The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin Page 8

  ‘Well, on Wednesday morning, Graphopoulos left the Grand, but instead of going to Le Bourget, he had himself driven to the Gare du Nord, and there he bought a rail ticket to Berlin. We travelled in the same dining car. I don’t know whether he recognized me. He certainly didn’t speak a word to me.

  ‘When the train reached Liège, he got out. So I followed him. He took a room in the Hôtel Moderne, so I took one next to his. We both dined in a restaurant behind the Theatre Royal.’

  ‘Ah, that’ll be La Bécasse,’ Delvigne interrupted. ‘You get a good meal there.’

  ‘Yes, especially the kidneys liègeoise, you’re right. And I had the impression that it was the first time that Graphopoulos had set foot in Liège. He got the name of the hotel from the station. And the people at the hotel sent him to La Bécasse. And then the doorman at the restaurant talked to him about the Gai-Moulin.’

  ‘So he ended up there by chance,’ said Delvigne thoughtfully.

  ‘I don’t know that for sure. I went into the nightclub a little after him. One of the club’s dancers was sitting at his table, as you might expect. In fact I was very bored, because I hate that kind of place. My first thought was that he’d take her back to his room. So when I saw her go out alone, I went with her, and put a few questions to her. She said it was the first time she’d seen the stranger, that he’d asked her to rendezvous with him later, but she said she wasn’t going to go, and added that he was boring. And that’s all. I came back. The club owner was on his way out with the waiter. So I assumed that Graphopoulos had left while my back was turned, and I looked for him in the nearby streets. I went as far as the hotel, to check whether he’d gone back there. And when I returned to the Gai-Moulin, the doors were shut and there was no light inside. In short, I got nowhere at all. But I didn’t see it as a disaster. I asked a policeman if there were other nightclubs open, and he named four or five, which I conscientiously visited, but with no sign of my Greek.’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ murmured Delvigne.

  ‘Wait! I could have come to you and pursued my inquiry in cooperation with the Liège police. But since I’d been seen at the Gai-Moulin, I preferred not to alert the murderer. There are only a few possible suspects. I started with the two youngsters, whose nervousness I had noticed. That led me to Adèle, and the dead man’s cigarette-case. You rushed things, though. You arrested Jean Chabot. Delfosse escaped. General confrontation. But I only learned about all that from the papers. And at the same time, I discovered I was wanted myself, as a suspect. That’s all. So I took advantage of that.’

  ‘Took advantage?’

  ‘A question, first. Do you think those boys are guilty?’

  ‘To be honest—’

  ‘Good, I see you don’t. Nobody does, and the murderer realizes that any minute now you’ll be looking elsewhere. So he’s taking precautions, and we shouldn’t expect him to make silly mistakes. On the other hand, there’s a big presumption against the “man with broad shoulders”, as the papers call him. So the man with broad shoulders has contrived to get himself arrested, in rather dramatic circumstances. Everyone will think the real culprit was taken into custody this evening. We need to reinforce that opinion. Tomorrow, people will hear that I’m in Saint-Léonard and that a confession is confidently expected.’

  ‘And you really want to go to prison?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Delvigne found it hard to take this in.

  ‘Of course you would be able to move about freely.’

  ‘Not at all! On the contrary I’d like you to have me subjected to the strictest conditions!’

  ‘You have an odd way of going about things in Paris!’

  ‘No, no. It’s as I told you, the culprit or culprits need to think they are out of danger. If there is a culprit …’

  This time the Belgian with the ginger moustache really did give a start.

  ‘What do you mean! You’re surely not insinuating that Graphopoulos bashed his own head in, jumped into a large basket, and got someone to carry it to the park!’

  Maigret’s big eyes were full of innocence.

  ‘You never know, do you?’

  And as he filled his pipe:

  ‘Time for you to have me escorted to prison now. But first, we’d better agree between ourselves a certain number of points. Would you be good enough to take notes?’

  He spoke quite simply. There was even a little humility in his tone of voice. But all the same he was quite unambiguously taking charge of the investigation, without seeming to.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Monday: Graphopoulos asks for protection from the Paris police.

  Tuesday: he tries to shake off the inspector who is meant to be watching over him.

  Wednesday: after buying an air ticket for London, he gets a rail ticket for Berlin but leaves the train at Liège.

  He doesn’t seem to know the town at all, and ends up at the Gai-Moulin where he does nothing of an exceptional nature.

  When I accompany the dancer out, there are still four other people in the club: Chabot and Delfosse, hiding on the cellar steps; the owner and Victor in the bar area.

  When I return, the owner and Victor are on their way out, locking up. Chabot and Delfosse, by their own account, are still there.

  The young men claim they came out of the cellar a quarter of an hour after the club was closed, and that by then Graphopoulos was dead.

  If that is true, then the crime could have been committed while I was accompanying the dancer down the street. And in that case, it would have been committed by Génaro and Victor.

  If it is not true, then the murder could have been committed at that time by Delfosse and Chabot themselves.

  Chabot could be lying, and if so, nothing proves the murder took place inside the club.

  The murderer might have moved the body himself, but it is also possible that transport was provided by someone else.

  Next day, Adèle is in possession of the cigarette-case, but she says it was given her by Delfosse.

  The statements by Génaro, the dancer and Victor all agree in contradicting the allegations of Chabot.

  Maigret stopped speaking and puffed a few times on his pipe, as his companion looked up anxiously.

  ‘Never heard the like!’ he murmured.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s so complicated, this case, when you look at it in detail.’

  Maigret stood up.

  ‘Time for bed! Are the mattresses comfortable in Saint-Léonard?’

  ‘You really want to go there, then?’

  ‘Oh, by the way, I’d quite like to have the cell next to the kid Chabot. Tomorrow, I’ll probably ask you to stage a meeting with him.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll have found his friend Delfosse by then.’

  ‘No matter.’

  ‘Do you really think they’re innocent? The examining magistrate won’t hear of letting anyone go. And now I think of it, I’ll have to tell him the truth about you.’

  ‘Well, leave it as long as you can, if possible. What’s going on outside?’

  ‘Journalists, I expect. I’m going to have to make a statement to the press. Who shall I say you are?’

  ‘I have no identity! An unknown person. No papers on me at all.’

  Chief Inspector Delvigne was still uneasy in his mind. He continued to steal glances at Maigret, his anxiety tinged with admiration.

  ‘I don’t understand any of this!’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘It’s almost as if Graphopoulos came to Liège to get himself killed. And while I think of it, it’s high time to inform his family. I’m seeing the Greek consul tomorrow morning.’

  Maigret had picked up his bowler hat, and was ready to leave.

  ‘Don’t treat me too politely in front of the press,’ he advised.

  The chief inspector opened the door. In the outer office half a dozen reporters were clustered round a man whom Delvigne recognized.

  It was the manager of
the Hôtel Moderne who had been in earlier that afternoon. He was talking animatedly to the journalists, who were taking notes. Suddenly, he turned round and saw Maigret. His face flushed crimson, and he pointed at him.

  ‘But that’s him!’ he cried. ‘There’s no doubt about that!’

  ‘I know. He has just admitted he stayed at the hotel.’

  ‘And did he also admit he took the basket?’

  Delvigne looked uncomprehending.

  ‘What basket?’

  ‘Well, the laundry basket, for heaven’s sake! With the kind of staff we have these days, I might never have noticed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Here’s what I mean. On every landing in the hotel, there’s a big wicker basket for dirty linen. Well, just now, they came back from the laundry, and I noticed myself that one of them was missing. The one from the third floor. I asked the chambermaid. She claims she thought they’d taken it for repairs because the lid didn’t fit properly.’

  ‘What about the linen?’

  ‘Well, that’s the extraordinary thing! The linen from there had been put in the second-floor basket.’

  ‘Are you sure that your basket is the one that was used to move the corpse?’

  ‘I’ve just got back from the morgue, where they showed it to me.’

  He was panting. He couldn’t get over being so closely involved in the affair. But the person most affected was Chief Inspector Delvigne, who dared not even look at Maigret. He forgot about the reporters and their previous agreement.

  ‘What have you got to say about that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Maigret, imperturbably.

  ‘Look here,’ said the hotel manager. ‘He could have taken the basket out without being seen. To get in at night, you ring the bell, and the porter operates the cord without getting out of bed. But to let yourself out, you just have to turn the door handle.’

  One reporter handy with his pencil was making a rapid sketch of Maigret, whom he represented with heavy jowls and as unsavoury an appearance as possible.

  Delvigne ran his hand through his hair and blurted out:

  ‘Come back into my office a minute.’

  He didn’t know where to look. A reporter asked him:

  ‘Has he confessed?’

  ‘No comment!’

  And Maigret replied calmly:

  ‘I warn you that I do not intend to answer any more questions.’

  ‘Girard, bring the car up!’

  ‘Should I sign a statement,’ the hotel manager was asking.

  ‘Presently!’

  Chaos. And all the while Maigret simply stood smoking his pipe and looking round at those present, one after another.

  ‘Handcuffs?’ Girard asked.

  ‘Yes. No. Come over here, you.’

  He was in a hurry to be alone in the car with his opposite number.

  As they drove through the deserted streets, he asked, almost begging:

  ‘What do you think that means?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This business about the laundry basket. That man is virtually accusing you of having taken a wicker basket from the hotel. The one they found the corpse in.’

  ‘Yes, he did seem to be insinuating that.’

  The word ‘insinuating’ had a delicious irony to it, considering the passionate exclamations of the hotel manager.

  ‘Is that true?’

  Instead of replying, Maigret went on:

  ‘The basket must have been taken out either by Graphopoulos or by me. If by Graphopoulos, you must admit it’s astonishing. A man who takes the trouble to fetch his own coffin.’

  ‘Excuse me … But just now, when you told me who you were, I didn’t think of asking you for … um … some proof of identity.’

  Maigret felt in his pockets and handed his companion his detective chief inspector’s badge.

  ‘Yes, of course. My apologies. The basket business now …’

  And with a sudden burst of courage, helped by the darkness inside the car:

  ‘Do you know that even if you hadn’t asked me to, I’d have been obliged to arrest you, after that man’s clear statement?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Were you expecting that accusation?’

  ‘Me? No!’

  ‘And you think Graphopoulos took the basket himself?’

  ‘I don’t think anything yet.’

  Delvigne, frustrated, the blood flooding his cheeks, fell silent and retreated into his corner. When they arrived at the prison, he went quickly through the admission formalities, avoiding looking his companion in the face.

  ‘The warder will now take charge of you,’ he said by way of farewell.

  He must have felt rather bad about that. In the street, he wondered whether he had not been somewhat too impolite towards his colleague.

  ‘But he asked me himself to make it look as though I was being tough.’

  Yes, but not when they were alone. And that had been before the statement by the hotel manager. Could it be that Maigret, just because he came from Paris, was having some fun at his expense?

  ‘Well, if so, he’ll regret it …’

  Girard was waiting in the office, reading through the list of points made by Maigret.

  ‘Making progress, then?’ he said approvingly as the chief arrived.

  ‘Oh, you think so, do you?’

  His tone made Girard open his eyes wide.

  ‘But … the arrest of that man … the laundry basket that—’

  ‘The basket … yes! Oh yes, talk about it all you like! The basket that …! Get me the telegraph switchboard!’

  And when he had a line, he dictated a wire:

  Police Judiciaire, Paris

  Please send soonest detailed description and if possible fingerprints Detective Chief Inspector Maigret. Police headquarters, Liège.

  ‘What’s that all about?’ asked Girard.

  It wasn’t the best thing to say. His chief looked at him furiously.

  ‘Nothing at all, you hear? It means I’m fed up with stupid questions. It means I want a bit of peace.’

  And realizing how ridiculous his anger was, he stopped short and simply said, ‘Oh damn and blast!’

  Then he shut himself in his office, alone with the thirteen points on Maigret’s list.

  8. Chez Jeanne

  ‘Behave yourself!’ said the plump woman, with a throaty chuckle. ‘They might see us …’

  Standing up, she moved towards the bay window, looked through the net curtain and asked:

  ‘Are you waiting for the Brussels train?’

  It was a small café behind the Guillemins railway station. The large room was clean, the light-coloured floor tiles had been newly washed and the tables carefully polished.

  ‘Come back and sit down,’ muttered the man sitting in front of a glass of beer.

  ‘Promise you’ll behave yourself, then?’

  And the woman sat down, lifted the man’s hand from the banquette where it was trailing, and placed it on the table.

  ‘You’re a salesman, are you?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. I don’t know. No! Stop it! If you don’t keep your hands to yourself, I’m going to stand at the door. Tell me what you want to drink instead. Same again? One for me, too?’

  What made this café seem somehow difficult to place was perhaps its very cleanliness, the perfect order, and a feeling that it was more like a domestic interior than a public establishment. The counter was very small, without a beer pump, and there were scarcely as many as twenty glasses on the shelves. On a table by the window lay some sewing, and elsewhere a basket of string beans, which someone had started to prepare for cooking.

  It was tidy. It smelled of soup, not alcohol. Anyone going in would feel they were disturbing a domestic scene.

  The woman, who was about thirty-five, was buxom, with something both respectable and maternal about her. She kept pushing away the hand that the timid custom
er was trying to put on her knee.

  ‘What line are you in? Foodstuffs?’

  Suddenly she listened. A staircase led from the café straight to the first floor. A sound could be heard as of someone getting out of bed.

  ‘Excuse me a moment.’

  She went to listen, then into the passageway, calling:

  ‘Monsieur Henry!’

  When she returned to the customer, he was looking nervous, the more so when a man, bare-necked and in shirt-sleeves, came in from the back room, and tiptoed up the stairs. They could see his legs, then nothing.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. Just this young man who got drunk last night – we put him to bed.’

  ‘And Monsieur Henry is … your husband?’

  She laughed, which made her large soft breasts quiver.

  ‘He’s the boss. I’m just the waitress. Careful, I’m sure someone can see you.’

  ‘But I would like …’

  ‘What?’

  The man was red in the face. He was unsure now what was and was not permitted. He gazed at his companion’s plump tempting flesh with shining eyes.

  ‘Can’t we be alone for a few minutes?’ he whispered.

  ‘Are you crazy? What for? This is a respectable house.’

  She stopped short and listened once more. An argument was taking place upstairs. Monsieur Henry was replying in a calm, controlled voice to someone who was complaining loudly.

  ‘He’s just a kid,’ the big woman explained. ‘Makes you feel sorry for him. Not twenty years old, but he drank himself silly. And he was paying for everyone’s drinks, showing off, and a lot of people took advantage.’

  The door was opening upstairs. The voices became clearer.

  ‘I tell you I had hundreds of francs in my pockets!’ The young man was wailing. ‘I’ve been robbed! I want my money!’

  ‘Calm down. There are no thieves here. If you hadn’t been as tight as a tick—’