was
coming downstream. It slowed when it saw the arches of the Pont-Neuf and went into
reverse to check its way. The hooter was still sounding and, while the wife took the
helm, her husband jumped into the dinghy and rowed smartly towards the bank.
âItâs François!â said
one of the boatmen.
They all walked down on to the quayside
and were standing above the stone wall when the wherry touched land. The woman at
the helm was having difficulty keeping the long boat on a straight course.
âIs the boss there?â
âIn the caféâ
âGot to tell him, break it gently
â donât ask me how â but donât come out with it too sudden, itâs
his son â¦â
âWell?â
âHeâs been found dead â¦
Itâs all a big mess back there. Seems he â¦â
A gruesome movement of his hand across
his throat. He didnât need to say more.
Besides, a tug coming upstream was
hooting because the barge had now strayed into its lane, and the boatman wasted no
time in pushing his wherry out again.
A few people who had stopped on the
bridge were already moving off, but down on the quayside three men stood staring at
each other, not knowing what to do. Their unease increased when they saw Ducrau at
the door of the Henri IV, from which he was trying to see what was going on.
âIs it for me?â
He was so accustomed to it always being
for him! Was he not one of the five or six men who ruled the world of water?
Maigret preferred to leave it to the
men, who wavered, nudging each other with their elbows until one of them, out of
desperation, stammered:
âBoss, you got to go back straight
away. Itâs â¦â
Ducrau looked at Maigret, with a frown
on his face.
âItâs what?â
âTrouble at home â¦â
âWell, what sort of
trouble?â
He was getting angry now. It seemed as
if he suspected them all of something.
âItâs Jean â¦â
âSpit it out, man!â
âHeâs
dead!â
This was happening in the doorway of a
café in the middle of the Pont-Neuf, in bright sunshine, with glasses of golden wine
still standing on the bar and the landlord with his sleeves rolled up and the
multicoloured display of cigarette packets.
Ducrau looked around him with eyes so
blank that it was as if he had not understood. His chest heaved, but all that came
out was a faint sneer.
âItâs not true!â he
said, and his eyes began to brim.
âThat was François, heâd
come down from the port, he stopped to say â¦â
Though short, he was enormous, so broad,
so solid that no one would have dared offer him their sympathy. Yet he turned to
look at Maigret with eyes full of distress, then snorted and barked at the men he
had been talking to:
âIâll do it for
forty-eight!â
But even as he spoke the words, thus
allowing Maigret to see his hard-boiled toughness, his face wore an expression of
helpless, childish pride. With a wave of his arm, he flagged down a red taxi. He did
not stop to ask the inspector to get in with him, for he assumed that such a thing
was too natural to need saying. As natural as not speaking!
âThe lock at Charenton!â
They drove back along the Seine, where
only an hour before he had described the life of the river boat by boat,
mooring-ring by mooring-ring. He still looked out at it now but without seeing it,
and they were already approaching the gates of the port at Bercy when he burst
out:
âThe stupid
little fool!â
The last word was choked off. There was
a sob in his throat, and he kept it there, not letting it out until he reached his
front door.
The port beneath the lock looked
different. People had recognized the boss through the windows of the taxi.
The lock-keeper stopped cranking the
sluices so that he could remove his
coming downstream. It slowed when it saw the arches of the Pont-Neuf and went into
reverse to check its way. The hooter was still sounding and, while the wife took the
helm, her husband jumped into the dinghy and rowed smartly towards the bank.
âItâs François!â said
one of the boatmen.
They all walked down on to the quayside
and were standing above the stone wall when the wherry touched land. The woman at
the helm was having difficulty keeping the long boat on a straight course.
âIs the boss there?â
âIn the caféâ
âGot to tell him, break it gently
â donât ask me how â but donât come out with it too sudden, itâs
his son â¦â
âWell?â
âHeâs been found dead â¦
Itâs all a big mess back there. Seems he â¦â
A gruesome movement of his hand across
his throat. He didnât need to say more.
Besides, a tug coming upstream was
hooting because the barge had now strayed into its lane, and the boatman wasted no
time in pushing his wherry out again.
A few people who had stopped on the
bridge were already moving off, but down on the quayside three men stood staring at
each other, not knowing what to do. Their unease increased when they saw Ducrau at
the door of the Henri IV, from which he was trying to see what was going on.
âIs it for me?â
He was so accustomed to it always being
for him! Was he not one of the five or six men who ruled the world of water?
Maigret preferred to leave it to the
men, who wavered, nudging each other with their elbows until one of them, out of
desperation, stammered:
âBoss, you got to go back straight
away. Itâs â¦â
Ducrau looked at Maigret, with a frown
on his face.
âItâs what?â
âTrouble at home â¦â
âWell, what sort of
trouble?â
He was getting angry now. It seemed as
if he suspected them all of something.
âItâs Jean â¦â
âSpit it out, man!â
âHeâs
dead!â
This was happening in the doorway of a
café in the middle of the Pont-Neuf, in bright sunshine, with glasses of golden wine
still standing on the bar and the landlord with his sleeves rolled up and the
multicoloured display of cigarette packets.
Ducrau looked around him with eyes so
blank that it was as if he had not understood. His chest heaved, but all that came
out was a faint sneer.
âItâs not true!â he
said, and his eyes began to brim.
âThat was François, heâd
come down from the port, he stopped to say â¦â
Though short, he was enormous, so broad,
so solid that no one would have dared offer him their sympathy. Yet he turned to
look at Maigret with eyes full of distress, then snorted and barked at the men he
had been talking to:
âIâll do it for
forty-eight!â
But even as he spoke the words, thus
allowing Maigret to see his hard-boiled toughness, his face wore an expression of
helpless, childish pride. With a wave of his arm, he flagged down a red taxi. He did
not stop to ask the inspector to get in with him, for he assumed that such a thing
was too natural to need saying. As natural as not speaking!
âThe lock at Charenton!â
They drove back along the Seine, where
only an hour before he had described the life of the river boat by boat,
mooring-ring by mooring-ring. He still looked out at it now but without seeing it,
and they were already approaching the gates of the port at Bercy when he burst
out:
âThe stupid
little fool!â
The last word was choked off. There was
a sob in his throat, and he kept it there, not letting it out until he reached his
front door.
The port beneath the lock looked
different. People had recognized the boss through the windows of the taxi.
The lock-keeper stopped cranking the
sluices so that he could remove his
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