The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin by Georges Simenon

corresponds to the description
     of the broad-shouldered Frenchman?’
    â€˜Yes. He
     left, taking his suitcase, at about nine a.m.’
    â€˜And the other one?’
    â€˜Since he still hadn’t
     returned, I used the pass-key to go into his room, which is what we have to do in an
     emergency. And on the pigskin case, I saw the name Ephraim Graphopoulos. And
     that’s when I realized that the man in the laundry basket must be our
     customer.’
    â€˜So if I understand this
     correctly,’ said the chief inspector, ‘both these men arrived on
     Wednesday afternoon, a few hours before the crime, one after the other? As if they
     were on the same train perhaps?’
    â€˜Yes, the fast train from
     Paris.’
    â€˜And they went out that evening,
     also one after another.’
    â€˜Without filling in their
     forms.’
    â€˜And only the Frenchman came back,
     and now this morning he’s disappeared again.’
    â€˜That’s right. I would be
     grateful if you could avoid mentioning the name of the hotel, it might put people
     off.’
    But at that very moment, one of the
     waiters from the Hôtel Moderne was telling exactly the same story to a
     journalist.
    And by five o’clock the evening
     editions of the papers were reporting:
    Inquiry takes a new turn. Was the man with broad
     shoulders the murderer
?
    The weather was fine. In the sunny
     streets, life was carrying on as usual. The local police were trying to spot the
     wanted Frenchman among the passing crowds.
At the railway station, an inspector was standing behind
     each ticket clerk and all travellers were being examined carefully.
    In Rue du Pot-d’Or, outside the
     Gai-Moulin, cases of champagne were being unloaded from a truck: delivery men were
     taking them into the cellar, crossing the dark, cool club interior. Génaro, in
     shirt-sleeves, a cigarette in his mouth, was supervising them. He shrugged as he
     watched passers-by stop outside and whisper to each other with a little shudder:
    â€˜It was there!’
    They tried to peep inside, squinting
     into the shadows, where all that could be seen were the velvet seats and
     marble-topped tables.
    At nine in the evening, the lamps were
     lit and the musicians started tuning up.
    At a quarter past nine, six journalists
     were standing at the bar, holding animated discussions.
    By half past nine, the room was over
     half full, something that hardly ever happened from one year’s end to the
     next. Not only were there the usual young gadabouts who haunted the town’s
     nightclubs and dance halls, but also respectable citizens, setting foot for the
     first time in this place of doubtful repute.
    They were there to see. No one was
     dancing. The incomers stared in turn at the owner, at Victor, and at the
     professional dance-partner. People invariably headed for the washroom, so as to view
     for themselves the famous cellar steps.
    â€˜Quick, get a move on!’
     Génaro was urging the two
waiters, who had
     their work cut out. And he gestured at the band. Under his breath, he asked a woman
     of his acquaintance:
    â€˜You haven’t seen Adèle,
     have you? She ought to be here.’
    Because Adèle was the big attraction.
     The sightseers wanted most of all to be able to take a closer look at her.
    â€˜Watch out,’ whispered a
     journalist to his colleague. ‘There they are.’
    And he pointed to two men who were
     sitting at a table near the velvet curtain over the door. Chief Inspector Delvigne
     was drinking beer, and the froth was clinging to his ginger moustache. Next to him,
     Inspector Girard was observing the customers.
    By ten o’clock, the atmosphere was
     electric. This wasn’t the usual Gai-Moulin, frequented by its few regulars and
     the occasional tourist looking for a girl to spend the evening with. Because of the
     presence of the newspapermen above all, the gathering felt like a cross between