with the bluntness of a man who
     likes to put his foot in it on purpose.
    â€˜How much does a man like you
     earn?’
    â€˜Not much.’
    â€˜Sixty thousand francs?’
    â€˜A lot less
     than that.’
    Ducrau frowned, gave his companion
     another look, this time with as much admiration as curiosity.
    â€˜What do you make of my wife? Do
     you think I make her unhappy?’
    â€˜No, not really. If it
     wasn’t you it would be somebody else. She’s one of those women who are
     perpetually self-effacing and dreary, whatever fate does to