Lock No. 1 by Georges Simenon

the helm, the old man driving his horses on the towpath and, on deck, lying in a
     hammock or stretched out on the sun-warmed, resinous cargo of logs, a much too
     bookish convalescent.
    â€˜That’s fine for a week on Sunday,’ came
     Ducrau’s voice from behind him.
    And for Maigret’s benefit, he
     added:
    â€˜A little party he’s
     organizing at Nogent for one of my men who’s been working on the same barge
     for thirty years.’
    He was hot. They had been walking for
     more than an hour. Shopkeepers were raising their blinds and typists who were late
     were scurrying along the pavement.
    Ducrau stopped speaking. Perhaps he was
     waiting for Maigret to pick up the conversation where they had left it, but the
     inspector seemed lost in thought.
    â€˜I’m sorry for dragging you
     all this way. Do you know the Henri IV, the tobacconist’s in the middle of the
     Pont-Neuf? It’s not far from the Police Judiciaire. But I bet you never knew
     it’s also a café? Five or six of us, sometimes more, meet up there every day.
     It’s a kind of club or guild for shippers.’
    â€˜Has Aline always been
     mad?’
    â€˜She’s not mad. Either you
     weren’t seeing straight or else you know nothing about such things. Her
     trouble is more a kind of late development. Yes, that’s how the doctor
     explained it, very clearly. She’s nineteen, and you can say she’s got a
     mental age of a girl of ten. But she can still make up for lost time. They said
     there was some hope it would happen after she … had the baby.’
    He had spoken the words in a whisper,
     shamefacedly.
    â€˜Does she know you are her
     father?’
    He gave a start, his face suddenly
     crimson.
    â€˜Whatever
     happens, you must never say that to her! In the first place, she wouldn’t
     believe you. And secondly, Gassin must never, and I mean absolutely never,
     suspect!’
    At this time of day, if he was up and
     about as early as he was the day before, the old boatman would no doubt be drunk in
     one or other of the two bars.
    â€˜And you believe he doesn’t
     suspect anything?’
    â€˜Positive.’
    â€˜And does anyone else
     …?’
    â€˜Nobody has ever known, except
     me.’
    â€˜Is this the reason why the
Golden Fleece
spends longer loading or unloading than the other
     boats?’
    The answer was so obvious that Ducrau
     shrugged his shoulders and then, with a different tone in his voice and with a
     different expression on his face, he said:
    â€˜Cigar? Let’s not discuss
     this any more, if you don’t mind.’
    â€˜But what if it’s the key to
     what happened?’
    â€˜That is not true!’
    He was categorical, almost
     threatening.
    â€˜Come inside with me. I’ll
     only be two minutes.’
    They were now at the Henri IV. The
     drinkers leaning on the bar were ordinary boatmen. But there was a second room
     divided off by a partition wall. There, Ducrau shook hands with one or two
     customers. He did not introduce Maigret to them.
    â€˜Is it true that somebody accepted
     Charleroi coal at a rate of fifty-two francs?’
    â€˜A Belgian.
     He operates with three motorized boats.’
    â€˜Waiter! Half a bottle of white
     wine! You drink white wine?’
    Maigret nodded and smoked his pipe as he
     watched the comings and goings on the Pont-Neuf, with only half an ear on the
     conversation being carried on. It was some time before he was aware of an unusual
     hum in the air and even longer before he realized that it was a barge hooter. It did
     not sound two or three times, as is usual when a boat passes a bridge, but emitted a
     single, continuous sound so protracted that passers-by stopped, as surprised as the
     inspector.
    The landlord of the Henri IV was the
     first to look up. Two boatmen followed him to the door, where Maigret had taken up a
     position.
    A barge powered by a diesel engine