The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin Page 4

  The atmosphere was heavy, full of familiar smells, with light glinting on the copper-bottomed pans, and the garish colours of an advertising calendar, still on the wall three years later, with newspapers wedged behind it.

  Jean ate his food mechanically, and gradually his senses dulled. In these everyday surroundings, he found himself doubting the reality of events outside. So he found it hard to imagine that two hours earlier he had been in the bedroom of a dancer who was putting on her stockings in front of him and letting her peignoir sag open on to her pale, plump, if slightly shopworn flesh.

  ‘Did you ask about the house?’

  ‘What house?’

  ‘The one in Rue Féronstrée.’

  ‘I … Oh, I forgot.’

  ‘As usual!’

  ‘I hope you’re going to take it easy tonight. You look terrible.’

  ‘Yes … I’m staying in.’

  ‘That’ll be the first time this week!’ said Madame Chabot, who was still not entirely reassured and was keeping a sharp eye on the expressions that crossed her son’s face. The letterbox rattled. Jean, sure it was meant for him, rushed out into the corridor to answer the caller. His parents watched through the glass panel of the kitchen door.

  ‘That Delfosse again!’ said Madame Chabot. ‘Why can’t he leave Jean alone? If it goes on like this, I’m going to speak to his parents.’

  The two young men could be seen whispering in the doorway. Chabot turned round several times to check they could not be overheard. He seemed to be resisting an urgent request.

  Then suddenly, without coming back to the kitchen, he called:

  ‘I won’t be long!’

  Madame Chabot got up to try to stop him. But already, with hurried and anxious gestures, he had seized his hat from the stand and run into the street, slamming the door.

  ‘And you let him carry on like that?’ she snapped at her husband. ‘Is that the kind of respect you get from him? If you would only put your foot down …’

  She had more to say in the same vein, under the lamplight, all the while eating her meal, as Monsieur Chabot glanced sideways at his newspaper, not daring to pick it up until the diatribe was over.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Certain. I recognized him. He used to be the inspector in our district.’

  Delfosse looked even more haggard, and as they passed under a gas lamp, his companion saw that he was deathly pale. He was pulling on his cigarette with short distracted intakes of breath.

  ‘I can’t stand this! It’s been going on for four hours now. Look! Turn round quickly. I can hear his footsteps about a hundred metres behind us.’

  They could make out only the silhouette of a man walking past the houses in Rue de la Loi.

  ‘It started right after lunch … Or maybe before. But I only noticed when I sat down on the terrace of the Pélican. He came to sit at a nearby table. I recognized him. He’s been in the secret police for two years. My father called him in when some metal was stolen from the site. He’s called Gérard or Girard. I don’t know why, but I stood up. It was getting on my nerves. I set off down Rue de la Cathédrale and he started walking behind me. I went into another café. He was waiting a hundred metres down the road. I went into a cinema, the Mondain, and there he was again, sitting three rows away. I don’t know what else I did. I walked, I took trams. It’s these banknotes in my pocket. I’d really like to get rid of them, because if he searches me, I won’t be able to say where I got them. Can’t you say that they’re yours? For instance, that it’s money your boss gave you to run an errand?’

  ‘No!’

  Sweat was beading on Delfosse’s forehead, and his expression was both troubled and angry.

  ‘But we’ve got to do something … He’s going to end up confronting us. I went to your place because after all, we were together when—’

  ‘You haven’t eaten?’

  ‘I’m not hungry. What if I was to throw the money into the river from the bridge?’

  ‘He’d see you!’

  ‘I could always go into a café and throw them down the lavatory. Or, no, listen! Let’s go and sit in a café and then you can go into the washroom, while he goes on watching me.’

  ‘What if he follows me?’

  ‘He won’t. And after all, you have the right to lock the door.’

  They were still in the district across the Meuse, where the streets were broad, but deserted and badly lit.

  Behind them, they could hear the regular footsteps of the policeman, who did not seem to be trying to hide his presence.

  ‘Why don’t we go into the Gai-Moulin? That would look more natural. We go there nearly every night. And if we had killed the Turk, of course we’d keep away.’

  ‘But it’s too early.’

  ‘We can wait.’

  They fell silent. They crossed the Meuse and wandered through the streets, checking from time to time that Girard was still following them. In Rue du Pot-d’Or, they saw the illuminated sign of the nightclub, which was just opening its doors.

  They recalled their flight away from it the previous evening, and it took a great effort on their part to approach it. Victor was at the door, a napkin over his arm, which meant that there were no customers to speak of.

  ‘Let’s go in.’

  ‘Good evening, young gents! You haven’t seen Adèle, have you?’

  ‘No. Hasn’t she arrived?’

  ‘Not yet! It’s odd, because she’s always punctual. Come in. A glass of port?’

  ‘Port, yes.’

  The place was virtually empty. The band wasn’t bothering to play. The musicians were chatting as they kept an eye on the door. The owner, wearing a tuxedo, was placing miniature American and British flags behind the bar.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he called. ‘All right, are we?’

  ‘Yes, all right.’

  And now the policeman walked in as well. He was still young, and looked rather like the second-in-command in Jean’s office. He refused to give his hat to the doorman and sat down near the entrance.

  At a sign from the owner, the musicians struck up a jazz tune, while the professional dance-partner, who had been sitting at the back of the room writing a letter, approached a woman who had just arrived, to invite her to dance.

  ‘Go now!’

  Delfosse pushed something into his companion’s hand and Jean hesitated to take it. The policeman was looking at them. But the action was taking place under the table.

  ‘Now’s the time.’

  Chabot decided to grab the greasy banknotes, and kept them in his hand to avoid any suspicious movement. He stood up.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he said out loud.

  Delfosse found it hard to conceal his relief and, in spite of himself, he threw a triumphant glance across at his pursuer.

  The owner stopped Jean.

  ‘Wait, you need the key. The attendant isn’t here yet. I don’t know where everyone is, they’re all late today.’

  The door to the cellar was open letting out a draught of cool air that made the young man shiver.

  Delfosse swallowed his port in a gulp. He felt it was doing him good, so he emptied his friend’s glass as well. In a few minutes, the flush of the lavatory would be washing away the compromising banknotes.

  Just then, Adèle walked in, wearing a black satin coat trimmed with white fur. She greeted the musicians and shook Victor’s hand.

  ‘Fancy seeing you!’ she said to Delfosse. ‘Isn’t your pal here? I saw him this afternoon, he came up to my place. Funny boy, isn’t he! Let me just take off my coat.’

  She dropped it off behind the counter and, after exchanging a few words with the boss, came to sit down by the young man.

  ‘Two glasses, I see … You’re with someone?’

  ‘Yes, Jean.’

  ‘Where’s he gone?’

  ‘Just over there.’

  He nodded at the washroom door.

  ‘Oh, OK. What does his father do?’
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  ‘Accountant in an insurance firm, I think.’

  She didn’t reply. That was enough. She had guessed as much.

  ‘Why don’t you come by car any more?’

  ‘It’s my father’s car. And I don’t have a driving licence. So I can only take it out when he’s away. Next week he’s going to the Vosges. So if you … if you’d like us to take a spin, just the two of us … To Spa, for instance?’

  ‘Who’s that character over there. Could he be from the police?’

  ‘I, er, dunno …’ he stammered, blushing.

  ‘Don’t like the look of him at all. I say, are you sure your pal hasn’t passed out or something? Victor, a sherry, please. You’re not dancing? Not that it bothers me, but the boss likes it to look lively.’

  Chabot had been gone twenty minutes. Delfosse was such a clumsy dancer that, halfway through the number, Adèle started to take the lead.

  ‘Do you mind? I’d better see what’s the matter with him.’

  He pushed open the washroom door. No sign of Jean. But the female attendant was setting out soap and towels on a cloth.

  ‘Have you seen my friend?’

  ‘No, I just got here.’

  ‘Through the back door?’

  ‘Of course, like I usually do.’

  Delfosse opened it. The alleyway was empty, cold and wet, lit only by the guttering street lamp.

  4. The Pipe-Smokers

  There were four of them in the huge space where tables covered with blotting paper were being used as desks. The lamps had green cardboard shades. Doors stood open, leading on to empty rooms.

  It was evening at police headquarters. Only the detectives were there, smoking their pipes. Tall, red-haired, Chief Inspector Delvigne was perched on the edge of a table, twisting the ends of his moustache from time to time. A young inspector was doodling on his blotter. The only person speaking was a short, stocky officer who obviously hailed from the countryside, and was still a peasant in appearance from head to toe.

  ‘Seven francs each, if you get packets of twelve! Pipes you’d have to pay twenty for in the shops. And nothing wrong with ’em, either! My brother-in-law, see, he works in the factory at Arlon.’

  ‘We could order a couple of dozen, for the whole squad.’

  ‘That’s what I said to my brother-in-law. And by the way, he knows what he’s talking about, he gave me a good tip to season a pipe.’

  Chief Inspector Delvigne swung his leg. Everyone was following the conversation closely, pipe in hand. Under the harsh light from the lamps, blue smoke clouds rose up in the air.

  ‘Instead of just stuffing it in any old how, you get hold of the bowl like this …’

  The main door opened. An inspector came in, pushing someone in front of him. The chief glanced at the new arrivals and called over:

  ‘Is that you, Perronet?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  And to the pipe expert:

  ‘Get a move on.’

  They left the young man standing by the door, and he had to listen to the entire lecture on how to season a pipe.

  ‘Do you want one?’ the speaker was asking Perronet. ‘These pipes are genuine briar, only seven francs, because my brother-in-law’s a foreman at Arlon.’

  And Delvigne, without moving, called out:

  ‘Come over here, my boy.’

  It was Jean Chabot, white as a sheet, his eyes staring so wildly that he looked close to nervous collapse. The others looked at him, still smoking their pipes and exchanging a few words. Some of them laughed at a joke.

  ‘So where did you pick him up, Perronet?’

  ‘In the Gai-Moulin. At the right moment. He was just going to chuck some hundred-franc notes down the WC!’

  This did not surprise anyone. The chief looked around him.

  ‘Someone to do the forms?’

  The youngest officer sat at a table, and picked up some pre-printed forms.

  ‘Surname, first names, age, occupation, address, previous convictions. Come on, let’s get it over with.’

  ‘Chabot, Jean-Joseph-Émile, sixteen, clerk, 53 Rue de la Loi.’

  ‘No previous?’

  ‘No!’

  The words emerged with difficulty from his choking throat.

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Chabot, Émile, accountant.’

  ‘He’s got no previous either?’

  ‘No, never!’

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘Élisabeth Doyen, forty-two …’

  Nobody was listening to these initial formalities. The chief inspector with the ginger moustache was slowly lighting his meerschaum pipe. He stood up, took a few paces round and asked:

  ‘Is anyone dealing with the suicide on the Coronmeuse embankment?’

  ‘Gerbert.’

  ‘Good. Now, your turn, young man. If you want a piece of advice, don’t try to be clever. Last night, you were at the Gai-Moulin with a certain Delfosse. We’ll get to him later. The pair of you couldn’t afford even to pay for your drinks, and you already owed for several previous days. Am I right?’

  Jean Chabot opened his mouth, then closed it without saying anything.

  ‘Your parents aren’t well-off. You don’t earn much yourself. And yet here you are, living it up like nobody’s business. You owe quite a bit of money, all told. Right?’

  The young man dropped his head, but continued to feel the eyes of the five men looking at him. The inspector’s tone was condescending, and slightly mocking.

  ‘You were even in debt at the tobacconist’s! Because yesterday you still owed him some money. We know the score. Youngsters who want to have a high old time, but can’t pay for it. How many times have you pinched some money from your father’s wallet?’

  Jean blushed deeply. The question hurt more than a blow. And worst of all, it was both fair and unfair.

  Basically, everything the inspector was saying was true. But hearing the truth presented this way, in such a crude manner, without the slightest concession, made it seem almost not the truth. Chabot had started drinking halves of beer with his friends in the Pélican. He’d grown used to having a drink every night, because that was their regular meeting place, and it was warm and friendly.

  They would each take it in turn to pay for a round – and a round could cost from six to ten francs.

  It had been so enjoyable, that hour’s leisure. After a day at the office listening to lectures from the head clerk, to sit there in the most expensive café in town, watching people go by in Rue du Pont-d’Avroy, shaking hands with friends, seeing pretty girls who sometimes even came and sat at their table.

  It was as if Liège belonged to them!

  Delfosse paid for more rounds than the others, because he had more pocket money.

  ‘What about going to the Gai-Moulin tonight? There’s this fantastic dancer there.’

  And that had been even more intoxicating. The plush seats. The warm, heady, scented atmosphere, the music, being on familiar terms with Victor, and especially with women in off-the-shoulder dresses, who pulled up their skirts to adjust a stocking.

  And then, little by little, it had become a need. Just once, because he didn’t want it to be always the others who paid, Jean had stolen some money, not at home, but from the petty cash at work. He had fiddled the receipts for a few parcels dispatched in the post. And it had only been twenty francs.

  ‘I’ve never stolen from my father.’

  ‘Well, it’s true there can’t be much to steal. Right, let’s get back to last night. You were both in the Gai-Moulin. Without a sou between you. And you bought a drink for the dancer. Pass me your cigarettes.’

  The young man handed over the packet, without understanding.

  ‘Filter-tipped Luxors. Same, are they, Dubois?’

  ‘Yes sir, that’s right’.

  ‘So, into the club that night, walks a man who looks well-off, he’s drinking champagne, and you can bet he’s got plenty of money in his wallet. Contrary to your usual habits, you both go ou
t the back way. And on the cellar stairs, what do we find today near the back door, but two cigarette ends and traces of footprints? Suggesting that instead of going out, what you really did was hide back there. And the foreigner was killed. In the Gai-Moulin, or somewhere else. His wallet was missing. And indeed, so was his gold cigarette-case. Then today, what happens? You pay off your debts! And this evening, realizing that you’re being followed, you try to throw the money down the pan!’

  All this was said in a neutral tone of voice, as if the inspector was scarcely taking the matter seriously.

  ‘And that, young man, is how you end up in trouble. Now just get it off your chest. That’s the best thing you can do. We could perhaps take into account—’

  The telephone rang. Everyone stopped talking, except the officer who picked it up.

  ‘Hello. Yes … Good. Tell him the van will be along soon.’

  Then to the others, after hanging up:

  ‘It was for that housemaid who killed herself. Her employers want the body picked up as soon as possible.’

  Chabot was staring at the filthy ceiling. He was clenching his teeth so tightly that it would have been difficult to prise them apart with a knife.

  ‘So where did you attack Graphopoulos? In the nightclub? On the way out?’

  ‘No, it’s not true,’ Jean cried hoarsely. ‘I swear on my father’s life—’

  ‘Leave your father out of it. He’s already got enough to worry about.’

  And these words started Jean trembling convulsively. He looked around in panic. He was only now grasping the situation. He knew that in an hour or so his parents would be told.

  ‘I won’t! It’s not true! I won’t …!’ he cried.

  ‘Calm down, young man!’

  ‘I won’t, I won’t!’

  And he flung himself at the officer standing between him and the door. The struggle was short-lived. The young man did not know himself what he wanted. He was beside himself, shouting, hiccupping. And in the end, he rolled on the floor, groaning and twisting his arms.

  The other men watched him, smoking and exchanging glances.

  ‘A glass of water, Dubois. And I could do with some tobacco.’

  The glass of water was thrown into Chabot’s face. His attack of nerves resolved itself into furious sobbing. He tried to push his fingers down his throat.