Lock No. 1 by Georges Simenon Page A

you.’
    Maigret stumbled over the words.
    â€˜Maybe.’
    â€˜Tell me, Gassin, who have you got
     it in for? I’m talking man to man now.’
    â€˜And you?’
    â€˜I don’t follow.’
    â€˜I’m asking who you’ve
     got it in for. You’re looking for something. Well? Have you found
     it?’
    It was
     unexpected. Where Maigret had seen only an old soak, there was a man who might drink
     himself silly in his little corner but had in fact been carrying out an
     investigation of his own. So that was what Gassin meant!
    â€˜I haven’t come up with
     anything definite yet.’
    â€˜Nor me.’
    But he was on the point of doing so!
     That was the meaning of the heavy, cold look in his eye.
    Maigret had been right to give him back
     his laces and tie. This whole business no longer had any connection with this
     scruffy cell nor even with the police. They were two men sitting opposite each
     other.
    â€˜You had nothing to do with the
     attack on Ducrau, did you?’
    â€˜Absolutely nothing,’ came
     the sardonic reply.
    â€˜Nor did you have anything to do
     with the suicide of Jean Ducrau?’
    Gassin did not answer but shook his head
     slowly.
    â€˜You weren’t related to
     Bébert and you weren’t a friend of his. You had no reason to hang
     him.’
    The boatman stood up with a sigh, and
     Maigret was shocked to see him so small, so old.
    â€˜Tell me what you know, Gassin.
     Your Châlons friend left nothing behind him. But you have a daughter.’
    He regretted the words for he was given
     a look of such desperate questing that he felt he had no choice but to lie, and lie
     well, whatever the consequences.
    â€˜Your daughter will get
     better.’
    â€˜Maybe she will and maybe she
     won’t.’
    It was as if it didn’t matter to
     him either way. Dammit,
that
     wasn’t the issue, and Maigret knew it. They had reached the point where he
     wished he hadn’t come. But Gassin asked nothing. He remained silent and
     watched, that was all, and it was painful.
    â€˜You’ve been happy on the
     barge until now …’
    â€˜Do you know why I always do the
     same run? Because it’s the one we did after I got married.’
    His face looked leathery, and the skin
     was criss-crossed with fine black lines.
    â€˜Answer me, Gassin: do you know
     who attacked Ducrau?’
    â€˜Not yet.’
    â€˜Do you have any idea why his son
     said he did it?’
    â€˜Maybe.’
    â€˜Do you know why the lock-keeper
     was hanged?’
    â€˜No.’
    He was telling the truth, that much was
     beyond doubt.
    â€˜Will I be sent to
     prison?’
    â€˜I can’t keep you under
     arrest much longer for carrying a prohibited firearm. All I ask is that you should
     stay calm and patient and wait until my investigations are complete.’
    The small, light-coloured eyes had
     turned aggressive again.
    â€˜I’m not the doctor from
     Châlons,’ added Maigret.
    Gassin smiled as the inspector got to
     his feet, exhausted by this encounter which was supposed to be an interrogation.
    â€˜I’m going to let you go
     now.’
    It was the only thing he could do.
     Outside, it was still the same implausible spring weather – not a drop of rain,
     never a shower and a cloudless sky. The ground under the
chestnut trees in the small square was hard and white.
     All day, council watering carts kept sprinkling the tarmac, which was now as soft as
     at the height of summer.
    On the Seine, the Marne and even on the
     canal itself small boats, some painted, others newly varnished, rowed by men with
     their shirt-sleeves rolled up, threaded their way through the barges.
    There were pavement cafés everywhere,
     and to stroll past one of them was to walk through a smell of cold beer. Many
     boatmen had not yet rejoined their boats; they were rolling from one bar to another,
     in their starched collars,