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it was very difficult to tell what she was really thinking, because she used to drink. Usually, as you know, they don’t drink. They pretend to, so as to encourage the clients, but all they really take is some syrup or other, served in a little glass so that it looks like a liqueur. Isn’t that so?”
    “Nearly always.”
    “Arlette used to drink because she had to. Nearly every evening. So much so, that before she went on for her act, Mr Fred, the proprietor, had to come round and make sure she could still stand up.”
    Lapointe had become so much at home at Picratt’s that he spoke of ‘Mr Fred’, just as the employees no doubt did.
    “You never stayed till closing time?”
    “She wouldn’t let me.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I’d let out that I had to get up early and go to work.”
    “Did you tell her you were in the police?”
    The young man blushed again.
    “No. I told her I lived with my sister, and it was she who told me to go home. I never gave her any money. She wouldn’t have accepted it. She would never let me order more than one bottle of champagne, and she always chose the least expensive kind.”
    “Do you think she was in love with you?”
    “Last night I felt sure she was.”
    “Why? What did you talk about?”
    “The same as usual—about her and me.”
    “Did she tell you who she was and what her parents did in the world?”
    “She admitted she had a false identity card, and said it would be terrible if her real name were found out.”
    “Was she well educated?”
    “I don’t know. She certainly wasn’t made for that job. She never told me about her past life. She only referred to some man she said she’d never be able to shake off—adding that it was her own fault, that it was too late now, and that I must stop coming to see her because it only made her unhappy to no purpose. That’s what makes me think she was beginning to love me. She was clutching my hands hard, all the time she was talking.”
    “Was she already drunk?”
    “Perhaps. She’d certainly been drinking, but she was quite clear-headed. She was like that nearly every time I saw her—all strung up, with an expression either of grief or of hectic gaiety in her eyes.”
    “Did you ever go to bed with her?”
    Lapointe glared almost with hatred at his chief.
    “No!”
    “Didn’t you ever ask her?”
    “No.”
    “And she never suggested it?”
    “Never.”
    “Did she kid you into believing she was a virgin?”
    “She’d been forced to submit to several men. She hated men.”
    “Why?”
    “Because of that.”
    “Because of what?”
    “Because of what they did to her. It had happened when she was almost a child—I don’t know the details—and it left its mark on her. She was haunted by the memory of it. She was always talking about some man she was terrified of.”
    “Oscar?”
    “She didn’t mention his name. I suppose you think she was fooling me and that I’m a simpleton. I don’t care if you do. She’s dead, and that at least proves she was right to be afraid.”
    “Didn’t you ever want to go to bed with her?”
    “Once I did,” he admitted, “the first evening, when I was with my friend. Did you ever see her alive? Yes, of course—but only for a few minutes, this morning, when she was worn out. If you’d seen her as she usually was, you’d understand…No other woman…”
    “No other woman…?”
    “It’s too difficult to explain. All the men who went there were wild to have her. When she did her act…”
    “Did she go to bed with Fred?”
    “She’d had to submit to him, the same as to the others.”
    Maigret was trying to discover how much Arlette had given away.
    “Where?”
    “In the kitchen. Rose knew. She didn’t dare to make a fuss, because she’s so afraid of losing her husband. Have you ever seen her?”
    Maigret nodded.
    “Did she tell you her age?”
    “I suppose she must be over fifty.”
    “She’s nearly seventy. Fred’s twenty years younger than she