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

a
     criminal trial and a gala evening. All the same people were there. Not just the
     reporters, but the columnists. One newspaper editor had come in person. And the kind
     of customers who frequented the expensive cafés,
bons viveurs
as they used
     to call them, were also there, accompanied by glamorous women.
    About twenty cars were parked in the
     street outside. People greeted each other from table to table. Men stood up to shake
     hands.
    â€˜Do you think anything’s
     going to happen?’
    â€˜Hush, not so loud. See that man
     over there, with red hair, that’s Chief Inspector Delvigne. If he’s
     turned up, it must mean—’
    â€˜Which
     one’s Adèle? That big blonde?’
    â€˜No, she isn’t here
     yet.’
    But she was on her way. Adèle made a
     sensational entrance. She was wearing a voluminous black satin evening coat, lined
     with white silk. She took a few steps into the room, stopped, looked round, then
     nonchalantly sauntered over to the band and shook the leader’s hand.
    Flashbulbs. A photographer had just
     taken a snap for his paper, and the young woman shrugged, as if she were indifferent
     to this celebrity.
    â€˜Port, five glasses,
     waiter!’
    Victor and Joseph were rushed off their
     feet. They threaded their way between the tables. It was like a celebration or a
     party, but one where people were there essentially to watch everyone else. Few
     dancers had ventured out on to the dance-floor.
    â€˜It’s not all that
     exciting,’ a woman was saying to her husband, who had brought her to a
     nightclub for the first time in her life. ‘I don’t see anything
     disreputable going on.’
    Génaro went over to the policemen.
    â€˜Excuse me, messieurs. May I ask
     your advice? Should we go ahead with the usual cabaret? Normally, at this point,
     Adèle would be dancing.’
    But the chief shrugged, looking
     elsewhere.
    â€˜It’s just I didn’t
     want to do anything you wouldn’t want us to—’
    The young woman was at the bar,
     surrounded by journalists who were plying her with questions.
    â€˜So this Delfosse, he took money
     from your handbag? Was he your lover?’
    â€˜No, he
     wasn’t even my lover!’
    She was looking a little awkward now.
     She needed to make an effort to face all the eyes fixed on her.
    â€˜You were drinking champagne with
     Graphopoulos. So what was he like?’
    â€˜A real gentleman. Please, leave
     me alone.’
    She went to the cloakroom to take off
     her coat, then approached Génaro:
    â€˜Should I be dancing?’
    He didn’t know. He was looking at
     the crowd rather anxiously, as if he feared being overwhelmed.
    â€˜I wonder what they’re
     waiting for.’
    She lit a cigarette, leaned against the
     bar with a distant expression and stopped answering the questions the reporters
     continued to ask her.
    One plump matron said out loud:
    â€˜How ridiculous to charge ten
     francs for lemonade! There isn’t even anything to see!’
    But there
was
something to see,
     though only for those who knew the people involved in the drama. The doorman in his
     maroon uniform pulled aside the curtain, and a man of about fifty with a grey
     moustache came in, but stopped in surprise at seeing so many people. He was tempted
     to back out. But his eyes met those of a journalist who had recognized him, and who
     nudged his neighbour. So he walked in, affecting unconcern, and tapping the ash off
     his cigarette.
    He looked resplendent. He was most
     elegantly dressed. You sensed that this was a man accustomed to high living and no
     stranger to night haunts.
    He went straight
     to the bar and addressed Génaro:
    â€˜You’re the owner of this
     club?’
    â€˜Yes, monsieur.’
    â€˜I’m Monsieur Delfosse.
     Apparently my son owes you some money.’
    â€˜Victor!’
    Victor hurried over.
    â€˜This is Monsieur