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

towering ominously over a whole district
     by the Pont-Maguin, with its medieval turrets, its loophole windows and its iron
     bars.
    Jean paled, and said nothing.
    â€˜Girard!’ the chief called,
     opening the door. ‘Two men and a car, now.’
    That was enough. They waited.
    â€˜It won’t hurt if you try
     and see Monsieur de Conninck,’ the chief sighed, for the sake of saying
     something. ‘If you were at school together …’
    But his face was a better guide to his
     thoughts. He was thinking of the distance that separated the senior magistrate, born
     into a family of lawyers and related to the most important people in town, from an
     accountant whose son had actually
admitted
that he had intended to steal
     from the till of a nightclub.
    â€˜Ready, sir,’ said Girard.
     ‘Should we …?’
    Something glinted in his hands. The
     chief shrugged an affirmative.
    And it was a ritual gesture,
     accomplished so fast that the father only realized what was happening when it was
     over. Girard had taken hold of Jean’s hands. A metallic click.
    â€˜This way.’
    Handcuffs! And two uniformed policemen
     waiting outside by the car!
    Jean took a few steps. It seemed he had
     nothing to say. But at the door, he turned round. His voice was hardly
     recognizable.
    â€˜Father, I
     swear—’
    â€˜Well now, about those pipes! I
     thought if we ordered, say,
three
dozen …’
    It was the pipe-obsessed inspector who
     had walked in, blind to the scene around him. As he suddenly caught sight of the
     young man from behind, and glimpsed the handcuffs on his wrists, he stopped
     short:
    â€˜Oh, so it’s in the bag, is
     it?’
    The gesture indicated: ‘Got him,
     eh!’
    The chief inspector pointed to Monsieur
     Chabot who had collapsed into a chair, head in hands, and was sobbing like a
     woman.
    The other man went on in a lower
     voice:
    â€˜We can always find someone from
     one of the other divisions to take the third dozen. When you think of the
     price!’
    A car door slammed. An engine
     started.
    The chief inspector, looking awkward,
     was saying to Monsieur Chabot:
    â€˜You
     know … nothing’s definite yet …’
    And without conviction:
    â€˜â€¦Â especially if you know
     Monsieur de Conninck.’
    And the father, as he beat a retreat,
     gave a pale smile of thanks.

6. The Fugitive
    At one o’clock, the local
     newpapers were published, and all of them had banner headlines on their front pages.
     The conservative
Gazette de Liège
proclaimed:
    Corpse in laundry basket case!
    Crime committed by two young hoodlums!
    The headline in the leftwing
Wallonie socialiste
was:
    Crime committed by rich young brats!
    The papers all reported Jean
     Chabot’s arrest and René Delfosse’s disappearance. The Chabot house in
     Rue de la Loi had already been photographed. One report read:
Immediately after an emotional meeting with his son at police headquarters,
     Monsieur Chabot went home and has refused to make a statement. Madame Chabot
     is devastated and has taken to her bed.
    We approached Monsieur Delfosse as he was returning from Huy, where he owns
     several factories. René Delfosse’s father, an active man in his
     fifties, showed no emotion on hearing the shocking news. He refuses to
     believe that his son is guilty, and states that he will personally look into
     it.
    In his prison cell at Saint-Léonard, Jean Chabot is reported to remain
     unmoved. He will see his lawyer before he appears before Examining
     Magistrate De Conninck, who is in charge of the case.
    In Rue de la Loi, everything was as calm
     as usual. Children were filing into the schoolyard to play while they waited for the
     bell. There was grass growing between the cobbles and a woman was scrubbing the
     steps of number 48. The only other sound was that of a coppersmith hammering on an
     anvil.
    But doors were