The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin by Georges Simenon

that?’
    â€˜No. But I was told, yes, that he
     was a big man, broad-shouldered. A Frenchman, because he didn’t speak like a
     local.’
    The chief yawned, and looked impatient
     as he packed his pipe again.
    â€˜Well, phone the Gai-Moulin and
     ask Girard what’s going on there now.’
    Chabot waited anxiously. This was even
     worse than before, because now there was a glimmer of hope. But he was afraid he
     might be wrong. Fear racked him with pain. He gripped the edge of the table and
     looked round from one officer to another, his eyes drawn repeatedly to the
     telephone.
    â€˜Hello, get me the Gai-Moulin,
     please, mademoiselle.’
    Meanwhile, the
     pipe enthusiast was asking the others:
    â€˜Is that settled, then? I’ll
     write to my brother-in-law? And what kind do you prefer, straight or
     curved?’
    â€˜Straight!’ said the
     chief.
    â€˜OK, two dozen straight pipes.
     Now, do you need me any more? It’s just that one of my kids has the
     measles.’
    â€˜Yes, you can go home.’
    Before he left, the officer looked
     across at Jean Chabot and whispered to his boss:
    â€˜Are we hanging on to
     him?’
    And the young man, who had overheard
     this, strained his ears to catch the reply.
    â€˜Don’t know yet. Till
     tomorrow anyway. The prosecutor’s office will have to make a
     decision.’
    All was lost. Jean slumped in his seat.
     If they didn’t let him go until tomorrow, it would be too late. His parents
     would know! At this very moment, they must be waiting for him to get home, and
     worrying.
    But he had no tears left. His whole
     being was in a state of collapse. He could vaguely hear the telephone
     conversation.
    â€˜Girard, that you? … So
     what’s he doing there? … What? … Dead
     drunk? … Yes, he’s still here … No … He denies
     it, obviously … Wait, I’ll ask the boss.’
    And to the chief inspector:
    â€˜Girard’s asking what he
     should do. The other young man is completely drunk. He’s ordered champagne and
     he’s sharing it with the dancer, who’s not much better. Should we arrest
     him?’
    His boss looked at Jean and sighed.
    â€˜No,
     we’ve already got one of them. Leave him alone for now. He might do something
     silly that’ll help us. But tell Girard to stick with him. He can phone us
     later.’
    Chief Inspector Delvigne had settled
     down in the only armchair in the room, and shut his eyes. He appeared to be
     sleeping, but the thin stream of smoke rising from his pipe indicated that he was
     not.
    One inspector was putting the finishing
     touches to the transcript of Jean’s interrogation. Another was pacing around,
     waiting impatiently for it to be three o’clock so that he could go home. The
     room had cooled down. Even the pipe smoke seemed cold. The young man could not
     sleep. His thoughts were in turmoil. Leaning his elbows on the table, he closed his
     eyes, opened them, closed them again. Every time his eyelids parted, he saw in front
     of him the same headed paper on which a fine copperplate hand had written:
Record of the charges put to Joseph Dumourois, day-labourer, domiciled at
     Flémalle-Haute, regarding the theft of rabbits, the property
     of … 
    The rest was hidden under a blotter.
    The telephone rang. The inspector who
     had been walking about about picked it up.
    â€˜Yes … Good … Right. I’ll tell
     him … Lucky for some, eh?’
    He went over to the boss.
    â€˜Girard on the line. Delfosse and
     the dancer took a taxi
back to her room,
     Rue de la Régence. They went in together. Girard’s on duty outside.’
    In the strange crimson mist inside his
     brain, Jean pictured Adèle’s bedroom, the unmade bed he had seen earlier that
     day, the dancer undressing and lighting the spirit