The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin

by Georges Simenon

  ‘But you served me the drinks—’

  ‘If I serve drinks, it’s because I expect people to have the sense to keep an eye on their wallets. And even so, I had to stop you. You went and pulled in some girl off the street, because you said the waitress wasn’t being nice to you. Then you wanted a room for the night. And I don’t know what else.’

  ‘Give me back my money!’

  ‘I haven’t got your money, and if you go on shouting like that, I’ll call the police.’

  Monsieur Henry was perfectly calm. But the young man coming down the staircase backwards was not, as he went on arguing. He looked tired, with rings under his eyes and a sour mouth.

  ‘You’re a pack of thieves!’

  ‘Say that again!’

  And Monsieur Henry ran down the steps and grabbed the young man’s collar. It almost became ugly. The boy pulled a revolver from his pocket, shouting:

  ‘Let me go, or else …’

  The travelling salesman flattened himself against the back of his seat, in his fear grabbing the arm of the waitress, who had lurched forward.

  There was no need. Monsieur Henry, a man well used to fights, had struck his opponent’s forearm sharply, so that the gun fell from the youth’s hand.

  Panting heavily nevertheless, Monsieur Henry ordered the waitress:

  ‘Open the door!’

  And when she had obeyed, he propelled the young man outside with such force that he ended up sprawling in the gutter. The café owner picked up the gun and threw it after him.

  ‘Snotty kids, coming in and insulting a man in his own home! Yesterday, there he was, showing off and flashing his money around.’

  He smoothed down his hair, glanced at the door and saw a uniformed policeman outside.

  ‘You’re my witness that he threatened me, right?’ he said to the crestfallen customer. ‘Anyway, the police know the house.’

  On the pavement, René Delfosse, now back on his feet, his clothes mud-stained, was gnashing his teeth with fury, and responding to the policeman’s questions, though hardly knowing what he was saying.

  ‘You were robbed, were you? But what’s your name, for a start, where are your papers? And whose gun is this?’

  A few people had gathered. Passengers were leaning out from a passing tram.

  ‘Right! Come along with me to the station!’

  On arrival, Delfosse fell into such a rage that the policeman received several kicks to his legs. When the local chief inspector questioned him, Delfosse started by claiming that he was French, and had arrived in Liège only the day before.

  ‘In that café, they got me drunk, and then they robbed me.’

  But an officer in the corner was observing him. He had a word in his chief’s ear. The latter smiled with satisfaction.

  ‘I think perhaps your name is really René Delfosse?’

  ‘That’s none of your business!’

  They had seldom seen a complainant look so furious. His face was contorted, his mouth twisted.

  ‘And the money they took – wasn’t that money stolen from a certain dancer?’

  ‘That’s a lie!’

  ‘Calm down, calm down, you can explain at headquarters. Will someone please phone Chief Inspector Delvigne and ask him what we should do with this character?’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ grumbled Delfosse, still looking like a spoiled child.

  A shrug.

  ‘You’ve got no right to leave me starving … I shall make a complaint—’

  ‘Go and fetch him a sandwich from next door.’

  Delfosse took a couple of bites, then threw the rest of the sandwich on the floor in disgust.

  ‘Hello? Yes, yes … He’s right here … Very well. I’ll have him brought round to you at once … No … Nothing.’

  Seated in the car between two officers, Delfosse at first maintained a sullen silence. Then, without anyone having asked him, he muttered:

  ‘But it wasn’t me that killed anyone, it was Chabot.’

  His companions paid no attention.

  ‘My father will complain to the provincial governor! He’s a friend of his. I haven’t done anything wrong! First my wallet was stolen and then that café owner wanted to throw me on the street today without a bean.’

  ‘But the revolver does belong to you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No, it’s his. He threatened to shoot me if I made a fuss. Just ask the other customer who was there.’

  As they entered the headquarters building, he pulled himself upright, trying to assume an important and confident air.

  ‘Ah, so this is the runaway!’ said an inspector as he shook hands with his colleagues and looked Delfosse up and down. ‘I’ll tell the boss.’

  He came back at once, saying:

  ‘He’ll have to wait!’

  Anxiety and annoyance could be seen on the face of the young man, who refused the seat offered him. He started to light a cigarette, but it was taken away from him.

  ‘Not in here.’

  ‘But you’re smoking!’

  And he heard the inspector mutter as he walked away: ‘Proper little turkeycock we’ve got here!’

  Around him, men went on smoking, writing, working on files, sometimes exchanging a few words.

  An electric bell sounded. The inspector, without moving from his place, said to Delfosse:

  ‘You can go in to the boss now. The door at the end.’

  It was not a large office. The air was blue with smoke and the stove, which had been lit for the first time that autumn, was roaring loudly at every gust of wind.

  Chief Inspector Delvigne sat commandingly in his chair. Near the rear window, another figure was seated with his back to the light.

  ‘Come in. Sit down.’

  The other figure sat upright. In the half-light, the pale face of Jean Chabot appeared, staring at his friend.

  Delfosse began sarcastically:

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Nothing, young man. Just for you to answer a few questions.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘I haven’t accused of you of anything yet.’

  Looking across at Chabot, René muttered angrily:

  ‘What’s he been telling you? A pack of lies, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Calm down. And try to answer my questions. And you, over there, stay where you are.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I told you to stay where you are. And now, young Delfosse, could you tell me what you were doing at Chez Jeanne?’

  ‘They robbed me—’

  ‘But why were you there at all? You got there yesterday afternoon, already the worse for drink. You tried to get the waitress upstairs with you, and when she refused, you dragged in a woman from the street.’

  ‘I am entitled to—’

  ‘Then you paid for drinks all round. For hours, you were the big attraction. Until in the end you collapsed under the table. The owner took pity on you, and had you put to bed.’

  ‘He robbed me.’

  ‘Well, what happened was that you threw around money that didn’t belong to you. To be precise, the money you’d taken from Adèle’s handbag in the morning.’

  ‘That’s not true!’

  ‘And from the same money, you had earlier bought a revolver. What for?’

  ‘Because I felt like buying a revolver.’

  Chabot’s face was a sight to behold. He was staring at his friend in indescribable panic, as if he couldn’t believe his ears. He seemed suddenly to be discovering a different, much more frightening Delfosse. He would have liked to interrupt, to tell him to stop saying such things.

  ‘Why did you steal money from Adèle?’

  ‘She gave it me.’

  ‘That’s not what she says. She accuses you of taking it.’

  ‘She’s lying! She gave it me to get some train tickets, because we were going to go away together.’

  It was as if he were throwing out sentences at random, without worrying about contradict
ing himself.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll tell me now that you weren’t hiding, two nights ago, on the cellar steps in the Gai-Moulin?’

  Chabot leaned forward, as if to warn him: ‘Look, no point denying it. I had to …’

  But Delfosse was already standing up, turning to his friend and shouting to Delvigne:

  ‘He told you that! He was lying. He wanted me to stay with him. I don’t need money! My father’s rich! I only have to ask him. It was all his idea—’

  ‘So you left at once, did you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you went straight home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘After eating mussels and chips in a shop on Rue du Pont-d’Avroy?’

  ‘Er, yes, I think so.’

  ‘And at that point you were with Chabot! The shop owner told us that!’

  Chabot was twisting his hands and his expression was imploring.

  ‘But I haven’t done anything,’ insisted Delfosse.

  ‘I didn’t say you’d done anything.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So nothing.’

  Delfosse breathed again, and glanced down.

  ‘It was you that decided when the two of you should come out from the cellar?’

  ‘No, that’s not true.’

  ‘Well, at any rate you were the one who went out first, and were the first to see the corpse.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘René,’ cried Jean, who could bear it no longer.

  Once more, the chief inspector ordered him to sit back down and not to speak.

  But a moment later he was stammering, as if all his strength had left him:

  ‘I don’t understand why he’s lying. We didn’t kill anyone. We didn’t even have time to take any money. He went first. He lit a match. I hardly saw the Turk. I just glimpsed a shape on the floor. But he even told me afterwards that he had one eye open and the other shut.’

  ‘How fascinating!’ said Delfosse sarcastically.

  At that moment, Chabot looked five years younger than his friend, and the picture of indecision. He didn’t know what to think. And he knew he would not be able to convince anyone, being the weaker of the two.

  Delvigne looked at them each in turn.

  ‘Let’s see if you can get your stories straight, children. You were scared stiff, so you rushed out in such a hurry that you didn’t close the door. And you went on to eat mussels and chips.’

  And suddenly he said, looking straight at Delfosse:

  ‘Tell me, did you touch the corpse?’

  ‘Me? Not on your life!’

  ‘And was there a wicker laundry basket anywhere near it?’

  ‘No … I didn’t see anything.’

  ‘How many times have you taken money from the till at your uncle’s?’

  ‘Did Chabot say that?’

  And he clenched his fists.

  ‘Filthy bastard! He’s got a cheek … He’s making things up. Because what he did, he pinched money out of the petty cash. And I gave him enough to pay it back.’

  ‘Stop it,’ Chabot begged, hands together.

  ‘You’re lying, Chabot, you know you are!’

  ‘No you are. But René, listen! The murderer … has—’

  ‘What? What are you on about?’

  ‘I’m telling you, the murderer has been arrested. You—’

  Delfosse looked at Delvigne and asked in a hesitant voice:

  ‘What’s he saying now? That the … the murder—’

  ‘Don’t you read the papers? Of course, you were sleeping off the booze. And now you’re going to tell me whether you recognize the man who was at the Gai-Moulin that evening, and next day followed you in the street.’

  René mopped his forehead, without daring to look across at his friend in the corner.

  A bell rang in the office next door. Someone must have been sent to fetch Maigret from a nearby room. The door opened and he came in, escorted by Girard.

  ‘Get a move on! Stand here in the light, please. Now Delfosse, do you recognize this man?’

  ‘Yes, it’s him!’

  ‘And you had never seen him, before that night?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘And he didn’t speak to you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘And for example, when you left the Gai-Moulin, he wasn’t prowling about outside? Think. I want you to search your memory.’

  ‘Wait a bit. Yes. Maybe. There was someone lurking in a corner, and now I think of it, perhaps it was him.’

  ‘Perhaps?’

  ‘Yes. Definitely, yes.’

  Standing in the small office, Maigret looked enormous. Yet when he spoke, his voice was very mild, almost gentle.

  ‘But you didn’t have a torch, did you?’

  ‘Well, no. Why?’

  ‘And you didn’t turn the lights on inside the club. So you must have struck a match? Can you tell me how far you were from the corpse?’

  ‘I … I don’t know.’

  ‘Further than the distance across this office?’

  ‘About the same.’

  ‘Right, four metres or so. And you were scared! This was your first burglary. You saw a shape on the floor, and you immediately assumed it was a corpse. You didn’t go close to. You didn’t touch it. So you can’t be sure the man wasn’t still breathing. Who was holding the match?’

  ‘I was,’ Delfosse confessed.

  ‘And did it burn for long?’

  ‘No, I dropped it at once.’

  ‘So this famous corpse was only glimpsed for a few seconds. And you’re sure are you, Delfosse, that you recognized Graphopoulos?’

  ‘I saw his black hair.’

  He looked round in astonishment. He was suddenly aware that he was undergoing a real interrogation, and being manipulated. He muttered crossly:

  ‘I’m not going to answer anyone but the chief inspector.’

  Delvigne had picked up the telephone. Delfosse shuddered when he heard the number he was requesting.

  ‘Hello? Monsieur Delfosse? I just need to know whether you are still prepared to put up the fifty thousand francs bail. I’ve spoken to the examining magistrate, and he’s referred the case to the criminal court. Yes. Right. No, don’t trouble yourself. It’s better if we deal with it directly.’

  René Delfosse still did not understand. In his corner, Jean Chabot was sitting absolutely still.

  ‘So you continue to insist, do you, Delfosse, that Chabot is responsible for everything?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well, you are free to leave. Off you go back home. Your father has promised he won’t be too hard on you. Wait a minute! Chabot, you’re still claiming that Delfosse stole the money you were trying to get rid of?’

  ‘It was him, he—’

  ‘Well, in that case, you’ll have to sort it out with him. Off with the pair of you! And don’t draw attention to yourselves, try to be as inconspicuous as possible.’

  Maigret had automatically pulled his pipe out of his pocket. But he didn’t light it. He was gazing at the two young men, who looked astounded, not knowing what to say or do. Chief Inspector Delvigne had to stand up, and push them out of the door.

  ‘No fighting now. Remember you’re still answerable to the authorities.’

  They walked quickly across the outer office and as they reached the door, Delfosse was already turning round angrily towards his companion and beginning to talk furiously, but his words were lost.

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Hello? Chief Inspector Delvigne? Forgive me for bothering you, monsieur, but … this is Monsieur Chabot, Jean’s father. May I ask if there is any news?’

  The chief inspector smiled, put his meerschaum pipe on the table and winked at Maigret.

  ‘Delfosse has just left here, now, and your son was with him.’

  A startled silence.

  ‘Yes. They’ll probably be getting home in a few minutes. Hello? May I advise you not to come down too heavily on
the boy.’

  It was raining. In the streets, Chabot and Delfosse walked along the pavements pushing through the crowds who did not recognize them. They were not carrying on a coherent conversation, but every hundred metres or so, one or other would turn towards his companion, and snarl something, receiving a hostile reply.

  At the corner of Rue Puits-en-Soc, their paths diverged, one going right, the other left, to reach their homes.

  ‘He’s free, monsieur! They’ve realized that he’s innocent!’

  And Monsieur Chabot was leaving his office, getting on the number 4 tram and standing by the driver, whom he had known for years.

  ‘Don’t have the tram break down, please! My son’s free! The chief inspector himself telephoned me to say it had all been a mistake.’

  It was hard to tell whether he was laughing or crying. At any rate, a mist before his eyes made it impossible for him to see the familiar streets pass by.

  ‘And now I’ll get home before him! That would be best, because my wife might start scolding him. There are things women don’t understand … Tell me, just between ourselves, did you ever believe for a second he was guilty?’

  He was pitiful. He was begging the driver to say no.

  ‘Oh me, you know.’

  ‘But you must have had an opinion—’

  ‘Since my daughter went off and married a good-for-nothing who got her pregnant, I’m not a great believer in the youth of today.’

  Maigret had sat down in the chair vacated by Jean Chabot, facing Delvigne’s desk, and had picked up the other man’s tobacco from the table.

  ‘Have you heard back from Paris?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Oh, come on, you would have guessed like I did. And the laundry basket? Has anyone discovered how it left the Hôtel Moderne?’

  ‘No, nothing doing!’

  Delvigne was grumpy. He felt irritated with his Parisian counterpart.

  ‘Between ourselves, you’re playing us for fools, aren’t you? You know something, come on, tell me.’

  ‘No, it’s my turn to say nothing doing. I mean it! I have more or less the same facts to work on as you. In your place, I’d have done the same and let those boys go. And for instance, I’d be trying to find out what Graphopoulos stole from the Gai-Moulin.’

  ‘Stole?’

  ‘Or tried to steal.’

  ‘Him? The dead man?’

  ‘Or who he killed.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’