The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin

by Georges Simenon

  ‘I don’t want to, I don’t …’

  The chief inspector shrugged and muttered:

  ‘They’re all the same, these damn kids. And we’ll have his father and mother turning up any minute.’

  The atmosphere was, if anything, like that in a hospital, when doctors stand around the bed observing a patient fighting for his life.

  Five of them were looking down at this youth – just a boy, really. Five men in the prime of life, who’d seen it all before and weren’t going to be impressed.

  ‘Come on, up you get!’ said the chief, impatiently.

  And obeying meekly, Chabot got to his feet. His resistance was broken. His nerves had been shattered. He looked around in panic, like an animal giving up the fight.

  ‘I beg you—’

  ‘Tell us where the money came from.’

  ‘I don’t know, I swear—’

  ‘No need to be swearing things all the time.’

  His dark suit was covered in dust. Wiping his face with his dirty hands, Chabot left grey marks on his cheeks.

  ‘My father’s a sick man. He has heart trouble. He had a bad turn last year, and the doctor told him he must avoid distressing himself—’

  He was speaking in a dull voice. He had no strength left.

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t have got into trouble, then, kid. And now, it would be better just to tell us everything. Who hit the man? You? Delfosse? That’s another boy on the way to perdition. And if there’s anyone we ought to be bringing in, it’s probably him.’

  A new policeman entered the room, greeted the others cheerfully, and sat down at a table, where he picked up a file.

  ‘I didn’t kill anyone! I didn’t even know—’

  ‘Look, I’m prepared to believe you didn’t actually kill him.’

  As if speaking to a child, the chief inspector was assuming a more paternal air.

  ‘But you certainly know something. That money didn’t jump into your pocket. Yesterday you didn’t have any, and today you do. Give him a chair, someone.’

  Because Chabot was swaying on his feet. His legs were failing to hold him up. He sat down on a straw-bottomed chair and put his head in his hands.

  ‘Take your time, no need to rush at it. Tell yourself this is your best chance of getting out of this mess. Anyway, you’re under seventeen, so you’ll go before the juvenile court. And the worst you could get is a young offenders’ institution.’

  An idea struck Chabot, and he looked around a little less anxiously. He stared at his inquisitors in turn. None of them resembled the man with broad shoulders.

  Had he been mistaken about the stranger? Was he really a policeman? Or could it even be that he was the murderer? He’d been at the Gai-Moulin the previous evening. He had still been there when he and René had left the main room.

  And if he had followed them, could that be because he was trying to have them arrested in his place?

  ‘I think I understand,’ he cried, panting with eagerness. ‘Yes, I think I do know who the murderer was. A big man, very tall, clean-shaven.’

  The chief inspector shrugged his shoulders. But Chabot didn’t give up.

  ‘He came into the Gai-Moulin just after the Turk. He was alone. And I saw him again today, he followed me. He went to the greengrocer’s and asked her about me.’

  ‘What’s he talking about?’

  Inspector Perronet muttered:

  ‘Not sure. But yes, last night at the Gai-Moulin, there was a customer that nobody seemed to know.’

  ‘And when did he leave?’

  ‘Same time as the dancer.’

  Delvigne looked hard at Chabot, whose hopes were rising, then took no more notice of him. He spoke to his colleagues.

  ‘Tell me, in what order exactly did people leave the club?’

  ‘The two boys left first. Well, they didn’t really leave, because we’ve established that they hid on the cellar steps. Then the gigolo and the musicians. The place was closing. The man in question, the big fellow, went out with the girl Adèle. She works as a dancer.’

  ‘So just the boss, Graphopoulos and the two waiters were left.’

  ‘Ah no, one of the waiters, Joseph his name is, left with the musicians.’

  ‘So, the boss, one waiter, the Greek—’

  ‘And the two boys on the stairs.’

  ‘And what does the owner say?’

  ‘He says his rich customer left and that he and Victor, the other waiter, turned off the lights and locked up.’

  ‘And nobody saw this other man Chabot is talking about, after that?’

  ‘No. But I was told, yes, that he was a big man, broad-shouldered. A Frenchman, because he didn’t speak like a local.’

  The chief yawned, and looked impatient as he packed his pipe again.

  ‘Well, phone the Gai-Moulin and ask Girard what’s going on there now.’

  Chabot waited anxiously. This was even worse than before, because now there was a glimmer of hope. But he was afraid he might be wrong. Fear racked him with pain. He gripped the edge of the table and looked round from one officer to another, his eyes drawn repeatedly to the telephone.

  ‘Hello, get me the Gai-Moulin, please, mademoiselle.’

  Meanwhile, the pipe enthusiast was asking the others:

  ‘Is that settled, then? I’ll write to my brother-in-law? And what kind do you prefer, straight or curved?’

  ‘Straight!’ said the chief.

  ‘OK, two dozen straight pipes. Now, do you need me any more? It’s just that one of my kids has the measles.’

  ‘Yes, you can go home.’

  Before he left, the officer looked across at Jean Chabot and whispered to his boss:

  ‘Are we hanging on to him?’

  And the young man, who had overheard this, strained his ears to catch the reply.

  ‘Don’t know yet. Till tomorrow anyway. The prosecutor’s office will have to make a decision.’

  All was lost. Jean slumped in his seat. If they didn’t let him go until tomorrow, it would be too late. His parents would know! At this very moment, they must be waiting for him to get home, and worrying.

  But he had no tears left. His whole being was in a state of collapse. He could vaguely hear the telephone conversation.

  ‘Girard, that you? … So what’s he doing there? … What? … Dead drunk? … Yes, he’s still here … No … He denies it, obviously … Wait, I’ll ask the boss.’

  And to the chief inspector:

  ‘Girard’s asking what he should do. The other young man is completely drunk. He’s ordered champagne and he’s sharing it with the dancer, who’s not much better. Should we arrest him?’

  His boss looked at Jean and sighed.

  ‘No, we’ve already got one of them. Leave him alone for now. He might do something silly that’ll help us. But tell Girard to stick with him. He can phone us later.’

  Chief Inspector Delvigne had settled down in the only armchair in the room, and shut his eyes. He appeared to be sleeping, but the thin stream of smoke rising from his pipe indicated that he was not.

  One inspector was putting the finishing touches to the transcript of Jean’s interrogation. Another was pacing around, waiting impatiently for it to be three o’clock so that he could go home. The room had cooled down. Even the pipe smoke seemed cold. The young man could not sleep. His thoughts were in turmoil. Leaning his elbows on the table, he closed his eyes, opened them, closed them again. Every time his eyelids parted, he saw in front of him the same headed paper on which a fine copperplate hand had written:

  Record of the charges put to Joseph Dumourois, day-labourer, domiciled at Flémalle-Haute, regarding the theft of rabbits, the property of …

  The rest was hidden under a blotter.

  The telephone rang. The inspector who had been walking about about picked it up.

  ‘Yes … Good … Right. I’ll tell him … Lucky for some, eh?’

  He went over to the boss.

  ‘Girard on the line.
Delfosse and the dancer took a taxi back to her room, Rue de la Régence. They went in together. Girard’s on duty outside.’

  In the strange crimson mist inside his brain, Jean pictured Adèle’s bedroom, the unmade bed he had seen earlier that day, the dancer undressing and lighting the spirit stove.

  ‘Still nothing to tell us?’ asked the boss, without leaving his armchair. Jean did not reply. He had no strength left. Indeed he hardly understood that he was the one being addressed.

  Delvigne sighed and told his inspector.

  ‘You can go home. But just leave me some tobacco, will you.’

  ‘Do you think you’re going to get anywhere?’ The inspector nodded towards the dark silhouette of Jean, bent double with his head on the table. Another shrug.

  And now there was a blank in Chabot’s memory. A black hole, filled with dark shapes writhing and red sparks flashing through the obscurity without lighting it up. He sat up with a start, hearing a persistent ringing. He saw three large pale windows, the yellow lamps, the chief inspector rubbing his eyes, and automatically reaching for his cold pipe on the table, as he walked stiff-legged over to the phone.

  ‘Hello, yes! Hello! Yes, this is headquarters. No, not at all. He’s right here. What? Oh, all right, he can come and see him if that’s what he wants.’

  The chief inspector, dry-mouthed, lit his pipe, drew a few bitter puffs on it and came to stand in front of Chabot.

  ‘That’s your father, who’s reported you missing to the 6th district police station. I think he’s coming over here.’

  The sun’s rays suddenly emerged from behind a nearby roof and lit up the windows, as the cleaners began to arrive with buckets and brushes.

  A distant hubbub came from the market a couple of hundred metres away, opposite the town hall. The first trams were running, sounding their bells as if their mission was to wake everyone up.

  Jean Chabot, looking desperate, ran his hand through his hair.

  5. The Confrontation

  Delfosse’s hoarse breaths stopped abruptly as he opened his eyes and sat up with a start, looking round in fright.

  The bedroom curtains had not been drawn and the electric light bulb was still on, its yellow glow fading into the bright sunlight. The busy sounds of city traffic rose from the street.

  From closer at hand, came regular breathing. It was Adèle, only half-dressed, lying face down, her head buried in the pillow. Her body gave off a damp warmth. One foot was still in its shoe, the stiletto heel snagged on the gold silk eiderdown.

  René Delfosse felt ill. His tie was throttling him. He stood up, looking round for some water and found a carafe, but no glass. He drank the lukewarm liquid straight from the bottleneck, greedily, while contemplating his reflection in the washstand mirror.

  His brain was functioning slowly. His memory was returning gradually, with gaps. For instance, he couldn’t remember how he had ended up in this room. He glanced at his watch. It had stopped, but the street sounds outside suggested that it must be at least nine in the morning. The bank across the road was open.

  ‘Adèle!’ he called, so as not to feel alone any more.

  She stirred, turned over and curled up, without waking.

  He stared at her without feeling any desire. Perhaps at that moment, the woman’s pale flesh even revolted him.

  She opened one eye, twitched her shoulders and went back to sleep. As he regained his wits, Delfosse became more agitated. His anxious gaze darted round the room, without resting anywhere. He went over to the window and recognized the police inspector, who was pacing up and down on the pavement opposite without taking his eyes off the door downstairs.

  ‘Adèle, wake up! For the love of God!’

  Now he was scared! Terrified! He picked up his jacket from the floor and felt automatically in the pockets. Not a centime left.

  He drank some more water: it tasted of nothing but lay heavy on his disturbed stomach. For a moment, he thought he was going to vomit, which would have been a relief, but couldn’t manage it.

  The dancer had gone back to sleep, her hair tangled, her face gleaming with perspiration. A deep sleep, into which she seemed to have plunged deliberately.

  Delfosse put on his shoes and noticed the woman’s handbag on the table. An idea struck him. He checked that the policeman was still outside. Then he waited for Adèle’s breathing to become quite regular again.

  He opened the bag quietly. In a jumble of rouge, lipstick, powder and old letters, he found about nine hundred francs, which he pocketed.

  She hadn’t moved. He tiptoed to the door, and went downstairs, but instead of going out into the street, he headed into the courtyard. This was the back entrance to the grocery store, piled high with barrels and boxes. A wide doorway for vehicles led on to a different street, lined with parked trucks.

  Delfosse had to force himself not to break into a run. And half an hour later, damp with sweat, he arrived at the Guillemins railway station.

  Inspector Girard shook hands with the colleague who had approached.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘The chief wants you to bring in the young man and the dancer. Here are the warrants.’

  ‘Has the other kid confessed?’

  ‘He keeps denying everything. Or rather he’s telling some cock-and-bull story about money stolen from a chocolate shop. His father’s turned up. Sad, really.’

  ‘Are you coming up with me?’

  ‘Chief didn’t say. Might as well, though.’

  The two men entered the building and knocked on the bedroom door. No reply. Inspector Girard turned the handle and opened it. As if sensing danger, Adèle woke up with a jump, leaned up on her elbow and asked in a thick voice:

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Police! I’ve got arrest warrants here for the pair of you! Damn it all, where’s the boy gone?’

  Adèle too looked round for René, swinging her legs down from the bed. A sort of instinct propelled her towards her handbag, gaping open on the table: she fell on it, groped anxiously inside and shrieked:

  ‘The little bastard! He’s taken my money!’

  ‘And you didn’t know he’d gone?’

  ‘I was asleep. Oh, he’ll pay for this! That’s those stinking rich kids for you!’

  Girard had spotted a gold cigarette-case on the bedside table.

  ‘Whose is that?’

  ‘He must have left it here. He was holding it last night.’

  ‘Get dressed!’

  ‘Are you arresting me?’

  ‘I’ve got a warrant here made out in the name of a certain Adèle Bosquet, occupation dancer. I presume that’s you.’

  ‘All right, all right!’

  She didn’t panic. She seemed to be more distressed at being the victim of theft than by the prospect of arrest. While combing her hair, she repeated several times:

  ‘The little bastard! And there was I, fast asleep!’

  The two policemen looked knowingly round the room, exchanging glances: they’d seen it all before.

  ‘Will this take long, do you think?’ she asked them. ‘Because if so, I’ll bring a change of clothes.’

  ‘Don’t know. We were just told …’

  She shrugged her shoulders and sighed:

  ‘Well, since I haven’t done anything wrong …’

  And, as she headed for the door:

  ‘OK, I’m ready. You’ve got a car, at least? No? Then I’d prefer to walk ahead on my own, you can follow behind me.’

  And she angrily snapped her handbag shut and picked it up, while the inspector slipped the cigarette-case into his pocket.

  Once outside, Adèle made straight for police headquarters, and marched in confidently, stopping only once she was in the wide corridor.

  ‘Over here!’ said Girard. ‘Just a minute. I’m going to ask the chief—’

  But she had dodged him and walked straight in. She grasped the situation at a glance. They were waiting for her, it seemed, because nothing w
as happening. The chief inspector with the ginger moustache was pacing round the large room.

  Jean Chabot, leaning on a table, was trying to eat a sandwich they had brought him. His father was standing in a corner, his head bowed.

  ‘What about the other boy?’ asked the chief, as he saw Adèle accompanied only by Girard.

  ‘Lost him! He must have slipped out by a back door. According to mademoiselle here, he pinched the contents of her purse.’

  Chabot dared not look at anyone. He put down the sandwich, which he had hardly touched.

  ‘A proper pair of rascals, inspector! Catch me being nice to the likes of them again!’

  ‘Calm down, can’t you! Just answer my questions please.’

  ‘But he’s walked off with my savings!’

  ‘I asked you to be quiet, mademoiselle.’

  Girard whispered to his boss, and passed him the gold cigarette-case.

  ‘And for a start, tell me how this object came to be in your bedroom. I presume you recognize it. You were with the man Graphopoulos on his last evening alive. He brought this cigarette-case out several times, as various witnesses have told us. Did he give it to you?’

  She looked at Chabot, then at the chief inspector. ‘No!’

  ‘So how did it get into your room?’

  ‘Delfosse—’

  Chabot looked up sharply and made as if to rush forward.

  ‘That’s not true. She—’

  ‘You, sit down! So mademoiselle, you claim that René Delfosse was in possession of this object. You realize the gravity of that accusation.’

  She laughed:

  ‘You bet I do! He ran off with the money in my handbag, that—’

  ‘Have you known him long?’

  ‘About three months. Since he started coming every night to the Gai-Moulin, with that other so-and-so! Pair of crybabies they are, anyway! I should have been more suspicious. But you know how it is. They’re so young! It was relaxing to chat with them. I treated them as pals, see? And when they bought me a drink, I took care not to order anything too expensive.’

  Her expression was stony.

  ‘Were you the mistress of these two youths?’

  She gave a short laugh.