Maigret in Montmartre by Georges Simenon Page A

lights went out, a spotlight was turned on the dance-floor, and Betty Bruce bounded into the middle of it. Behind him, Maigret could hear men’s voices trying to speak French, and a woman’s voice teaching them how to say ‘ Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ?’ They were laughing and repeating, one after another, ‘ Vo-lez vo… ’
    Fred came across without a word, his shirt-front glimmering through the darkness, and sat down opposite Maigret. Betty Bruce, keeping approximate time to the music, stretched one leg straight in the air and hopped abqut on the other foot, her tights clinging closely to her body and a strained smile on her face. Then she let herself fall to the floor, doing the splits.

FIVE
    W hen his wife woke him with his morning coffee, Maigret’s first thought was that he had not had enough sleep and that his head was aching. Then, opening his eyes wide, he wondered why his wife was looking so brisk, as though she had a delightful surprise for him.
    “Look!” she said, as soon as his rather shaky hands had grasped the cup.
    She drew back the curtain, and he saw that it was snowing outside.
    He was pleased, of course; but there was a muddy taste in his mouth which indicated that he must have had more to drink than he had realized at the time. That was probably because Désiré, the waiter, had opened the bottle of champagne that was only supposed to be there for show, and he had poured himself some, without thinking, between two glasses of brandy.
    “I don’t know if it will settle, but anyhow it’s more cheerful than the rain.”
    Maigret didn’t very much care whether it settled or not. He liked every kind of weather—especially the extreme kinds, which were reported in the papers next day—torrential rain, hurricanes, bitter cold, or scorching heat. He liked snow, too, because it reminded him of his childhood; but he wondered how his wife could find it cheerful in Paris—especially that morning. The sky was even heavier than on the previous day, and against the white snow, the black, shiny roofs looked still blacker, the houses still more drab and dirty, and the curtains at most of the windows still dingier than usual.
    It took him some time, while eating his breakfast and getting dressed, to sort out his memories of the night before. He had not had much sleep. He had stayed at Picratt’s till it closed—that was at least half past four—and then he had felt he ought to imitate Arlette by calling at the tabac in the Rue de Douai for a final glass.
    He would have been hard put to it to give a brief summary of what he had found out. For long periods he had sat alone in his box, puffing slowly at his pipe and gazing at the dance-floor or the clients, in that strange light which made everything look unreal.
    As a matter of fact, he reflected, he could have left earlier: he had stayed on, partly out of indolence and partly because it amused him to watch the people, and the behaviour of Fred, Rose, and the girls.
    They made up a little world of their own, seeing practically nothing of the life that ordinary people lived. Désiré, the two musicians, and the rest of them went to bed just as the alarm clocks were beginning to ring in most houses, and they slept through the greater part of the day. Arlette had led that life not really waking up till she came into the reddish glow of Picratt’s lamps, and seeing hardly anyone except the men who came there, who had had too much to drink and been brought in by the Grasshopper as they left other joints.
    Maigret had watched Betty who, aware of his attention, responded by showing off her whole bag of tricks—with a sly wink at him every now and then.
    Two clients had come in about three o’clock, when she had finished her act and gone upstairs to dress. They were already well lit up, and as the place was rather too quiet at the moment, Fred had vanished into the kitchen—evidently to call Betty back at once.
    She had gone through her dance again—this