Read Online Lock No. 1 by Georges Simenon - Free Book Online

attic room.

5.
    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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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