The Georgian gave her a doubtful look and went back upstairs, muttering to himself in his own language. Jean had recognized the man with broad shoulders.
‘You, come and eat something. Stop fussing, or it’s off to bed with you, and the doctor’ll be round.’
Monsieur Chabot did not usually come home for lunch. They ate in the kitchen, where Madame Chabot never sat down, coming and going between table and stove all the time. While Jean, head bent, tried to swallow a few mouthfuls, she observed him, and suddenly noticed something about his appearance.
‘Now, where did you get that tie?’
‘I … er, René gave it me.’
‘René, always blessed René! And you don’t have enough self-respect to …? I’m ashamed for you. These people may have plenty of money, but that doesn’t make them respectable. His parents aren’t even married!’
‘Maman!’
He usually called her ‘Mother’, but he wanted to try to win her over. He was desperate; all he wanted was a bit of peace for the few hours he had to spend at home. He imagined the unknown man pacing the street, just in front of the school he had attended as a child.
‘No, son! You’re going off the rails, let me tell you! It’s time for it to stop, if you don’t want to turn out like your Uncle Henri.’
That was the nightmare prospect, the uncle you sometimes encountered, either reeling drunk or else up a ladder, working as a house painter.
‘And he’d had an education! He could have been anything.’
Jean stood up, his mouth full, literally snatched his hat from the hallstand and fled.
In Liège, some newspapers have a morning edition, but the version most people read comes out at two p.m. Chabot walked to the centre of town in a sort of daze, the bright sunshine almost blinding him, and only came to when he was across the Meuse and heard a newsboy shouting:
‘Read all about it! Gazette de Liège! Latest edition. Corpse found in laundry basket! Horrible details! Gazette de Liège!’
Only about two metres away from him, the broad-shouldered stranger was buying a paper and waiting for his change. Jean felt in his pocket and found the banknotes he had shoved there hastily, but no coins. So he went on and was soon pushing open the door of his office, where the other staff had already arrived.
‘Five minutes late, Monsieur Chabot!’ noted the senior clerk. ‘It may not be much, but it happens too often.’
‘I’m sorry. The tram … I’ve brought the petty cash.’
He knew that he was not looking himself. His cheeks were burning and sparks seemed to flash before his eyes … Monsieur Hosay glanced through the notebook, checking the totals at the bottom of the pages.
‘A hundred and eighteen francs fifty. That’s what you should have left.’
Jean regretted not having thought of changing the large notes. He could hear the second clerk and the typist discussing the body in the laundry basket.
‘Graphopoulos. Is that a Turkish name?’
‘No, Greek, apparently he was Greek.’
Jean’s ears were buzzing. He took two hundred-franc notes from his pocket. Monsieur Hosay coldly pointed out something that had fallen to the ground: a third note.
‘You seem to be treating your money very casually. Don’t you have a wallet?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘If the boss saw you putting banknotes straight into your pockets like that … Well, I don’t have any change. You’d better carry over the hundred and eighteen francs fifty. And when that’s all gone, ask for more. This afternoon, you’re to go round the newspaper offices to put in the legal announcements. It’s urgent, they have to be published tomorrow.’
The Turk, the Turk, the Turk!
Once outside, Jean bought a newspaper and stood for a while in the centre of a circle of bystanders since the vendor had to find him some change. He read as he walked along, bumping into other people.
MYSTERY OF CORPSE IN LAUNDRY BASKET!
This morning at about nine o’clock, as he unlocked the gates to the Botanical Gardens, the keeper noticed a large laundry basket in the middle of a lawn. He tried to open it, without success. The basket was fastened with an iron bar attached to a heavy padlock.
He called Officer Leroy, who called in turn on the Chief Inspector of the 4th district. It was ten o’clock before the padlock was finally opened by a locksmith. And then, what a sight greeted their eyes! Inside was a corpse, bent double, and in order to cram it into the space, several vertebrae of the neck had been broken.
The deceased was a man aged about forty, of foreign aspect: his wallet was missing but in his waistcoat pocket was a business card in the name of Ephraim Graphopoulos.
The dead man must have arrived only recently in Liège, since he was not listed on the register of foreign visitors nor on any of the police forms submitted by hoteliers.
The pathologist will carry out a post-mortem this afternoon, but it is thought the man must have been attacked during the night with a heavy blunt instrument, such as a truncheon, iron bar, sandbag or weighted walking stick.
Further details on this affair, which bids fair to cause a sensation, will appear in our next edition.
Newspaper in hand, Jean arrived at the front desk of La Meuse, dropped off his legal notices and waited for his receipt.
In the sunshine the town was busy. These were the last fine days of autumn, and stands were being erected on the boulevards for the big October festival.
He looked behind him for the man who had followed him that morning, but saw no one. As he went past the Pélican, he checked that Delfosse, who had no afternoon lectures, was not there. He made a detour by the nightclub, Rue du Pot-d’Or. The doors of the Gai-Moulin stood open. The dance-floor was in darkness, and it was hard to see the crimson plush seating. Victor was cleaning the windows with a bucket of water and Chabot hurried past to avoid being spotted. His errand took him on to the Express and the Journal de Liège.
Adèle’s balcony fascinated him. He hesitated. He had visited her once before, a month earlier. Delfosse had sworn to him that he had been the dancer’s lover. So Jean had knocked at her door at midday, on some flimsy pretext. She had received him in a grubby peignoir, and had carried on with her toilette in front of him, chatting away as if they were old friends.
He hadn’t tried anything. But he had rather enjoyed this moment of intimacy.
Now he pushed open the door next to the grocer’s shop, went up the dark stairs and knocked.
No reply. But presently he heard shuffling steps on the wooden floorboards, and the door opened, letting out a strong smell of methylated spirits.
‘Oh it’s you! I thought it was your pal.’
‘Why?’
Adèle was already turning back to the little burner on which some curling tongs were placed.
‘Oh, I don’t know, just an idea. Shut the door, will you, there’s a draught.’
At that moment, Chabot felt overcome by a desire to confide in her, to tell her everything, and in any case to be comforted by this woman with the tired eyes, the worn but still-tempting flesh beneath the peignoir, and the red satin slippers in which she tripped round the cluttered bedroom.
On the unmade bed, he saw a copy of the Gazette de Liège.
3. The Man with Broad Shoulders
Adèle had just got out of bed, and a tin of condensed milk had leaked near the burner.
‘So your friend isn’t with you?’ she insisted.
Chabot frowned, as he answered in a sulky voice:
‘No, why would he be with me?’
She paid no attention and opened a wardrobe, fetching out a pink silk underslip.
‘Is it true his father’s this rich factory owner?’
Jean had not taken a seat, nor even put his hat down. He watched her coming and going, with a troubled mixture of feelings, part melancholy, part desire, instinctive respect for a woman, and despair.
She wasn’t beautiful, especially now, lounging about in her mules and shabby peignoir. But
perhaps, in the familiarity of this intimacy, she held even more allure for him.
How old was she, twenty-five, thirty? She’d certainly seen life. She often talked about Paris, Berlin, Ostend. She mentioned the names of famous nightclubs.
But without any excitement or pride, without showing off. On the contrary. Her main characteristic seemed to be weariness, as could be guessed from the expression in her green eyes, from the casual way she held a cigarette in her mouth, from all her movements and smiles. Weariness with a smile.
‘What does his factory make?’
‘Bikes.’
‘That’s funny, I once knew a bicycle manufacturer in Saint-Étienne. How old is he?’
‘Who, the father?’
‘No, René.’
He frowned even more on hearing his friend’s first name on her lips.
‘Eighteen.’
‘Bet he’s a bad boy.’
Their familiarity was complete: she was treating Jean Chabot as an equal. By contrast when she talked about René Delfosse, there was a hint of respect in her voice.
Had she guessed that Chabot wasn’t rich, that he came from a family probably no better than her own?
‘Sit down. You don’t mind if I get dressed? Pass me the cigarettes.’
He looked around.
‘On the bedside table, that’s right.’
Pale-faced, Jean scarcely dared touch the cigarette-case, which he had seen the night before in the hands of the stranger. He looked across at Adèle, whose gown had fallen open to reveal her naked body, and who was now putting on her stockings.
This was even more troubling than before. He blushed deeply, perhaps because of the cigarette-case, perhaps because of the nudity, or more likely a combination of the two. Adèle wasn’t only a woman, she was a woman mixed up in a drama, a woman who no doubt had a secret.
‘Well?’
He held out the case.
‘Got a light?’
His hand shook as he proffered a lighted match. Then she burst out laughing.
‘I’ll bet you haven’t seen all that many women in your life, have you!’
‘Oh, of course, I’ve had women …’
She laughed harder. And looked him in the face, half closing her eyes.
‘You’re a funny fellow. An oddball. Pass me my girdle.’
‘Did you get back late last night?’
She looked at him with a hint of seriousness.
‘What’s this? Are you in love, by any chance? And jealous, what’s more! Now I see why you looked so cross when I mentioned René. Come on, turn to the wall.’
‘You haven’t read the papers?’
‘I just looked at the serial.’
‘That man from last night, he’s been killed.’
‘You’re kidding!’
She didn’t seem very bothered. Just curious.
‘Who by?’
‘They don’t know. They found his body in a laundry basket.’
The peignoir was thrown on the bed. Jean turned round as she was pulling down her slip and taking a dress from the cupboard.
‘Ah well, that’ll cause some trouble for me.’
‘When you left the Gai-Moulin, did he come with you?’
‘No, I left on my own.’
‘Ah!’
‘Anyone would think you don’t believe me! Do you really imagine I bring all the customers home with me? I’m a dancer, kid. My job is to try and get them to buy a lot of drinks. But once the doors are closed, that’s it.’
‘Still, with René …’
He realized that he had put his foot in it.
‘What about René?’
‘Nothing. He told me—’
‘You idiot! Hand on heart, all he did was give me a kiss. Pass me another cigarette.’
And, as she put on her hat:
‘Off with you now! I’m going shopping. Come on, shut the door.’
They went down the dark stairs, one after the other.
‘Which way are you going?’
‘Back to the office.’
‘Will you be along tonight?’
The pavement was crowded. They separated and a few minutes later, Jean was sitting at his desk, faced with a pile of envelopes to frank. Without knowing exactly why, it was sadness, rather than fear, that he felt most strongly. He looked round at the office papered with legal notices and felt disgust.
‘Have you got the receipts?’ asked the senior clerk.
He handed them over.
‘Where’s the one for the Gazette de Liège? You’ve forgotten the Gazette?’
Catastrophe, disaster! The senior clerk’s tone was dramatic:
‘Chabot, I have to tell you, this cannot go on! Work is work, duty is duty. I’m going to have to talk to the boss. And now I think of it, they tell me you have been seen in night spots where, personally, I have never set foot. To put it bluntly, you’re going off the rails. Look at me when I’m talking to you! And you can wipe that smirk off your face. You hear? This will not do.’
The door slammed. The young man remained alone, sticking down envelopes.
At about this time, Delfosse would be sitting on the terrace at the Pélican, or in the cinema. The clock showed almost five. Chabot watched the second-hand creep forward sixty times until the hour, stood up, took his hat and locked the drawer.
The man with broad shoulders was not outside. It was cooler. As evening approached, swathes of bluish mist rose in the streets, pierced by light from the shop windows and the trams.
‘Read all about it! Gazette de Liège!’
Delfosse wasn’t at the Pélican. Chabot looked for him in the other cafés in the centre of town that were their usual haunts. His legs felt heavy and his head so empty that he thought he might go home to bed.
When he reached the house, he immediately sensed that something had happened. The kitchen door was open. Mademoiselle Pauline, the Polish lodger, was leaning over a figure whom Jean could not at first see. He went forward into the room, and the silence was broken by a sob. Mademoiselle Pauline, plain of feature, turned to look at him, and her expression was stern.
‘Just look at your mother, Jean!’
Madame Chabot, wearing her apron, was sitting with her elbows on the table, weeping copiously.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘You should know!’ retorted the Polish girl.
Madame Chabot wiped her reddened eyes, looked at her son, and burst into tears again.
‘He’ll be the death of me! It’s dreadful.’
‘But, mother, what have I done?’
Jean spoke with a voice too neutral, too clear. He was so frightened that he felt paralysed from head to toe.
‘Leave us please, Mademoiselle Pauline, you’re very kind. We’ve always been poor, but we’ve always been honest.’
‘I still don’t understand …’
The student went out of the room, and they heard her going upstairs. She took care though to leave her bedroom door open.
‘What have you done? Tell me frankly? Your father’ll be home soon. When I think that the whole district will know.’
‘I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Liar! I know you’re lying, since you’ve been off with Delfosse and those … those women! Half an hour ago, Madame Velden, the greengrocer, came in here, puffing and blowing. And Mademoiselle Pauline was standing right here! And in front of her, Madame Velden said a man had come to ask for information about you and about us. A man who must be from the police! And of course he had to go and pick Madame Velden, the biggest gossip in the district. By now, everyone will know.’
She was on her feet. Automatically, she poured water into the coffee filter. Then took out a tablecloth from a cupboard.
‘That’s what we get for sacrificing ourselves to bring you up! The police asking questions, and maybe even coming to the house. I don’t know what your father will say. But I can tell you my father would have thrown you out by now. And when I
think you aren’t even seventeen yet! It’s all your father’s fault. He lets you stay out till three in the morning. And when I get cross, he takes your side.’
Without knowing why, Jean felt sure the so-called policeman must be the man with broad shoulders. He stared desperately at the floor.
‘So you’ve got nothing to say for yourself? You won’t own up to whatever it is?’
‘Mother, I haven’t done anything wrong!’
‘Why would the police be after you, if you haven’t done anything?’
‘We don’t know it was the police.’
‘Well, who else would it be?’
Suddenly he found the courage to lie, to end this painful conversation.
‘Perhaps it’s someone who might offer me a job, who’s asking for character references. I don’t earn much where I am now. I’ve been applying to places, trying to find something better.’
She looked at him sharply.
‘Are you lying?’
‘I swear that—’
‘Are you sure you and that Delfosse boy haven’t been up to some mischief?’
‘I promise you, mother.’
‘Well, in that case, you’d better go and talk to Madame Velden. We don’t want her telling everyone the police are after you.’
The key turned in the front door lock. Monsieur Chabot took off his coat and hung it up, came into the kitchen and sat down in his wicker chair.
‘Home already, Jean?’
Then he saw with astonishment his wife’s red eyes and the young man’s sulky expression.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing. I was telling Jean off. I don’t want him coming home at all hours. As if there was something wrong with being here, with his family.’
And she began laying the table and filling cups. As they ate, Monsieur Chabot read the paper and commented on it.
‘Here’s something that will make a stir. A body in a laundry basket! A foreigner, of course. Probably a spy.’
And changing the subject:
‘Did Monsieur Bogdanowski pay his rent?’
‘Not yet. He says he’s waiting for some money to arrive on Wednesday.’
‘He’s been waiting three weeks. Well, too bad. On Wednesday, you must tell him this can’t go on.’
The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin Page 3