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

francs.
    â€˜I’ve never stolen from my
     father.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Filter-tipped Luxors. Same, are
     they, Dubois?’
    â€˜Yes sir, that’s
     right’.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Hello. Yes … Good. Tell
     him the van will be along soon.’
    Then to the others, after hanging
     up:
    â€˜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.
    â€˜So where did you attack
     Graphopoulos? In the nightclub? On the way out?’
    â€˜No, it’s not true,’
     Jean cried hoarsely. ‘I swear on my father’s life—’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I won’t! It’s not
     true! I won’t …!’ he cried.
    â€˜Calm down, young man!’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I don’t want to, I
     don’t …’
    The chief inspector shrugged and
     muttered:
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I beg