Maigret in Montmartre by Georges Simenon

“Perhaps she was. Yesterday morning I’d have said no. But last night, after her young man left, she seemed upset. She told me she thought she was a fool. I asked her why. She said that if she chose, things could be quite different.”
    “‘What things?’ ” I asked her.
    “‘Everything! I’m fed up.’ ”
    “‘Do you want to leave this place?’ ”
    “We were talking quietly, so Fred shouldn’t hear us.
    “‘It’s not only this place,’ she said.
    “I know she’d been drinking, but I’m certain she meant it.
    “‘Has he offered to keep you?’ ” I asked.
    “She shrugged her shoulders, and muttered:
    “‘It’s no use, you wouldn’t understand.’ ”
    “We nearly quarrelled, and I told her I wasn’t so dumb as she seemed to think—I’d been through that kind of thing too.”
    At this moment the Grasshopper, with a triumphant expression, ushered in some worthwhile clients—three men and a woman. The men were obviously foreigners; they must be in Paris on business or for a conference, for they looked like important people. As for the woman, they had picked her up goodness knows where—probably on the terrace of a café and she looked rather uncomfortable.
    With a wink at Maigret, Fred settled them at number four table, and handed them an enormous wine-list on which every imaginable variety of champagne was set forth. Hardly a quarter of it could have actually been in the cellar, and Fred recommended a completely unknown brand which doubtless showed him a profit of about three hundred per cent.
    “I must go and get ready for my act,” sighed Betty. “Don’t expect anything wonderful. It’s good enough for that lot, anyhow—all they want is to look at legs!”
    The orchestra had started a rumba, and Maigret beckoned to Tania, who had come down from the platform. Fred nodded to her to accept the invitation.
    “You want to speak to me?”
    In spite of her name she had no trace of a Russian accent, and Maigret soon discovered that she had been born in the Rue Mouffetard.
    “Sit down and tell me what you know about Arlette.”
    “We weren’t particularly friendly.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because she put on airs and I didn’t like it.”
    The words came out with decision. This was a girl with a very good opinion of herself, and she was not in the least intimidated by Maigret.
    “Did you quarrel?”
    “We didn’t even go that far.”
    “Did you never speak to each other?”
    “As seldom as possible. She was jealous.”
    “Of what?”
    “Of me. She couldn’t admit that anyone else could be in the very least interesting. She thought she was the only person in the world. I don’t like that sort of thing. She couldn’t even dance—never had a lesson in her life. All she could do was take her clothes off, and if she hadn’t shown them everything she had to show, her act would have had nothing to it at all.”
    “You’re a dancer?”
    “I was taking ballet lessons before I was twelve.”
    “And is that the kind of dancing you do here?”
    “No. Here I do Russian folk dances.”
    “Did Arlette have a lover?”
    “Certainly she did; but she must have felt he was nothing to be proud of, so she never mentioned him. All I know is, he was old.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “We all undress together, upstairs. Several times I’ve seen bruises on her. She’d try to hide them with a coat of cream, but I have sharp eyes.”
    “Did you ask her about them?”
    “Once. She told me she’d fallen downstairs. But she can’t have fallen downstairs every week. And when I noticed the position of the bruises, I understood. Only old men have those nasty habits.”
    “When did you first notice this?”
    “At least six months ago, almost as soon as I began to work here.”
    “And it went on?”
    “I didn’t look at her every night, but I often noticed bruises. Anything else you want to ask me? It’s time I went back to the piano.”
    As soon as she had taken her seat again, the