The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin (19 page)

‘Police! … The
couple who just came in here …'

‘Which couple?'

But she didn't put up much of
a struggle.

‘Very respectable people, both
married. They come twice a week …'

On his way out, the inspector
glanced through the car windscreen at the identity plate.

Marcel
Basso,

32, Quai d'Austerlitz,
Paris.

Not a breath of wind. The air was
warm and heavy. All the trams and buses heading for the railway stations were
packed. Taxis full of deckchairs, fishing-rods, shrimp nets and suitcases. The
asphalt glistened blue, and the café terraces resounded with the clatter of
saucers and glasses.

‘After all, three weeks ago
Lenoir was …'

There hadn't been much talk
about it. It was an everyday case – he was what you might call a professional
criminal. Maigret remembered the quivering moustache and sighed as he looked at
his watch.

Too late now. Madame Maigret would
be waiting with her sister at the barrier of the little station that evening and
would not fail to mutter:

‘Always the same!'

The taxi driver was reading a
newspaper. The man with the top hat left first, scanned the street both ways
before signalling to his companion, who was lurking in the entrance.

They stopped in Place des Ternes. He
saw them kiss through the rear windscreen. They were still holding hands after
the woman had hailed a taxi and the man was ready to drive off.

‘Do you want me to
follow?' the driver asked Maigret.

‘Might as well.'

At least he'd found someone
who knew the Two-Penny Bar!

Quai d'Austerlitz. A huge
sign:

Marcel
Basso

Coal importer – various
sources

Wholesale and retail

Domestic deliveries by the
sack

Special summer prices

A yard surrounded by a black fence.
On the opposite side of the street a quayside bearing the firm's name,
with moored barges and a newly unloaded pile of coal.

In the middle of the yard a large
house, in the style of a villa. Monsieur Basso parked his car, automatically
brushed his shoulders to remove any female hairs and went into his house.

Maigret saw him reappear at the
wide-open window of a room on the first floor. He was with a tall, attractive
blonde woman. They were both laughing and talking in an excited fashion.
Monsieur Basso was trying on his top hat and looking at himself in the
mirror.

They were packing suitcases. There
was a maid in a white apron in the room.

A quarter of an hour later – it was
now five o'clock – the family came downstairs. A boy of about ten led the
way, brandishing an air rifle. Then came the servant, Madame Basso, her husband,
a gardener carrying the cases …

The group was brimming with good
humour. Cars drove past, heading for the country. At Gare de Lyon the specially
extended holiday trains whistled shrilly.

Madame Basso got in next to her
husband. The boy climbed into the back seat among the cases and lowered
the windows. The car was nothing
fancy, just a standard family car, dark blue, nearly new.

A few minutes later they were
driving towards Villeneuve-Saint-Georges. Then they took the road towards
Corbeil. They drove through the town and ended up on a potholed road along the
bank of the Seine.

Mon Loisir

That was the name of the villa, on
the river between Morsang and Seine-Port. It looked newly built, bricks still
shiny, the paintwork fresh, flowers in the garden that looked as if they had
been washed that morning. A diving-board over the river, rowing-boats by the
bank.

‘Do you know the area?'
Maigret asked his driver.

‘A bit …'

‘Is there somewhere to stay
around here?'

‘In Morsang, the
Vieux-Garçon … Or further on, at Seine-Port, Chez
Marius …'

‘And the Two-Penny
Bar?'

The driver shrugged.

The taxi was too conspicuous to stay
there much longer by the roadside. The Bassos had unloaded their car. No more
than ten minutes had elapsed before Madame Basso appeared in the garden dressed
in a sailor's outfit, with an American naval cap on her head.

Her husband must have been more
eager to try out his fancy dress, for he appeared at a window buttoned up in an
improbable-looking frock coat, with the top hat perched on his head.

‘What
do you reckon?'

‘Shouldn't you be
wearing the sash?'

‘What sash?'

‘Mayors all wear a tricolour
sash …'

Canoes glided slowly by on the
river. In the distance, a tug blew its siren. The sun was sinking behind the
trees on the hillside further downstream.

‘Let's try the
Vieux-Garçon!' said Maigret.

The inn had a large terrace next to
the Seine. Boats of all sorts were moored to the bank, while a dozen or so cars
were parked behind the building.

‘Do you want me to wait for
you?'

‘I don't know
yet.'

The first person he met was a woman
dressed all in white, who almost ran into him. She was wearing orange blossom in
her hair. She was being chased by a young man in a swimming-costume. They were
both laughing. Some other people were observing the scene from the front steps
of the inn.

‘Hey, keep your dirty paws off
the bride!' someone shouted.

‘At least until after the
wedding!'

The bride stopped, out of breath,
and Maigret recognized the lady from Avenue Niel, the one who visited the
apartment with Monsieur Basso twice a week.

A man in a green rowing-boat was
putting away his fishing tackle, his brow furrowed, as if he were performing
some delicate and difficult operation.

‘Five Pernods,
five!'

A young man came out of the inn, his
face plastered
with greasepaint and
rouge. He was made up to look like a freckly, ruddy-cheeked peasant.

‘What do you think?'

‘You should have red
hair!'

A car arrived. Some people got out,
already dressed up for the village wedding. There was a woman in a puce silk
dress which trailed along the ground. Her husband had stuffed a cushion under
his waistcoat to simulate a paunch and was wearing a boat chain that was meant
to look like a watch chain.

The sun's rays turned red. The
leaves on the trees barely stirred. A canoe drifted downstream; its passenger,
stripped to the waist, sat at the back, doing no more than lazily steer it with
a paddle.

‘What time are the carriages
due to arrive?'

Maigret hung around, feeling out of
place.

‘Have the Bassos
arrived?'

‘They passed us on the
way!'

Suddenly, someone came and stood in
front of Maigret, a man of about thirty, already nearly bald, his face made up
like a clown's. He had a mischievous glint in his eyes. He spoke with a
pronounced English accent:

‘Here's someone to play
the notary!'

He wasn't completely drunk. He
wasn't completely sober, either. The rays of the setting sun turned his
face purple; his eyes were bluer than the river.

‘You'll be the notary,
won't you?' he asked with the familiarity of a drunkard. ‘Of
course you will, old chap. We'll have a great time.'

He took Maigret's arm and
added:

‘Let's have a Pernod.'

Everyone laughed. A woman
muttered:

‘He's got a nerve, that
James.'

But James wasn't bothered. He
dragged Maigret back to the Vieux-Garçon.

‘Two large Pernods!'

He was laughing at his own little
joke as they were served two glasses full to the brim.

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