Lock No. 1 by Georges Simenon Page B

red.
    â€˜What’s going on?’
     asked Maigret.
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    He held the door open and stared out at
     the boats embedded in the canal.
    â€˜Why are you trying to keep me
     here?’
    â€˜Me? I swear …’
    And then at last Maigret dimly made out,
     in the bulky shadow formed by the dark hulls, masts and cabins, a faint glimmer of
     light. Without stopping to close the door behind him, he strode across the quayside
     and found himself at the gangway of the
Golden Fleece
.
    A man was standing not two metres away.
     Maigret almost didn’t see him.
    â€˜What are you doing
     here?’
    â€˜Waiting for my fare.’
    As he turned, Maigret saw that a little
     further along stood a taxi without lights.
    Under his weight, the narrow gangplank
     creaked as it shifted position. There was a faint light behind the glass panes in
     the door. He opened it without hesitating and put one foot on the steps.
    â€˜May I come in?’
    He sensed a
     presence. After a few steps, he could see the whole of the cabin, which was lit by
     an oil-lamp. The blankets on the bed had been made up for the night. On the waxed
     tablecloth was a bottle and two glasses.
    Two men were sitting facing each other,
     silent and watchful, old Gassin, whose eyes were full of menace, and, elbows on the
     table, Émile Ducrau, who had pushed his cap to the back of his head.
    â€˜Come in, inspector! I thought you
     might turn up …’
    This wasn’t bravado. He was
     neither embarrassed nor surprised. The large oil-lamp gave off great gusts of heat,
     and the quiet was so absolute that you would have sworn that before Maigret arrived
     the two of them had spent hours neither speaking nor moving. The door to the second
     cabin was bolted shut. Was Aline asleep? Was she inside, very still, listening in
     the dark?
    â€˜Is the cab driver still
     there?’
    Like a man half asleep, Ducrau struggled
     to throw off his torpor.
    â€˜Do you like Dutch gin?’
    It was he who went and got a glass from
     the sideboard, which he filled with a colourless liquid, and then reached out for
     his own glass. At that moment Gassin, with a crude swipe of his hand, brushed
     everything off the table. Bottle and glasses rolled across the floor. By some
     miracle, the bottle did not break but it lost its cork and went on gurgling for some
     time.
    Ducrau had not batted an eyelid. Perhaps
     he’d been expecting something of the sort? But Gassin, only moments
away from an eruption of fury, was
     breathing heavily, fists bunched and his upper body arched forward.
    Someone stirred in the other cabin. The
     taxi-driver was still walking up and down outside on the quayside.
    Gassin remained as he was for a moment
     as if suspended in time, then slumped back on to his chair, his head in his hands,
     sobbing.
    â€˜Hell’s teeth!’
    Ducrau motioned Maigret towards the
     hatch and, as he passed the old man, he merely touched him on the shoulder. It was
     over. Out on deck, they drank in the fresh air, relishing its coolness. The
     taxi-driver ran back to his cab. Ducrau paused a moment, one hand on the arm of his
     companion.
    â€˜I’ve done what I could. Are
     you going back to Paris?’
    They climbed back up the stone steps to
     where the car’s engine was running with its rear door open. Through the window
     of the bar, Maigret saw the figure of Fernand, who must have been keeping an eye on
     the car.
    â€˜Was it you who gave the order
     that you were not to be disturbed?’
    â€˜Who to?’
    Maigret gestured with one hand, and his
     companion understood.
    â€˜Did he do that?’
    Ducrau smiled, both flattered and
     irritated.
    â€˜They’re good men but not
     very bright!’ he growled. ‘Get in. Straight ahead, driver. Town
     centre.’
    He took his cap off and ran his hand
     through his hair.
    â€˜Were you looking for
     me?’
    Maigret had no
     answer to this.