The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin (7 page)

‘But you certainly know something.
That money didn't jump into your pocket. Yesterday you didn't have any,
and today you do. Give him a chair, someone.'

Because Chabot was swaying on his feet.
His legs were failing to hold him up. He sat down on a straw-bottomed chair and put
his head in his hands.

‘Take your time, no need to rush
at it. Tell yourself this is your best chance of getting out of this mess. Anyway,
you're under seventeen, so you'll go before the juvenile
court. And the worst you could get is a young
offenders' institution.'

An idea struck Chabot, and he looked
around a little less anxiously. He stared at his inquisitors in turn. None of them
resembled the man with broad shoulders.

Had he been mistaken about the stranger?
Was he really a policeman? Or could it even be that he was the murderer? He'd
been at the Gai-Moulin the previous evening. He had still been there when he and
René had left the main room.

And if he had followed them, could that
be because he was trying to have them arrested in his place?

‘I think I understand,' he
cried, panting with eagerness. ‘Yes, I think I do know who the murderer was. A
big man, very tall, clean-shaven.'

The chief inspector shrugged his
shoulders. But Chabot didn't give up.

‘He came into the Gai-Moulin just
after the Turk. He was alone. And I saw him again today, he followed me. He went to
the greengrocer's and asked her about me.'

‘What's he talking
about?'

Inspector Perronet muttered:

‘Not sure. But yes, last night at
the Gai-Moulin, there was a customer that nobody seemed to know.'

‘And when did he leave?'

‘Same time as the
dancer.'

Delvigne looked hard at Chabot, whose
hopes were rising, then took no more notice of him. He spoke to his colleagues.

‘Tell me, in what order exactly
did people leave the club?'

‘The two
boys left first. Well, they didn't really leave, because we've
established that they hid on the cellar steps. Then the gigolo and the musicians.
The place was closing. The man in question, the big fellow, went out with the girl
Adèle. She works as a dancer.'

‘So just the boss, Graphopoulos
and the two waiters were left.'

‘Ah no, one of the waiters, Joseph
his name is, left with the musicians.'

‘So, the boss, one waiter, the
Greek—'

‘And the two boys on the
stairs.'

‘And what does the owner
say?'

‘He says his rich customer left
and that he and Victor, the other waiter, turned off the lights and locked
up.'

‘And nobody saw this other man
Chabot is talking about, after that?'

‘No. But I was told, yes, that he
was a big man, broad-shouldered. A Frenchman, because he didn't speak like a
local.'

The chief yawned, and looked impatient
as he packed his pipe again.

‘Well, phone the Gai-Moulin and
ask Girard what's going on there now.'

Chabot waited anxiously. This was even
worse than before, because now there was a glimmer of hope. But he was afraid he
might be wrong. Fear racked him with pain. He gripped the edge of the table and
looked round from one officer to another, his eyes drawn repeatedly to the
telephone.

‘Hello, get me the Gai-Moulin,
please, mademoiselle.'

Meanwhile, the
pipe enthusiast was asking the others:

‘Is that settled, then? I'll
write to my brother-in-law? And what kind do you prefer, straight or
curved?'

‘Straight!' said the
chief.

‘OK, two dozen straight pipes.
Now, do you need me any more? It's just that one of my kids has the
measles.'

‘Yes, you can go home.'

Before he left, the officer looked
across at Jean Chabot and whispered to his boss:

‘Are we hanging on to
him?'

And the young man, who had overheard
this, strained his ears to catch the reply.

‘Don't know yet. Till
tomorrow anyway. The prosecutor's office will have to make a
decision.'

All was lost. Jean slumped in his seat.
If they didn't let him go until tomorrow, it would be too late. His parents
would know! At this very moment, they must be waiting for him to get home, and
worrying.

But he had no tears left. His whole
being was in a state of collapse. He could vaguely hear the telephone
conversation.

‘Girard, that you? … So
what's he doing there? … What? … Dead
drunk? … Yes, he's still here … No … He denies
it, obviously … Wait, I'll ask the boss.'

And to the chief inspector:

‘Girard's asking what he
should do. The other young man is completely drunk. He's ordered champagne and
he's sharing it with the dancer, who's not much better. Should we arrest
him?'

His boss looked at Jean and sighed.

‘No,
we've already got one of them. Leave him alone for now. He might do something
silly that'll help us. But tell Girard to stick with him. He can phone us
later.'

Chief Inspector Delvigne had settled
down in the only armchair in the room, and shut his eyes. He appeared to be
sleeping, but the thin stream of smoke rising from his pipe indicated that he was
not.

One inspector was putting the finishing
touches to the transcript of Jean's interrogation. Another was pacing around,
waiting impatiently for it to be three o'clock so that he could go home. The
room had cooled down. Even the pipe smoke seemed cold. The young man could not
sleep. His thoughts were in turmoil. Leaning his elbows on the table, he closed his
eyes, opened them, closed them again. Every time his eyelids parted, he saw in front
of him the same headed paper on which a fine copperplate hand had written:

Record of the charges put to Joseph Dumourois, day-labourer, domiciled at
Flémalle-Haute, regarding the theft of rabbits, the property
of … 

The rest was hidden under a blotter.

The telephone rang. The inspector who
had been walking about about picked it up.

‘Yes … Good … Right. I'll tell
him … Lucky for some, eh?'

He went over to the boss.

‘Girard on the line. Delfosse and
the dancer took a taxi
back to her room,
Rue de la Régence. They went in together. Girard's on duty outside.'

In the strange crimson mist inside his
brain, Jean pictured Adèle's bedroom, the unmade bed he had seen earlier that
day, the dancer undressing and lighting the spirit stove.

‘Still nothing to tell us?'
asked the boss, without leaving his armchair. Jean did not reply. He had no strength
left. Indeed he hardly understood that he was the one being addressed.

Delvigne sighed and told his
inspector.

‘You can go home. But just leave
me some tobacco, will you.'

‘Do you think you're going
to get anywhere?' The inspector nodded towards the dark silhouette of Jean,
bent double with his head on the table. Another shrug.

And now there was a blank in
Chabot's memory. A black hole, filled with dark shapes writhing and red sparks
flashing through the obscurity without lighting it up. He sat up with a start,
hearing a persistent ringing. He saw three large pale windows, the yellow lamps, the
chief inspector rubbing his eyes, and automatically reaching for his cold pipe on
the table, as he walked stiff-legged over to the phone.

‘Hello, yes! Hello! Yes, this is
headquarters. No, not at all. He's right here. What? Oh, all right, he can
come and see him if that's what he wants.'

The chief inspector, dry-mouthed, lit
his pipe, drew a few bitter puffs on it and came to stand in front of Chabot.

‘That's your father,
who's reported you missing to the 6th district police station. I think
he's coming over here.'

The sun's
rays suddenly emerged from behind a nearby roof and lit up the windows, as the
cleaners began to arrive with buckets and brushes.

A distant hubbub came from the market a
couple of hundred metres away, opposite the town hall. The first trams were running,
sounding their bells as if their mission was to wake everyone up.

Jean Chabot, looking desperate, ran his
hand through his hair.

Delfosse's hoarse breaths stopped
abruptly as he opened his eyes and sat up with a start, looking round in fright.

The bedroom curtains had not been drawn
and the electric light bulb was still on, its yellow glow fading into the bright
sunlight. The busy sounds of city traffic rose from the street.

From closer at hand, came regular
breathing. It was Adèle, only half-dressed, lying face down, her head buried in the
pillow. Her body gave off a damp warmth. One foot was still in its shoe, the
stiletto heel snagged on the gold silk eiderdown.

René Delfosse felt ill. His tie was
throttling him. He stood up, looking round for some water and found a carafe, but no
glass. He drank the lukewarm liquid straight from the bottleneck, greedily, while
contemplating his reflection in the washstand mirror.

His brain was functioning slowly. His
memory was returning gradually, with gaps. For instance, he couldn't remember
how he had ended up in this room. He glanced at his watch. It had stopped, but the
street sounds outside suggested that it must be at least nine in the morning. The
bank across the road was open.

‘Adèle!' he called, so as
not to feel alone any more.

She stirred, turned over and curled up,
without waking.

He stared at her
without feeling any desire. Perhaps at that moment, the woman's pale flesh
even revolted him.

She opened one eye, twitched her
shoulders and went back to sleep. As he regained his wits, Delfosse became more
agitated. His anxious gaze darted round the room, without resting anywhere. He went
over to the window and recognized the police inspector, who was pacing up and down
on the pavement opposite without taking his eyes off the door downstairs.

‘Adèle, wake up! For the love of
God!'

Now he was scared! Terrified! He picked
up his jacket from the floor and felt automatically in the pockets. Not a centime
left.

He drank some more water: it tasted of
nothing but lay heavy on his disturbed stomach. For a moment, he thought he was
going to vomit, which would have been a relief, but couldn't manage it.

The dancer had gone back to sleep, her
hair tangled, her face gleaming with perspiration. A deep sleep, into which she
seemed to have plunged deliberately.

Delfosse put on his shoes and noticed
the woman's handbag on the table. An idea struck him. He checked that the
policeman was still outside. Then he waited for Adèle's breathing to become
quite regular again.

He opened the bag quietly. In a jumble
of rouge, lipstick, powder and old letters, he found about nine hundred francs,
which he pocketed.

She hadn't moved. He tiptoed to
the door, and went downstairs, but instead of going out into the street, he headed
into the courtyard. This was the back entrance
to the grocery store, piled high with barrels and boxes.
A wide doorway for vehicles led on to a different street, lined with parked
trucks.

Delfosse had to force himself not to
break into a run. And half an hour later, damp with sweat, he arrived at the
Guillemins railway station.

Inspector Girard shook hands with the
colleague who had approached.

‘What's going on?'

‘The chief wants you to bring in
the young man and the dancer. Here are the warrants.'

‘Has the other kid
confessed?'

‘He keeps denying everything. Or
rather he's telling some cock-and-bull story about money stolen from a
chocolate shop. His father's turned up. Sad, really.'

‘Are you coming up with
me?'

‘Chief didn't say. Might as
well, though.'

The two men entered the building and
knocked on the bedroom door. No reply. Inspector Girard turned the handle and opened
it. As if sensing danger, Adèle woke up with a jump, leaned up on her elbow and
asked in a thick voice:

‘What's the
matter?'

‘Police! I've got arrest
warrants here for the pair of you! Damn it all, where's the boy
gone?'

Adèle too looked round for René,
swinging her legs down from the bed. A sort of instinct propelled her towards her
handbag, gaping open on the table: she fell on it, groped anxiously inside and
shrieked:

‘The little
bastard! He's taken my money!'

‘And you didn't know
he'd gone?'

‘I was asleep. Oh, he'll pay
for this! That's those stinking rich kids for you!'

Girard had spotted a gold cigarette-case
on the bedside table.