The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin (12 page)

‘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.

‘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 customer 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—'

‘But you served me the
drinks—'

‘If I serve drinks, it's
because I expect people to have the sense to keep an eye on their wallets. And even
so, I had to stop you. You went and pulled in some girl off the street, because you
said the waitress wasn't being nice to you. Then you wanted a room for the
night. And I don't know what else.'

‘Give me back my money!'

‘I haven't got your money,
and if you go on shouting like that, I'll call the police.'

Monsieur Henry was perfectly calm. But
the young man coming down the staircase backwards was not, as he went
on arguing. He looked tired, with rings
under his eyes and a sour mouth.

‘You're a pack of
thieves!'

‘Say that again!'

And Monsieur Henry ran down the steps
and grabbed the young man's collar. It almost became ugly. The boy pulled a
revolver from his pocket, shouting:

‘Let me go, or
else …'

The travelling salesman flattened
himself against the back of his seat, in his fear grabbing the arm of the waitress,
who had lurched forward.

There was no need. Monsieur Henry, a man
well used to fights, had struck his opponent's forearm sharply, so that the
gun fell from the youth's hand.

Panting heavily nevertheless, Monsieur
Henry ordered the waitress:

‘Open the door!'

And when she had obeyed, he propelled
the young man outside with such force that he ended up sprawling in the gutter. The
café owner picked up the gun and threw it after him.

‘Snotty kids, coming in and
insulting a man in his own home! Yesterday, there he was, showing off and flashing
his money around.'

He smoothed down his hair, glanced at
the door and saw a uniformed policeman outside.

‘You're my witness that he
threatened me, right?' he said to the crestfallen customer. ‘Anyway, the
police know the house.'

On the pavement, René Delfosse, now back
on his feet,
his clothes mud-stained,
was gnashing his teeth with fury, and responding to the policeman's questions,
though hardly knowing what he was saying.

‘You were robbed, were you? But
what's your name, for a start, where are your papers? And whose gun is
this?'

A few people had gathered. Passengers
were leaning out from a passing tram.

‘Right! Come along with me to the
station!'

On arrival, Delfosse fell into such a
rage that the policeman received several kicks to his legs. When the local chief
inspector questioned him, Delfosse started by claiming that he was French, and had
arrived in Liège only the day before.

‘In that café, they got me drunk,
and then they robbed me.'

But an officer in the corner was
observing him. He had a word in his chief's ear. The latter smiled with
satisfaction.

‘I think perhaps your name is
really René Delfosse?'

‘That's none of your
business!'

They had seldom seen a complainant look
so furious. His face was contorted, his mouth twisted.

‘And the money they took –
wasn't that money stolen from a certain dancer?'

‘That's a lie!'

‘Calm down, calm down, you can
explain at headquarters. Will someone please phone Chief Inspector Delvigne and ask
him what we should do with this character?'

‘I'm hungry,' grumbled
Delfosse, still looking like a spoiled child.

A shrug.

‘You've got no right to leave me
starving … I shall make a complaint—'

‘Go and fetch him a sandwich from
next door.'

Delfosse took a couple of bites, then
threw the rest of the sandwich on the floor in disgust.

‘Hello? Yes,
yes … He's right here … Very well. I'll have him
brought round to you at once … No … Nothing.'

Seated in the car between two officers,
Delfosse at first maintained a sullen silence. Then, without anyone having asked
him, he muttered:

‘But it wasn't
me
that killed anyone, it was Chabot.'

His companions paid no attention.

‘My father will complain to the
provincial governor! He's a friend of his. I haven't done anything
wrong! First my wallet was stolen and then that café owner wanted to throw me on the
street today without a bean.'

‘But the revolver does belong to
you, doesn't it?'

‘No, it's his. He threatened
to shoot me if I made a fuss. Just ask the other customer who was there.'

As they entered the headquarters
building, he pulled himself upright, trying to assume an important and confident
air.

‘Ah, so this is the
runaway!' said an inspector as he shook hands with his colleagues and looked
Delfosse up and down. ‘I'll tell the boss.'

He came back at once, saying:

‘He'll have to
wait!'

Anxiety and annoyance could be seen on
the face of the young man, who refused the seat offered him. He
started to light a cigarette, but it was taken away from
him.

‘Not in here.'

‘But
you're
smoking!'

And he heard the inspector mutter as he
walked away: ‘Proper little turkeycock we've got here!'

Around him, men went on smoking,
writing, working on files, sometimes exchanging a few words.

An electric bell sounded. The inspector,
without moving from his place, said to Delfosse:

‘You can go in to the boss now.
The door at the end.'

It was not a large office. The air was
blue with smoke and the stove, which had been lit for the first time that autumn,
was roaring loudly at every gust of wind.

Chief Inspector Delvigne sat
commandingly in his chair. Near the rear window, another figure was seated with his
back to the light.

‘Come in. Sit down.'

The other figure sat upright. In the
half-light, the pale face of Jean Chabot appeared, staring at his friend.

Delfosse began sarcastically:

‘What do you want from
me?'

‘Nothing, young man. Just for you
to answer a few questions.'

‘I've done nothing
wrong.'

‘I haven't accused of you of
anything yet.'

Looking across at Chabot, René muttered
angrily:

‘What's he been telling you?
A pack of lies, I'll bet.'

‘Calm down. And try to answer my
questions. And you, over there, stay where you are.'