The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin

by Georges Simenon

  According to the waiter, the stranger was French: he was seen for the first and last time that evening. Has he already left town? Did he wish to escape being questioned by the police?

  This lead may be a possible line of inquiry, and if by any chance the youngsters are not guilty, some light might be shed on the matter from this direction.

  We also believe that Chief Inspector Delvigne, who is leading operations jointly with the examining magistrate, has asked the regular patrols to make inquiries in order to trace this mysterious customer at the Gai-Moulin.

  The paper had come out shortly before two o’clock. At three, a portly man with ruddy cheeks turned up at police headquarters asking for Chief Inspector Delvigne, and declaring:

  ‘I am the manager of the Hôtel Moderne, Rue du Pont-d’Avroy. I’ve just seen the paper, and I think I can tell you something about the man you’re looking for.’

  ‘The Frenchman?’

  ‘Yes! And about the murder victim! I don’t usually pay much attention to the papers, so that’s why it’s taken me so long. Let’s see, what day is it today, Friday? So it must have been Wednesday. The murder happened on Wednesday, is that right? I wasn’t here, I’d gone to Brussels on business. Anyway, it seems a customer checked in, with a foreign accent, and very little luggage, just a small pigskin case. He asked for a large room looking on to the street and he went straight upstairs. Then a few minutes later, another customer took the room next door. Normally, we get people to fill in their police forms immediately. I don’t know why this didn’t happen. I got back at midnight. I looked at the row of keys and asked the receptionist if she had the forms for the new arrivals.

  ‘And she said, “Yes, all but two people who went straight out.” On Thursday morning, that’s yesterday, only one of them was back. I didn’t worry much about the other. I thought perhaps he’d had an assignation somewhere in town. During the day, I didn’t see the one who had come back, and this morning I was told he’d paid his bill and left. The desk clerk asked him to fill out his police form, but apparently he just shrugged his shoulders and said it wasn’t worth bothering about now.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ the chief inspector interrupted. ‘Is this the person who corresponds to the description of the broad-shouldered Frenchman?’

  ‘Yes. He left, taking his suitcase, at about nine a.m.’

  ‘And the other one?’

  ‘Since he still hadn’t returned, I used the pass-key to go into his room, which is what we have to do in an emergency. And on the pigskin case, I saw the name Ephraim Graphopoulos. And that’s when I realized that the man in the laundry basket must be our customer.’

  ‘So if I understand this correctly,’ said the chief inspector, ‘both these men arrived on Wednesday afternoon, a few hours before the crime, one after the other? As if they were on the same train perhaps?’

  ‘Yes, the fast train from Paris.’

  ‘And they went out that evening, also one after another.’

  ‘Without filling in their forms.’

  ‘And only the Frenchman came back, and now this morning he’s disappeared again.’

  ‘That’s right. I would be grateful if you could avoid mentioning the name of the hotel, it might put people off.’

  But at that very moment, one of the waiters from the Hôtel Moderne was telling exactly the same story to a journalist.

  And by five o’clock the evening editions of the papers were reporting:

  Inquiry takes a new turn. Was the man with broad shoulders the murderer?

  The weather was fine. In the sunny streets, life was carrying on as usual. The local police were trying to spot the wanted Frenchman among the passing crowds. At the railway station, an inspector was standing behind each ticket clerk and all travellers were being examined carefully.

  In Rue du Pot-d’Or, outside the Gai-Moulin, cases of champagne were being unloaded from a truck: delivery men were taking them into the cellar, crossing the dark, cool club interior. Génaro, in shirt-sleeves, a cigarette in his mouth, was supervising them. He shrugged as he watched passers-by stop outside and whisper to each other with a little shudder:

  ‘It was there!’

  They tried to peep inside, squinting into the shadows, where all that could be seen were the velvet seats and marble-topped tables.

  At nine in the evening, the lamps were lit and the musicians started tuning up.

  At a quarter past nine, six journalists were standing at the bar, holding animated discussions.

  By half past nine, the room was over half full, something that hardly ever happened from one year’s end to the next. Not only were there the usual young gadabouts who haunted the town’s nightclubs and dance halls, but also respectable citizens, setting foot for the first time in this place of doubtful repute.

  They were there to see. No one was dancing. The incomers stared in turn at the owner, at Victor, and at the professional dance-partner. People invariably headed for the washroom, so as to view for themselves the famous cellar steps.

  ‘Quick, get a move on!’ Génaro was urging the two waiters, who had their work cut out. And he gestured at the band. Under his breath, he asked a woman of his acquaintance:

  ‘You haven’t seen Adèle, have you? She ought to be here.’

  Because Adèle was the big attraction. The sightseers wanted most of all to be able to take a closer look at her.

  ‘Watch out,’ whispered a journalist to his colleague. ‘There they are.’

  And he pointed to two men who were sitting at a table near the velvet curtain over the door. Chief Inspector Delvigne was drinking beer, and the froth was clinging to his ginger moustache. Next to him, Inspector Girard was observing the customers.

  By ten o’clock, the atmosphere was electric. This wasn’t the usual Gai-Moulin, frequented by its few regulars and the occasional tourist looking for a girl to spend the evening with. Because of the presence of the newspapermen above all, the gathering felt like a cross between a criminal trial and a gala evening. All the same people were there. Not just the reporters, but the columnists. One newspaper editor had come in person. And the kind of customers who frequented the expensive cafés, bons viveurs as they used to call them, were also there, accompanied by glamorous women.

  About twenty cars were parked in the street outside. People greeted each other from table to table. Men stood up to shake hands.

  ‘Do you think anything’s going to happen?’

  ‘Hush, not so loud. See that man over there, with red hair, that’s Chief Inspector Delvigne. If he’s turned up, it must mean—’

  ‘Which one’s Adèle? That big blonde?’

  ‘No, she isn’t here yet.’

  But she was on her way. Adèle made a sensational entrance. She was wearing a voluminous black satin evening coat, lined with white silk. She took a few steps into the room, stopped, looked round, then nonchalantly sauntered over to the band and shook the leader’s hand.

  Flashbulbs. A photographer had just taken a snap for his paper, and the young woman shrugged, as if she were indifferent to this celebrity.

  ‘Port, five glasses, waiter!’

  Victor and Joseph were rushed off their feet. They threaded their way between the tables. It was like a celebration or a party, but one where people were there essentially to watch everyone else. Few dancers had ventured out on to the dance-floor.

  ‘It’s not all that exciting,’ a woman was saying to her husband, who had brought her to a nightclub for the first time in her life. ‘I don’t see anything disreputable going on.’

  Génaro went over to the policemen.

  ‘Excuse me, messieurs. May I ask your advice? Should we go ahead with the usual cabaret? Normally, at this point, Adèle would be dancing.’

  But the chief shrugged, looking elsewhere.

  ‘It’s just I didn’t want to do anything you wouldn’t want us to—’

  The young woman was at the bar, surrounded by journalists who were plying her with questions.

>   ‘So this Delfosse, he took money from your handbag? Was he your lover?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t even my lover!’

  She was looking a little awkward now. She needed to make an effort to face all the eyes fixed on her.

  ‘You were drinking champagne with Graphopoulos. So what was he like?’

  ‘A real gentleman. Please, leave me alone.’

  She went to the cloakroom to take off her coat, then approached Génaro:

  ‘Should I be dancing?’

  He didn’t know. He was looking at the crowd rather anxiously, as if he feared being overwhelmed.

  ‘I wonder what they’re waiting for.’

  She lit a cigarette, leaned against the bar with a distant expression and stopped answering the questions the reporters continued to ask her.

  One plump matron said out loud:

  ‘How ridiculous to charge ten francs for lemonade! There isn’t even anything to see!’

  But there was something to see, though only for those who knew the people involved in the drama. The doorman in his maroon uniform pulled aside the curtain, and a man of about fifty with a grey moustache came in, but stopped in surprise at seeing so many people. He was tempted to back out. But his eyes met those of a journalist who had recognized him, and who nudged his neighbour. So he walked in, affecting unconcern, and tapping the ash off his cigarette.

  He looked resplendent. He was most elegantly dressed. You sensed that this was a man accustomed to high living and no stranger to night haunts.

  He went straight to the bar and addressed Génaro:

  ‘You’re the owner of this club?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur.’

  ‘I’m Monsieur Delfosse. Apparently my son owes you some money.’

  ‘Victor!’

  Victor hurried over.

  ‘This is Monsieur René’s father, who wants to know how much his son owes.’

  ‘Let me check in my book. Monsieur René alone, or with his friend? Er … A hundred and fifty, plus seventy-five, plus the ten, and the hundred and twenty from yesterday.’

  Delfosse passed him a thousand-franc note and snapped:

  ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘Oh thank you, sir, thank you very much! Won’t you stay for a drink?’

  But Delfosse senior was heading for the door, without looking left or right. He went past the chief inspector, whom he did not know. As he went out, he almost bumped into a new arrival, but took no notice and climbed into his car.

  And yet the main event of the evening was about to take place. The man who had just entered was large and broad-shouldered, with heavy jowls and an impassive expression.

  Adèle, who was the first to see him, no doubt because she was watching the door, opened her eyes wide and looked taken aback.

  The newcomer went straight up to her and held out his plump hand.

  ‘How are you, since the other night?’

  She tried to smile.

  ‘Quite well, thank you. And yourself?’

  The journalists murmured among themselves as they watched him.

  ‘Bet you anything that’s him.’

  ‘But he wouldn’t just walk in here tonight.’

  As if in a show of bravado, the man pulled out a tobacco pouch from his pocket and began packing his pipe.

  ‘A pale ale,’ he called to Victor, who was passing with a tray of glasses.

  Victor nodded, and went on, making his way round by the two policemen, to whom he whispered:

  ‘That’s him!’

  How did the news spread? At any rate, a minute later everyone was staring at the broad-shouldered man, who was perching with one thigh on a bar stool, the other leg dangling, and sipping his English beer while looking round at the clientele through his misted glass.

  Three times, Génaro had to snap his fingers to make the jazz band start another number. And even the professional dancer, as he guided his partner round the polished dance-floor, did not take his eyes off the man.

  Chief Inspector Delvigne and his colleague exchanged glances. The reporters were watching them.

  ‘OK?’

  And they stood up together and went casually over to the bar. The chief inspector leaned his elbows on the counter next to the newcomer. Girard stood behind him, ready to block his exit.

  The band played on. And yet everyone had the feeling that there was an abnormal silence.

  ‘Excuse me, monsieur. But were you staying at the Hôtel Moderne?’

  A heavy gaze was turned on the speaker.

  ‘Yes. What of it?’

  ‘I believe you forgot to fill out the police form.’

  Adèle was close by, eyes fixed on the stranger. Génaro was uncorking a bottle of champagne.

  ‘If this is not too inconvenient, would you mind coming to my office to fill it in? But carefully does it. No fuss please.’

  Delvigne was scrutinizing his interlocutor’s features and trying to identify, without success, what was so impressive about him.

  ‘Now, will you follow me, please, monsieur?’

  ‘Just a moment.’

  The man put his hand in his pocket. Inspector Girard, thinking that he was about to pull out a revolver, made the mistake of drawing his own.

  People round them stood up. A woman screamed. But the man had only been feeling for some coins, which he placed on the counter, saying:

  ‘Right, after you.’

  Their exit was far from discreet. The sight of the revolver had terrified the customers, otherwise they would no doubt have crowded round the three men. The chief inspector went first. Then the strange man. Finally Girard, red-faced because of his inappropriate move.

  A photographer’s flashbulb popped. A car was at the door.

  ‘Be so good as to get in.’

  It took no more than three minutes to drive to police headquarters. Officers on the night shift were playing cards and drinking beers fetched from a nearby café.

  The man walked in as if he owned the place, took off his bowler hat, and lit a large pipe, which suited his square face.

  ‘Your papers?’

  Delvigne was nervous. There was something he didn’t like about the whole affair, but he knew not what.

  ‘No, I’ve no papers on me at all!’

  ‘What did you do with your suitcase when you left the Hôtel Moderne?’

  ‘No idea!’

  The chief inspector gave him a sharp look, feeling anxious, since he had the impression that his interlocutor was now playing a game with him, like a child.

  ‘Surname, first name, occupation, address …’

  ‘Is that your office over there?’

  A door that opened on to a small office, empty and unlit.

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Come inside.’

  And it was the broad-shouldered man who went in first, switched on the light and closed the door.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, from the Police Judiciaire in Paris,’ he said, puffing at his pipe. ‘Come, my dear colleague, I think we’ve made good progress this evening. That’s a splendid pipe you have there!’

  7. The Unusual Journey

  ‘The journalists won’t be able to come in here, will they? Would you lock the door? Better if we can talk undisturbed.’

  Chief Inspector Delvigne looked at his colleague with the involuntary respect that is accorded, whether in the French provinces, or even more in Belgium, to anything Parisian. He was also embarrassed by his blunder, and started to apologize.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Maigret firmly. ‘I absolutely wanted to be arrested! And I’ll go further: in a little while, you’re going to take me to prison, and I’ll stay there as long as need be. Your own inspectors must believe that I really have been arrested.’

  He couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing at the sight of his Belgian colleague’s face. Delvigne was looking askance at Maigret, wondering what attitude to adopt. It was clear that he was afraid of appearing ridiculous. And he was trying in vain to gue
ss whether his companion was joking or not.

  Maigret’s laughter prompted his own.

  ‘Come off it! You’re having me on! Put you in prison? Ha, ha, that’s a good one!’

  ‘I promise you, I insist on it.’

  ‘Ha, ha!’

  Delvigne resisted for a long time. And when he realized that his interlocutor was quite serious, he was devastated.

  They were sitting face to face now, looking at each other across a table laden with files. From time to time, Maigret stole an admiring glance at his colleague’s meerschaum pipe.

  ‘You’ll soon understand why,’ he said. ‘My apologies for not putting you in the picture earlier, but you’ll see in a minute that it wasn’t possible. The crime was committed on Wednesday, wasn’t it? Right. Well on Monday, I was in my office, Quai des Orfèvres in Paris, when I was handed the business card of a certain Graphopoulos. As usual, before seeing him, I phoned the immigration office to find out who he was. They didn’t have anything on him. Graphopoulos had only just arrived in Paris. In my office, he gave me the impression of a man who was extremely anxious. He explained that he travelled a good deal, that he had reason to believe that his life was in danger, and he asked how much it would cost to be guarded day and night by a police inspector.

  ‘We often get these requests, so I quoted him a rate. He insisted that he needed someone of senior rank, but on the other hand he replied evasively to my question about the kind of danger he was in, and who his potential enemies might be. He gave his address as the Grand Hôtel, and that evening, I sent round the inspector he had asked for. Next day, I found out more about him. The Greek embassy told me that he was the son of a wealthy banker in Athens, and that he travelled all over Europe living like a playboy. I expect you took him for a run-of-the-mill chancer.’

  ‘Yes, we did. Are you sure that—?’

  ‘Wait. On Tuesday evening, the inspector sent to protect Graphopoulos told me with the utmost concern that our man had spent all his time trying to lose him. Little tricks, the kind we all know, going into a house by the front door and out through the back, taking a succession of taxis or public transport. And he also said Graphopoulos had bought a plane ticket for a flight to London on Wednesday morning. I can tell you that the idea of going to London, especially by plane, appealed to me, so I took over the protection myself.