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

them.’
    It was as if Maigret had opened the
     scoring, because Ducrau was nonplussed.
    â€˜She is dull, dim and
     vulgar,’ he sighed. ‘Just like her mother, who I’ve settled in one
     of the small houses nearby. That one has spent her whole life crying! Ah! See that?
     The stone-crusher, it’s another one of mine. It’s the most powerful in
     the port of Paris. But seriously, what line of inquiry are you following?’
    â€˜All of them.’
    They were still walking, surrounded by
     the noises of the river and the activity on its banks. The morning air smelled of
     water and tar. From time to time they had to make a detour around a crane or wait
     for a gap between two lorries.
    â€˜You’ve been on board the
Golden Fleece
, I assume?’
    Ducrau had hesitated for much longer
     before asking this question than over any of the others and immediately pretended to
     be engrossed in the movement of a convoy of barges. Actually, the question was
     unnecessary, because he had watched Maigret go aboard from his window.
    â€˜She’s a very strange
     mother.’
    The effect was
     dramatic. Ducrau came to a sudden stop. With his short legs and bloated neck, he
     looked like a bull about to charge.
    â€˜Who the devil told you
     that?’
    â€˜I didn’t need anybody to
     tell me.’
    â€˜So?’ he said, to say
     something. He scowled, clasping his hands behind his back.
    â€˜So nothing.’
    â€˜What did she tell you?’
    â€˜That you went there to see
     her.’
    â€˜Is that all?’
    â€˜That she wouldn’t open the
     door. Didn’t you tell me that old Gassin was your very good friend? Yet it
     looks to me …’
    But Ducrau growled impatiently:
    â€˜Stupid idiot! If I hadn’t
     grabbed you, you’d have been knocked over by that barrel …!’
    He turned to a member of the crew who
     had been rolling barrels and boomed:
    â€˜Can’t you be more careful,
     you idiot?’
    So saying, he emptied his pipe by
     knocking the bowl on the heel of his shoe.
    â€˜I bet you’ve got it into
     your head that the child is mine! Go on, admit it! Just because I have a reputation
     for chasing skirts! Well, inspector, this time you’ve got it wrong.’
    He spoke the words softly, for a marked
     change had come over him. He seemed less hard, less sure of himself. He had lost the
     bombast of the rich man who is showing inferiors around his domain.
    â€˜Do you have
     kids?’ he asked with that side glance which Maigret was beginning to
     recognize.
    â€˜I only ever had a little girl.
     She died.’
    â€˜Well I have! Now look, I’m
     not going to ask you to promise not to tell anyone, but if you are unwise enough to
     say a single word, I’ll smash your face in! For a start, I’ve got the
     two you know about. The girl is as pathetic as her mother. Then there’s the
     boy. I’m not sure about him yet, but I can’t see him amounting to much.
     Have you met him? No? Quiet, shy, affectionate, and always ill. So much for them.
     But, second, I have another daughter. You mentioned Gassin just now. He’s a
     good man, though that didn’t stop me from sleeping with his amazing wife. He
     doesn’t know. If he did, he’d go berserk, because when he goes to Paris
     he never comes back without taking flowers to the cemetery.
    â€˜And it’s been sixteen
     years!’
    By now they had crossed the Pont de la
     Tournelle and were just walking on to the Ile Saint-Louis, that haven of provincial
     peace. As they passed, a boatman in a sailor’s cap emerged from a café and ran
     after Ducrau. Maigret stepped to one side while they exchanged a few words and as he
     waited his retina continued to display an image of an Aline who was more unreal than
     ever.
    Only a little while earlier he had been
     picturing the
Golden Fleece
gliding along gleaming canals, the blonde girl
     at