Read The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin for Free Online Page B

words with the boss, came to sit down by the young
     man.
    â€˜Two glasses, I
     see … You’re with someone?’
    â€˜Yes, Jean.’
    â€˜Where’s he gone?’
    â€˜Just over there.’
    He nodded at the washroom door.
    â€˜Oh, OK. What does his father
     do?’
    â€˜Accountant in an insurance firm,
     I think.’
    She didn’t reply. That was enough.
     She had guessed as much.
    â€˜Why don’t you come by car
     any more?’
    â€˜It’s my father’s car.
     And I don’t have a driving licence. So I can only take it out when he’s
     away. Next week he’s going to the Vosges. So if you … if you’d
     like us to take a spin, just the two of us … To Spa, for
     instance?’
    â€˜Who’s that character over
     there. Could he be from the police?’
    â€˜I, er, dunno …’ he
     stammered, blushing.
    â€˜Don’t like the look of him
     at all. I say, are you sure your pal hasn’t passed out or something? Victor, a
     sherry, please. You’re not dancing? Not that it bothers me, but the boss likes
     it to look lively.’
    Chabot had been gone twenty minutes.
     Delfosse was
such a clumsy dancer that,
     halfway through the number, Adèle started to take the lead.
    â€˜Do you mind? I’d better see
     what’s the matter with him.’
    He pushed open the washroom door. No
     sign of Jean. But the female attendant was setting out soap and towels on a
     cloth.
    â€˜Have you seen my
     friend?’
    â€˜No, I just got here.’
    â€˜Through the back door?’
    â€˜Of course, like I usually
     do.’
    Delfosse opened it. The alleyway was
     empty, cold and wet, lit only by the guttering street lamp.

4. The Pipe-Smokers
    There were four of them in the huge
     space where tables covered with blotting paper were being used as desks. The lamps
     had green cardboard shades. Doors stood open, leading on to empty rooms.
    It was evening at police headquarters.
     Only the detectives were there, smoking their pipes. Tall, red-haired, Chief
     Inspector Delvigne was perched on the edge of a table, twisting the ends of his
     moustache from time to time. A young inspector was doodling on his blotter. The only
     person speaking was a short, stocky officer who obviously hailed from the
     countryside, and was still a peasant in appearance from head to toe.
    â€˜Seven francs each, if you get
     packets of twelve! Pipes you’d have to pay twenty for in the shops. And
     nothing wrong with ’em, either! My brother-in-law, see, he works in the
     factory at Arlon.’
    â€˜We could order a couple of dozen,
     for the whole squad.’
    â€˜That’s what I said to my
     brother-in-law. And by the way, he knows what he’s talking about, he gave me a
     good tip to season a pipe.’
    Chief Inspector Delvigne swung his leg.
     Everyone was following the conversation closely, pipe in hand. Under the harsh light
     from the lamps, blue smoke clouds rose up in the air.
    â€˜Instead of
     just stuffing it in any old how, you get hold of the bowl like
     this …’
    The main door opened. An inspector came
     in, pushing someone in front of him. The chief glanced at the new arrivals and
     called over:
    â€˜Is that you, Perronet?’
    â€˜Yes sir.’
    And to the pipe expert:
    â€˜Get a move on.’
    They left the young man standing by the
     door, and he had to listen to the entire lecture on how to season a pipe.
    â€˜Do you want one?’ the
     speaker was asking Perronet. ‘These pipes are genuine briar, only seven
     francs, because my brother-in-law’s a foreman at Arlon.’
    And Delvigne, without moving, called
     out:
    â€˜Come over here, my
     boy.’
    It was Jean Chabot, white as a sheet,
     his eyes staring so wildly that he looked close to nervous collapse. The others
     looked at him, still smoking their pipes and exchanging a few words. Some of them