The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin Page 6

‘Hardly! Yeah, that’s probably what they wanted. Too shy to ask, though. They used to come up to my place, one at a time, on silly excuses, just to watch me getting dressed.’

  ‘On the night of the murder, you were drinking champagne with Graphopoulos. Did you have an arrangement to follow him out at the end of the evening?’

  ‘What do you take me for? I’m a dancer.’

  ‘Well, more precisely, you’re a hostess. And we all know what that means. So did you leave with him?’

  ‘No, I did not!’

  ‘Did he proposition you?’

  ‘Oh! Yes and no. He was on at me to go and see him at his hotel, can’t remember which one. I didn’t pay attention.’

  ‘But you didn’t leave the Gai-Moulin on your own.’

  ‘No, that’s right. Just when I was on my way out, this other customer – I don’t know him, he must be French – anyway he asked me the way to Place Saint-Lambert. I said I was going that way, and he walked along with me for a bit, then he suddenly said, “Oh, I left my tobacco in the bar,” and he turned back.’

  ‘Was this man heavily built?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘So you went straight home?’

  ‘Like I do every night.’

  ‘And you learned about the crime next day from the papers?’

  ‘That young man there was at my place. It was him that told me.’

  Twice or three times already, Chabot had tried to interrupt, but the chief inspector had quelled him with a glance. As for the boy’s father, he had remained rooted to the spot.

  ‘And you have no idea who could have committed the murder?’

  She didn’t reply at once.

  ‘Answer the question, please! Chabot has already admitted that he and his friend were hiding on the cellar steps at the Gai-Moulin.’

  She laughed at that.

  ‘He claims that all they wanted to do was steal from the till. When they went back inside, a quarter of an hour after closing time, they apparently saw Graphopoulos lying dead on the floor.’

  ‘No kidding?’

  ‘So who, in your view, could have committed the crime? Wait. We have only a small number of possible suspects. Génaro, the club owner. He claims he went out soon after you, with Victor. And he says Graphopoulos had already left the club by then.’

  She shrugged, while Chabot looked at her both angrily and imploringly.

  ‘You don’t think either Génaro or Victor was responsible?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said, indifferently.

  ‘Then there’s this unknown customer. You said he came out at the same time as you. He might have returned to the club, either alone or with you.’

  ‘But how would he have got back in?’

  ‘You’ve been working there long enough to have got yourself a secret key, haven’t you?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘Well, anyway, it was Delfosse who had the cigarette-case,’ she said. ‘And he was hiding.’

  ‘That’s not true! I saw the cigarette-case in your room at midday!’ Chabot burst out. ‘I saw it. I swear.’

  She repeated:

  ‘No! It was Delfosse that had it.’

  A shouting match broke out between the two of them, but was interrupted when a detective walked in. He whispered something to the chief inspector.

  ‘Bring him in.’

  There now entered a respectable-looking man of about fifty, with an impressive stomach, across which a gold watch chain was stretched. He felt it incumbent on him to adopt a dignified, indeed solemn expression.

  ‘I was asked to come to see you,’ he said, looking round in surprise.

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Lasnier,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Take a seat, please. Forgive me for troubling you, but I would like to know whether in the course of yesterday, you missed any money from your till.’

  The owner of the chocolate shop in Rue Léopold, round-eyed with astonishment, repeated:

  ‘My till?’

  And Monsieur Chabot, Jean’s father, gazed at him in anguish, as if on his answer depended what he himself would think of the affair.

  ‘I imagine that, for instance, if someone had taken two thousand francs, that would have been noticed?’

  ‘Two thousand francs? I really don’t see—’

  ‘Never mind. Just answer my question. Did you notice any money missing from the shop’s takings?’

  ‘No, none at all.’

  ‘Your nephew did come to see you, didn’t he?’

  ‘Wait a minute. Yes, I think he did drop in, as he does from time to time. Not to see me, more to get some chocolate.’

  ‘And you never noticed that he was stealing from the till?’

  ‘Monsieur!’

  The chocolatier swelled with anger and seemed to call on them to witness the insult to his family.

  ‘My brother-in-law can well afford to give his son all the money he needs.’

  ‘My apologies, Monsieur Lasnier. And thank you.’

  ‘Was that all you wanted me for?’

  ‘Yes, that’s all, thank you.’

  ‘But what makes you think that—’

  ‘I can’t reveal that at the moment. Girard! Please see Monsieur Lasnier out.’

  And the chief began to pace the room again, as Adèle asked, brazenly:

  ‘Do you need me any more?’

  He glared at her with an expression which was enough to silence her. And for the next ten minutes, nobody said a word. They must have been waiting for someone or something. Monsieur Chabot did not dare smoke. Nor did he dare look at his son. He was as ill at ease as a poor patient in an eminent doctor’s waiting room. Jean followed the chief inspector with his eyes and every time he came near, seemed to want to say something.

  At last, steps were heard in the corridor. A knock at the door.

  ‘Come in!’

  Two men entered the room: Génaro, short and stocky, in a light-coloured Norfolk jacket, and Victor the waiter, whom Chabot had never seen in street clothes, and who now, dressed in black, might have been taken for a cleric.

  ‘So, monsieur,’ the Italian began volubly, ‘I received your summons just an hour ago, and—’

  ‘Yes, yes. Now can you just tell me whether last night you saw Graphopoulos’s cigarette-case in the hands of René Delfosse?’

  Génaro made a gesture of apology.

  ‘Personally, you know, I don’t pay much attention to the customers, but Victor will be able to tell you—’

  ‘All right. You, then, can you answer the question?’

  Jean Chabot stared the waiter in the eye, breathing heavily. But Victor looked down slyly and murmured:

  ‘I wouldn’t want to say anything against the young men who have always been very nice to me, but I suppose I must tell you the truth.’

  ‘I want a yes or a no!’

  ‘Well … yes, he did have it. I almost warned him to be prudent—’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Jean burst out. ‘Victor, how can you say that? Please listen, monsieur—’

  ‘Be quiet! Now tell me what you think about the financial position of the two young men.’

  And Victor, sighing awkwardly, and speaking as if with reluctance, said:

  ‘Well, of course they always owed me a bit of money. And not just for drinks. They sometimes borrowed a little cash from me.’

  ‘And what was your impression of Graphopoulos?’

  ‘A rich foreigner, passing through. They’re our best customers. He ordered champagne straight away, didn’t ask the price. He gave me a tip of fifty francs.’

  ‘And did you see any thousand-franc notes in his wallet?’

  ‘Oh yes, he was loaded. Mainly French francs, not Belgian ones.’

  ‘And that’s all you noticed?’

  ‘He had a very fine pearl in his tie-pin.’

  ‘And when did he leave?’

  ‘A little after Adèle, who went out with another customer. A big man, who just drank beer and gave me tw
enty sous as a tip. A Frenchman. He was smoking dark tobacco.’

  ‘So you were left alone with the boss?’

  ‘Yes, just long enough to turn out the lights and lock up.’

  ‘And you went straight home?’

  ‘Yes, as usual. Monsieur Génaro left me at the bottom of Rue Haute-Sauvenière, where he lives.’

  ‘Next morning, when you arrived back at work, did you notice anything out of place in the room?’

  ‘No, nothing. No blood or anything. The cleaners were in and I was supervising them.’

  Génaro was listening unconcernedly.

  The inspector spoke to him:

  ‘Is it true that you usually leave the night’s takings in the till?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Never mind! Answer my question.’

  ‘No, I certainly don’t, I take it all home, except for the small change.’

  ‘And how much would that be?’

  ‘About fifty francs on average, just coins that I leave in the drawer.’

  ‘But that’s not true!’ shouted Jean Chabot. ‘I’ve seen him go out, oh, ten times, or twenty times, and leaving—’

  And Génaro asked:

  ‘What’s going on? Is he saying that …’

  He looked genuinely amazed as he turned to the dancer.

  ‘Adèle will tell you—’

  ‘Yes, of course!’

  ‘What I don’t understand, Chief Inspector, is how the young men can claim they saw the corpse inside the club. Because Graphopoulos left before I did. He couldn’t have got back in. The crime must have been committed outside, I have no idea where. I am sorry to be so definite about that. They are my customers, after all. And I myself felt quite kindly disposed towards them. If you want proof of that, I allowed them credit. But the truth is the truth, and this is a serious enough case for—’

  ‘That will do, thank you.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation. Then Génaro asked:

  ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Yes, you and the waiter. If I need you again, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘I presume there is no objection to the club staying open?’

  ‘No, none at all.’

  And now Adèle asked:

  ‘Me too?’

  ‘Yes, go on home!’

  ‘I’m free to go, then?’

  The chief inspector did not reply. He looked troubled, as he steadily stroked the bowl of his pipe. When the three people from the club had left, the room felt empty. Just the chief inspector, Chabot and his father were there, none of them speaking.

  Monsieur Chabot was the first to say something. He hesitated for a while, then at last coughed and said:

  ‘Excuse me. But do you really believe …?’

  ‘What?’ the other man asked, irritably.

  ‘I don’t know. It seemed to me …’

  And he made a vague gesture indicating puzzlement. A gesture that signified: ‘It looks to me as if something fishy is going on. Something’s not quite right.’

  Jean stood up, apparently having mustered a little more strength. He dared to look at his father.

  ‘They’re all lying!’ he said clearly. ‘I swear they are. Do you believe me, Chief Inspector?’

  No answer.

  ‘Do you believe me, Father?’

  Monsieur Chabot at first looked aside. Then he stammered:

  ‘I–I don’t know.’

  And finally, as if common sense had come to his rescue:

  ‘We should surely try to find this Frenchman everyone is talking about, shouldn’t we?’

  The chief inspector seemed undecided, since he was walking round with a stormy expression.

  ‘Well, at any rate, Delfosse has vanished,’ he muttered, more for himself than for the others.

  He paced about some more, and after a while spoke again:

  ‘And two witnesses have said he was in possession of that cigarette-case!’

  He went up and down the room again, pursuing his thought:

  ‘And you were both on the cellar steps … And then this evening, you were trying to get rid of those banknotes down the lavatory! And—’

  Here he stopped and looked at each of them in turn.

  ‘And now the chocolate-shop owner says he hasn’t had any money stolen!’

  He went out, leaving them together. But they failed to take advantage of it. When he returned, father and son were still in their original places, five metres from one another, each plunged into a determined silence.

  ‘Well, too bad. I’ve just phoned the examining magistrate. He’ll be in charge from now on. And he won’t hear of letting you out on bail. It’s De Conninck. If you want to take it up with him, you can always ask.’

  ‘François de Conninck?’

  ‘Yes, I think that’s his name.’

  And Jean’s father muttered shamefacedly:

  ‘We were at school together.’

  ‘All right, go and see him if you think it will be any help. I doubt it, though, because I know him. For the moment, he’s directed me to have your son taken to Saint-Léonard.’

  These words had a sinister ring. Until now, nothing had sounded final.

  Saint-Léonard! The city jail! That terrifying black building towering ominously over a whole district by the Pont-Maguin, with its medieval turrets, its loophole windows and its iron bars.

  Jean paled, and said nothing.

  ‘Girard!’ the chief called, opening the door. ‘Two men and a car, now.’

  That was enough. They waited.

  ‘It won’t hurt if you try and see Monsieur de Conninck,’ the chief sighed, for the sake of saying something. ‘If you were at school together …’

  But his face was a better guide to his thoughts. He was thinking of the distance that separated the senior magistrate, born into a family of lawyers and related to the most important people in town, from an accountant whose son had actually admitted that he had intended to steal from the till of a nightclub.

  ‘Ready, sir,’ said Girard. ‘Should we …?’

  Something glinted in his hands. The chief shrugged an affirmative.

  And it was a ritual gesture, accomplished so fast that the father only realized what was happening when it was over. Girard had taken hold of Jean’s hands. A metallic click.

  ‘This way.’

  Handcuffs! And two uniformed policemen waiting outside by the car!

  Jean took a few steps. It seemed he had nothing to say. But at the door, he turned round. His voice was hardly recognizable.

  ‘Father, I swear—’

  ‘Well now, about those pipes! I thought if we ordered, say, three dozen …’

  It was the pipe-obsessed inspector who had walked in, blind to the scene around him. As he suddenly caught sight of the young man from behind, and glimpsed the handcuffs on his wrists, he stopped short:

  ‘Oh, so it’s in the bag, is it?’

  The gesture indicated: ‘Got him, eh!’

  The chief inspector pointed to Monsieur Chabot who had collapsed into a chair, head in hands, and was sobbing like a woman.

  The other man went on in a lower voice:

  ‘We can always find someone from one of the other divisions to take the third dozen. When you think of the price!’

  A car door slammed. An engine started.

  The chief inspector, looking awkward, was saying to Monsieur Chabot:

  ‘You know … nothing’s definite yet …’

  And without conviction:

  ‘… especially if you know Monsieur de Conninck.’

  And the father, as he beat a retreat, gave a pale smile of thanks.

  6. The Fugitive

  At one o’clock, the local newpapers were published, and all of them had banner headlines on their front pages. The conservative Gazette de Liège proclaimed:

  Corpse in laundry basket case!

  Crime committed by two young hoodlums!

  The headline in the leftwing Wallonie socialiste was
:

  Crime committed by rich young brats!

  The papers all reported Jean Chabot’s arrest and René Delfosse’s disappearance. The Chabot house in Rue de la Loi had already been photographed. One report read:

  Immediately after an emotional meeting with his son at police headquarters, Monsieur Chabot went home and has refused to make a statement. Madame Chabot is devastated and has taken to her bed.

  We approached Monsieur Delfosse as he was returning from Huy, where he owns several factories. René Delfosse’s father, an active man in his fifties, showed no emotion on hearing the shocking news. He refuses to believe that his son is guilty, and states that he will personally look into it.

  In his prison cell at Saint-Léonard, Jean Chabot is reported to remain unmoved. He will see his lawyer before he appears before Examining Magistrate De Conninck, who is in charge of the case.

  In Rue de la Loi, everything was as calm as usual. Children were filing into the schoolyard to play while they waited for the bell. There was grass growing between the cobbles and a woman was scrubbing the steps of number 48. The only other sound was that of a coppersmith hammering on an anvil.

  But doors were opening more than usual. A head would poke out, looking towards number 53. A few words would be exchanged from the threshold:

  ‘Can you believe it? He’s just a kid. When I think that not so long ago he was playing in the street with my children!’

  ‘Well, I said to my husband, when I saw him coming home the worse for drink a couple of times … At his age!’

  About every quarter of an hour, the doorbell would ring at the Chabot house. The Polish student would open the door.

  ‘No, Monsieur and Madame Chabot are not at home,’ she would announce with her strong foreign accent.

  ‘I’m from the Gazette. Would you tell them—’

  And the reporter would crane his neck to try to see inside. He could vaguely glimpse the kitchen, and the shape of a man seated there.

  ‘No, don’t trouble yourself. They are not here.’

  ‘But—’

  She was already shutting the door. The reporter had to be content with questioning the neighbours.

  One of the papers had a sub-heading a little different from the others:

  Where is the man with broad shoulders?

  Followed by a report:

  Everyone seems to believe that Chabot and Delfosse are guilty. Without wishing to defend them, but respecting the objective facts of the case, we are inclined to express some surprise at the disappearance of an important witness: the broad-shouldered customer who was seen at the Gai-Moulin club on the night of the crime.