Lock No. 1 by Georges Simenon Page A

health …’
    He was not known to have any bad habits
     or to be passionate about anything. No one knew what he did of an evening.
    â€˜He must have stayed in, catching
     up with his work, because since his illness he’d found it hard to
     work.’
    No family life. No friends. No
     girlfriend. And then one fine morning he hangs himself, accusing himself of trying
     to kill his father!
    Still, there were those three months
     spent on board the
Golden
Fleece
with Aline.
    Jean … Aline … Gassin … Ducrau …
    Maigret recognized the gates at Bercy
     and then, on the right, the chimney stacks of the power station. Trams clattered
     past him. At times he would pause for no reason and then set off again.
    A long way off Lock No. 1 awaited him,
     as did the tall house, the barges, the two bars, the small dance hall that made up a
     stage set or rather a self-contained world heavy
with reality, smells and snarled-up lives which he was
     trying to untangle.
    It was his last case. The furniture had
     been delivered to their little place on the banks of the Loire.
    He hadn’t kissed his wife properly
     when he left her. He had carried their possessions with bad grace. He had not even
     waited for the train to start moving.
    Why had the chief said that?
    On an impulse, he jumped on a tram
     instead of continuing on his uncertain way along the quays on foot.
    The landscape looked all the emptier
     for being lit by a moon which illuminated its darkest corners. The bar on the left
     was already closed, and in the other, Fernand’s, three men were playing cards
     with him.
    When Maigret walked past on the
     pavement, they all heard the sound of his footsteps from inside. Fernand looked up
     and must have recognized the inspector, for he opened the door for him.
    â€˜Still here at this time of night?
     Nothing else has happened, I hope?’
    â€˜Nothing new.’
    â€˜Won’t you have a
     drink?’
    â€˜No thanks.’
    â€˜Suit yourself. We were just
     chatting …’
    Maigret stepped inside, feeling that he
     was making a mistake. The players were waiting, their cards in their hands. The
     landlord poured himself a glass of white-brandy then a second for him.
    â€˜Cheers!’
    â€˜Are you
     playing or not?’
    â€˜Coming! If you don’t mind
     excusing me, inspector …?’
    Maigret remained standing, sensing that
     something strange was going on.
    â€˜Won’t you pull up a chair?
     A trump!’
    Maigret looked through the window but
     saw nothing but the utterly still scene outside and the moon outlining the contours
     of things.
    â€˜Odd isn’t it, this business
     with Bébert?’
    â€˜Play! You can talk
     later.’
    â€˜How much do I owe you?’
     asked Maigret.
    â€˜On the house.’
    â€˜No …’
    â€˜On me. Just wait a second and
     then I’m all yours! Belote!’
    He laid down his cards and headed for
     the counter.
    â€˜What’ll you have? Another
     of the same? And what about you, boys?’
    There was something in the air, in their
     manner and voices, that was not frank and open. It was particularly true of the
     landlord, who was doing his level best to prevent silence breaking out.
    â€˜Did you know Gassin is still as
     drunk as ever? Looks like he’s going for the full novena! A large one, Henry?
     And what about you?’
    The only sign of life on the sleeping
     quayside came from the bar. Maigret, who was trying to keep an eye on what was
     happening inside and outside, made his way to the door.
    â€˜Oh, by the
     way, inspector, I just wanted to tell you …’
    â€˜Tell me what?’ he snapped
     as he turned round.
    â€˜Wait a moment … No, it’s
     gone … Stupid of me … What’ll you have?’
    It was so obvious that his friends
     looked at him in embarrassment. Fernand himself felt it too, and his cheeks turned a
     deeper