The Lock at Charenton by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon [Simenon, Georges]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Georges Simenon
Publisher: Harcourt, Brace an Company
Published: 1932-12-31T11:00:00+00:00

7

Père Gassin

A SLOW, monotonous tramping of feet still came from the bottom of the cemetery, though the head of the procession had already reached the gates. The sound of gravel trodden underfoot, the dust filling the air with an iridescent shimmer, the clumsy column of mourners marching along and occasionally forced to mark time, seemed somehow to intensify the impression of heat.

Emile Ducrau, all in black, with very white linen, was jammed up against the open gate, mopping his face with a handkerchief rolled up in a ball, and shaking hands with all and sundry. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. He had shed no tears, and even kept looking about him as if the funeral had nothing to do with him. His son-in-law was there, slim, correct, and red-eyed. It was impossible to see the women’s faces under their veils.

The procession had caused a congestion in Charenton. Behind the two carriages of flowers and wreaths walked hundreds of well-scrubbed, well-combed boatmen in navy blue, with their caps in their hands.

One by one they passed through the cemetery gates, touching their foreheads with their fingers and stammering out condolences, after which they could be seen forming into awkward groups and making for a café. Their brows were beaded with sweat, and it was not difficult to guess how damp they must be under their great double-breasted jackets.

Maigret was standing on the opposite pavement, in front of the flower-shop, wondering whether he ought to stay on. A taxi drew up beside him, and one of his men got out and came up to him.

“What’s up, Lucas?”

“Has anything happened?” Lucas asked. “I’ve just heard that old Gassin bought a revolver at half-past eight this morning from a gunsmith at the Bastille.”

Gassin was there, one of a row of men about fifteen yards away from the family. He followed the stream without saying a word to his neighbors, with no signs of impatience, his eyes dull.

Maigret had already noticed him, for it was the first time he had seen him dressed up, with his beard trimmed and a brand new suit and linen. Had he at last put an end to his long drinking bout? In any case, he was calmer and more dignified. He was not muttering into his beard. Indeed, it was slightly alarming to see him so transformed.

“You’re quite sure?”

“Quite. He made the man show him how it worked.”

“When he’s round the corner, arrest him discreetly and bring him along to the station.”

Meanwhile Maigret hurried across the road and took up a position about three yards away from Ducrau, who looked at him with some surprise. The cortège of men in blue, with their weather-beaten faces and bleached hair, filed past. As Gassin approached, his eyes met Maigret’s, but the old man showed no signs of recognition or truculence.

He waited his turn, marking time behind the others. At last, without a word, he held out his gnarled old hand and shook hands with the boss.

That was all. Then he went away.

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