The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin (6 page)

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?'

‘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.

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 out 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.

‘I don't want to, I
don't …'

The chief inspector shrugged and
muttered:

‘They're all the same, these
damn kids. And we'll have his father and mother turning up any
minute.'

The atmosphere was, if anything, like
that in a hospital, when doctors stand around the bed observing a patient fighting
for his life.

Five of them were looking down at this
youth – just a boy, really. Five men in the prime of life, who'd seen it all
before and weren't going to be impressed.

‘Come on, up you get!' said
the chief, impatiently.

And obeying meekly, Chabot got to his
feet. His resistance was broken. His nerves had been shattered. He looked around in
panic, like an animal giving up the fight.

‘I beg you—'

‘Tell us where the money came
from.'

‘I
don't know, I swear—'

‘No need to be swearing things all
the time.'

His dark suit was covered in dust.
Wiping his face with his dirty hands, Chabot left grey marks on his cheeks.

‘My father's a sick man. He
has heart trouble. He had a bad turn last year, and the doctor told him he must
avoid distressing himself—'

He was speaking in a dull voice. He had
no strength left.

‘Well, you shouldn't have
got into trouble, then, kid. And now, it would be better just to tell us everything.
Who hit the man? You? Delfosse? That's another boy on the way to perdition.
And if there's anyone we ought to be bringing in, it's probably
him.'

A new policeman entered the room,
greeted the others cheerfully, and sat down at a table, where he picked up a
file.

‘I didn't kill anyone! I
didn't even know—'

‘Look, I'm prepared to
believe you didn't actually
kill
him.'

As if speaking to a child, the chief
inspector was assuming a more paternal air.