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

secretary:
    â€˜You can go!’
    He paced round the room, hands behind
     his back, darting anxious glances at his companion, who, however, had not said a
     word.
    â€˜Well?’ he said finally.
    â€˜No go.’
    â€˜A hundred and fifty thousand? Ah
     no! It’s not about money.’
    He opened the window, exposing the room
     to the rumble of the city. It was warm. He tossed his cigar into empty space.
    â€˜Why are you leaving the
     force?’
    Maigret smiled as he puffed on his
     pipe.
    â€˜But you must admit you’re
     not the type who can sit still doing nothing.’
    Deflated, impatient, his temper began to
     rise, and yet the way he looked at Maigret was full of respect and goodwill.
    â€˜Nor has that got anything to do
     with money either.’
    Maigret looked towards the door of the
     adjacent office, at the ceiling, at the floor, and murmured:
    â€˜Maybe my
     reasons are the same as yours?’
    â€˜You mean you’ve got a lot
     of morons working for you too?’
    â€˜I didn’t say
     that.’
    The inspector was in a good mood, or
     rather he was fully himself. He felt on top form. It was a state of heightened
     receptivity which allowed him to think what the other person was thinking, and
     sometimes even before he thought it.
    Ducrau did not exactly give up and
     retreat. But he lost confidence, gave ground, and the effort was visible in his
     face.
    â€˜I bet you believe you’re
     doing your duty,’ he growled waspishly.
    And then, with renewed energy, he
     added:
    â€˜It looks as if I’m trying
     to buy you. Fair enough. But let’s just suppose I put the same question to you
     next week?’
    Maigret shook his head. Ducrau would
     gladly have shaken him furiously, affectionately. The phone rang.
    â€˜Yes, speaking … What about it? …
     Funeral directors? I don’t give a damn about funeral directors! If you bother
     me again, I won’t go to the funeral!’
    But all the same, he had turned
     pale.
    â€˜A lot of hoo-ha,’ he
     sighed, screwing up his nose with distaste after replacing the receiver.
     ‘They’re all there, flapping round the boy, who, if he could, would send
     them packing. You’d never guess where I went last night. If I said, people
     would treat me like a monster. But it was in a common brothel that I was at last
     able to cry my eyes
out, surrounded by
     women who thought I was drunk and helped themselves from my wallet.’
    He no longer needed to remain standing.
     It was over. He sat down, ran his hand through his hair the wrong way and leaned his
     elbows on the desk. He tried to pick up the thread of his ideas and though he
     continued looking at Maigret he did not seem to register his presence. The inspector
     allowed him a moment’s respite, then murmured:
    â€˜Did you know someone else has
     been found hanged at Charenton?’
    Ducrau raised his heavy eyelids and
     waited for the rest.
    â€˜A man you probably know because
     he was one of the lock-keeper’s assistants …’
    â€˜Bébert?’
    â€˜I couldn’t say if it was
     Bébert, but they found him this morning, hanging from the upper lock
     gate.’
    Ducrau sighed like a man who is
     dog-tired.
    â€˜Have you anything to say on this
     new development?’
    Ducrau shrugged his shoulders.
    â€˜I could ask you to be specific
     about where you were last night.’
    This time, a smile flickered on the lips
     of the canal boss, and he seemed about to say something. But he changed his mind at
     the last moment and gave another shrug.
    â€˜Are you sure there’s
     nothing you want to tell me?’
    â€˜What day is it today?’
    â€˜Thursday.’
    â€˜On what day next week are you due
     to leave the force?’
    â€˜Wednesday.’
    â€˜Let me ask
     something else. What if your investigation isn’t over and done with by then:
     what will