The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin (10 page)

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!'

‘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 guess 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.