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

stove.
    â€˜Still nothing to tell us?’
     asked the boss, without leaving his armchair. Jean did not reply. He had no strength
     left. Indeed he hardly understood that he was the one being addressed.
    Delvigne sighed and told his
     inspector.
    â€˜You can go home. But just leave
     me some tobacco, will you.’
    â€˜Do you think you’re going
     to get anywhere?’ The inspector nodded towards the dark silhouette of Jean,
     bent double with his head on the table. Another shrug.
    And now there was a blank in
     Chabot’s memory. A black hole, filled with dark shapes writhing and red sparks
     flashing through the obscurity without lighting it up. He sat up with a start,
     hearing a persistent ringing. He saw three large pale windows, the yellow lamps, the
     chief inspector rubbing his eyes, and automatically reaching for his cold pipe on
     the table, as he walked stiff-legged over to the phone.
    â€˜Hello, yes! Hello! Yes, this is
     headquarters. No, not at all. He’s right here. What? Oh, all right, he can
     come and see him if that’s what he wants.’
    The chief inspector, dry-mouthed, lit
     his pipe, drew a few bitter puffs on it and came to stand in front of Chabot.
    â€˜That’s your father,
     who’s reported you missing to the 6th district police station. I think
     he’s coming over here.’
    The sun’s
     rays suddenly emerged from behind a nearby roof and lit up the windows, as the
     cleaners began to arrive with buckets and brushes.
    A distant hubbub came from the market a
     couple of hundred metres away, opposite the town hall. The first trams were running,
     sounding their bells as if their mission was to wake everyone up.
    Jean Chabot, looking desperate, ran his
     hand through his hair.

5. The Confrontation
    Delfosse’s hoarse breaths stopped
     abruptly as he opened his eyes and sat up with a start, looking round in fright.
    The bedroom curtains had not been drawn
     and the electric light bulb was still on, its yellow glow fading into the bright
     sunlight. The busy sounds of city traffic rose from the street.
    From closer at hand, came regular
     breathing. It was Adèle, only half-dressed, lying face down, her head buried in the
     pillow. Her body gave off a damp warmth. One foot was still in its shoe, the
     stiletto heel snagged on the gold silk eiderdown.
    René Delfosse felt ill. His tie was
     throttling him. He stood up, looking round for some water and found a carafe, but no
     glass. He drank the lukewarm liquid straight from the bottleneck, greedily, while
     contemplating his reflection in the washstand mirror.
    His brain was functioning slowly. His
     memory was returning gradually, with gaps. For instance, he couldn’t remember
     how he had ended up in this room. He glanced at his watch. It had stopped, but the
     street sounds outside suggested that it must be at least nine in the morning. The
     bank across the road was open.
    â€˜Adèle!’ he called, so as
     not to feel alone any more.
    She stirred, turned over and curled up,
     without waking.
    He stared at her
     without feeling any desire. Perhaps at that moment, the woman’s pale flesh
     even revolted him.
    She opened one eye, twitched her
     shoulders and went back to sleep. As he regained his wits, Delfosse became more
     agitated. His anxious gaze darted round the room, without resting anywhere. He went
     over to the window and recognized the police inspector, who was pacing up and down
     on the pavement opposite without taking his eyes off the door downstairs.
    â€˜Adèle, wake up! For the love of
     God!’
    Now he was scared! Terrified! He picked
     up his jacket from the floor and felt automatically in the pockets. Not a centime
     left.
    He drank some more water: it tasted of
     nothing but lay heavy on his disturbed stomach. For a moment, he thought he was
     going to vomit, which would have been a relief, but couldn’t manage it.
    The dancer had gone back to sleep,