The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online

laughed at a joke.
    â€˜So where did you pick him up,
     Perronet?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Someone to do the
     forms?’
    The youngest officer sat at a table, and
     picked up some pre-printed forms.
    â€˜Surname, first names, age,
     occupation, address, previous convictions. Come on, let’s get it over
     with.’
    â€˜Chabot,
     Jean-Joseph-Émile, sixteen, clerk, 53 Rue de la Loi.’
    â€˜No previous?’
    â€˜No!’
    The words emerged with difficulty from
     his choking throat.
    â€˜Father?’
    â€˜Chabot, Émile,
     accountant.’
    â€˜He’s got no previous
     either?’
    â€˜No, never!’
    â€˜Mother?’
    â€˜Ã‰lisabeth 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:
    â€˜Is anyone dealing with the
     suicide on the Coronmeuse embankment?’
    â€˜Gerbert.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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