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

her
     hair tangled, her face gleaming with perspiration. A deep sleep, into which she
     seemed to have plunged deliberately.
    Delfosse put on his shoes and noticed
     the woman’s handbag on the table. An idea struck him. He checked that the
     policeman was still outside. Then he waited for Adèle’s breathing to become
     quite regular again.
    He opened the bag quietly. In a jumble
     of rouge, lipstick, powder and old letters, he found about nine hundred francs,
     which he pocketed.
    She hadn’t moved. He tiptoed to
     the door, and went downstairs, but instead of going out into the street, he headed
     into the courtyard. This was the back entrance
to the grocery store, piled high with barrels and boxes.
     A wide doorway for vehicles led on to a different street, lined with parked
     trucks.
    Delfosse had to force himself not to
     break into a run. And half an hour later, damp with sweat, he arrived at the
     Guillemins railway station.
    Inspector Girard shook hands with the
     colleague who had approached.
    â€˜What’s going on?’
    â€˜The chief wants you to bring in
     the young man and the dancer. Here are the warrants.’
    â€˜Has the other kid
     confessed?’
    â€˜He keeps denying everything. Or
     rather he’s telling some cock-and-bull story about money stolen from a
     chocolate shop. His father’s turned up. Sad, really.’
    â€˜Are you coming up with
     me?’
    â€˜Chief didn’t say. Might as
     well, though.’
    The two men entered the building and
     knocked on the bedroom door. No reply. Inspector Girard turned the handle and opened
     it. As if sensing danger, Adèle woke up with a jump, leaned up on her elbow and
     asked in a thick voice:
    â€˜What’s the
     matter?’
    â€˜Police! I’ve got arrest
     warrants here for the pair of you! Damn it all, where’s the boy
     gone?’
    Adèle too looked round for René,
     swinging her legs down from the bed. A sort of instinct propelled her towards her
     handbag, gaping open on the table: she fell on it, groped anxiously inside and
     shrieked:
    â€˜The little
     bastard! He’s taken my money!’
    â€˜And you didn’t know
     he’d gone?’
    â€˜I was asleep. Oh, he’ll pay
     for this! That’s those stinking rich kids for you!’
    Girard had spotted a gold cigarette-case
     on the bedside table.
    â€˜Whose is that?’
    â€˜He must have left it here. He was
     holding it last night.’
    â€˜Get dressed!’
    â€˜Are you arresting me?’
    â€˜I’ve got a warrant here
     made out in the name of a certain Adèle Bosquet, occupation dancer. I presume
     that’s you.’
    â€˜All right, all right!’
    She didn’t panic. She seemed to be
     more distressed at being the victim of theft than by the prospect of arrest. While
     combing her hair, she repeated several times:
    â€˜The little bastard! And there was
     I, fast asleep!’
    The two policemen looked knowingly round
     the room, exchanging glances: they’d seen it all before.
    â€˜Will this take long, do you
     think?’ she asked them. ‘Because if so, I’ll bring a change of
     clothes.’
    â€˜Don’t know. We were just
     told …’
    She shrugged her shoulders and
     sighed:
    â€˜Well, since I haven’t done
     anything wrong …’
    And, as she headed for the door:
    â€˜OK, I’m ready. You’ve
     got a car, at least? No? Then I’d prefer to walk ahead on my own, you can
     follow behind me.’
    And she angrily snapped her handbag shut
     and picked
it up, while the inspector
     slipped the cigarette-case into his pocket.
    Once outside, Adèle made straight for
     police headquarters, and marched in confidently, stopping only once she was in the
     wide corridor.
    â€˜Over here!’ said Girard.
     ‘Just a minute. I’m going to ask the chief—’
    But she had dodged him and walked
     straight in. She