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think about it any more.’
    She was so close to him that, without
     thinking, he patted her on her shoulder. But that only made it worse. With a start
     she recoiled and ran into the second cabin, closing the door behind her. He could
     still hear her sobbing inside. And the baby who had dropped its dummy started crying
     too. With an awkward fumble, Maigret replaced the dummy in the child’s
     mouth.
    There was nothing more to be done except
     leave. The stairs were low, and he banged his head on the top of the hatch. He was
     expecting to find the old man on deck, but there was no one about except neighbours
     sitting round a table near the helm, who watched him leave.
    There was no sign of Gassin on the
     quayside either. When he was back up on the pavement, Maigret saw a car pull up
     outside the tall house. It was an average model, with a medium-sized engine. It had
     a Seine-et-Oise number plate, and the inspector had only to take one look at the
     woman who got out to understand what was happening.
    It was Ducrau’s daughter. She had
     her father’s boorish manner and vigour. Her husband, narrow-shouldered in a
     dark suit, was not in uniform. He closed the car doors and put the key in his
     pocket.
    But they had forgotten something. The
     woman was already almost over the threshold when she turned. The husband reached for
     the key again, opened one of the car
doors
     and took out a small packet, which probably contained Spanish grapes, the kind which
     are bought for invalids.
    Eventually the couple entered the house.
     They were bickering. They were vulgar and without distinction.
    Maigret, who was standing at the green
     tram stop, failed to raise his hand to flag the one that clattered past. His head
     was full of half-finished thoughts, and he felt as if there was some slight
     imbalance inside him which he was anxious to correct. The pilots emerged from the
     bar and shook hands before going their separate ways. One of them, a large man with
     an open face, walked towards Maigret, who stopped him.
    â€˜Excuse me, may I ask you a
     question?’
    â€˜I wasn’t there, you
     know.’
    â€˜It’s not about that. You
     know Gassin, don’t you? Who is the father of his daughter’s
     child?’
    The pilot burst out laughing.
    â€˜But it’s not
     hers!’
    â€˜Are you sure?’
    â€˜It was old man Gassin who brought
     it home one day. He’s been a widower for fifteen years. He must have had the
     kid up north somewhere, with some woman who runs a bar or keeps a lock.’
    â€˜So his daughter has never had a
     baby?’
    â€˜Aline? Haven’t you seen
     her? By the way, go gently with her. She’s not quite like other
     girls.’
    Pedestrians brushed past them. The two
     men were standing in the full glare of the sun, which was burning the back of
     Maigret’s neck.
    â€˜They’re decent people. Gassin drinks a bit
     too much, but you mustn’t think he’s always like he is today. That
     business the night before last hit him hard. This morning, he thought you were out
     to get him.’
    Still smiling, the big man touched the
     peak of his cap and walked on. Maigret was going to have lunch too. All round him,
     there was a change of gear: the stone-crusher had stopped working, the traffic was
     not as heavy, and it seemed as if even the lock was working at a slower pace.
    Obviously, he would have to come back.
     There was enough to keep him busy for several days in this small world whose
     distinct character he was only just beginning to get to grips with.
    Had Gassin gone back on board? Was he at
     that moment in that varnished cabin, sitting at the table in front of a white cloth
     with pink roses on it?
    In any case, in the Ducrau household
     they would surely be arguing, and the Spanish grapes had probably not been enough to
     restore the invalid’s good humour.
    Maigret went back into the bar, though
     he wasn’t