The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin Read Online Free Page A

university, he never attended any
     lectures. They knew he was Georgian, and that he was involved in politics back home.
     He claimed he was a nobleman.
    â€˜What man, Monsieur
     Bogdanowski?’
    â€˜Come and see.’
    He drew her across to the dining room,
     which overlooked the street. Jean hesitated to follow them, but in the end he too
     went to the window.
    â€˜He’s been there a quarter
     of an hour, walking up and down. I know what that means! He’s from the
     police.’
    â€˜No,’ said Madame Chabot
     with a show of optimism. ‘You see police everywhere! He’s just waiting
     for someone.’
    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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Now, where did you get that
     tie?’
    â€˜I … er, René gave it
     me.’
    â€˜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!’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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:
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Five minutes late, Monsieur
     Chabot!’ noted the senior clerk. ‘It may not be much, but it happens too
     often.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Graphopoulos. Is that a Turkish
     name?’
    â€˜No, Greek, apparently he was
     Greek.’
    Jean’s ears were buzzing. He took
     two hundred-franc notes from