Published in 1931, this is the 10th in the Maigret series created by George Simenon (1903-89).

Now, when you consider that the first in the series, Pietr-le-Letton, came out in book form that same year, you get a bit of an indication of the ferocious SPEED at which Simenon wrote... In 1928 alone, he wrote 44 novels... At that pace, it's not surprising that he ended up authoring about 500 books, with world sales during his lifetime amounting to more than 500 million copies.

And this, we're told, is the unvaried routine that enabled him to do it:

"Simenon would take a calendar, mark off eight days for composition and three for correction. On his desk he would arrange four dozen freshly sharpened pencils, each to be discarded when the point wore down... Simenon would always begin his work in the same way, writing down the names of the characters, their ages and their families on the back of a manila envelope. 'It is almost a geometrical problem,' he explained, 'I have such a man, such a woman, in such surroundings. What can happen to them to oblige them to go to their limit? That’s the question.' He would then walk around the room clutching the envelope, repeating the name of his chief protagonist until the first chapter arrived in his head. There was no careful outline -- everything poured out, chapter after chapter, until the resolution, without a day’s break. In that time he would not see anyone or answer the phone. Only on completion could Simenon relax and resurface but, given his prodigious output, these periods were few and far between and it was never long before he returned once again to his secluded writing room."

That's certainly one way to get your book written...

Anyway, why The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin? Because, unusually, it's a Maigret story that's set in Liege. Many of the street names were familiar.


We arrived in Liege exactly a week ago...

As so often with Simenon, it's quite an atmospheric story. The Gai-Moulin is a nightclub, grimy rather than glitzy. The clients we meet first are two teenagers. Rene Delfosse is the rich one. He wants to be a man-of-the-world like his dad, but finds his lack of independent means an obstacle, so he's discontented and shifty. Jean Chabot is the poor one. He just wants to keep up with Delfosse, but his ambitions outrun his funds much more significantly and problematically.

We see quite a bit of Chabot's home life (reportedly inspired by Simenon's own): The anxiety of his parents, always blaming each other for not taking the right line with their son; the dire warnings that he will turn out like Uncle Henry (who went to college, but is now only seen when he's dead drunk or up a ladder painting a housefront); the terrible humiliation when it seems their boy is in trouble, and all the neighbours know. This is all well done. You can feel the tight little trap of respectability closing around the hapless Chabot.

We see little of Delfosse's home life, because there isn't much to see. Dad tries to cut a swaggery figure when young Rene is in trouble, but is otherwise missing in action.

There's something irresistibly seductive about the Gai-Moulin for the youngsters. The red plush banquettes; the hot, heavy, perfumed atmosphere; the easy familiarity of the staff... One, in particular, captivates them. She's Adele, and she's the dancer of the title (although she acts as a kind of hostess as well). Is she 25? Or 30 already? She's seen life, that's for sure (she talks of Paris, Berlin, Ostend, famous nightclubs, but her current manager brought her here from Paris when she was starving). She's not beautiful, and she's even a little slatternly, as we see when we visit her rooms, but there's a smiling weariness about her, and a charming, easy casualness in her gestures and expressions, and the lads find it all utterly beguiling. Another good character.



The story begins when our struggling youngsters, after an evening at the Gai-Moulin, decide to try to rob the cash till after the bar is shut. They hide out until everyone's gone, head back to the bar area -- and discover a dead body. It's the rich-looking foreigner who came in earlier, and ordered champagne...

Thoroughly spooked, they make off. The following day, they're even more bewildered to hear that a body -- surely the one they saw? -- has been discovered in a laundry basket in the middle of the botanic garden.

It's not long, of course, before the police have them in their sights.

Unusually, M. Maigret does not appear until we're well on in the story. Or at least he doesn't appear as himself... Smart readers will have been alerted by the description of the "broad-shouldered man" who also turns up in the bar on that fateful night. But I wasn't smart, so I was surprised to find he'd been incognito, investigating what he thinks is another case (the suave Greek, Graphopoulos, who asks for police protection, and then tries to evade it, is the one who turns up dead in Liege).

It's quite a good story (fairly unlikely, but that's par for the course). There's an intertwined theme exploring not only the stupidity of the bored rich, but also their nefarious influence on poorer friends; and there's a brutal sadness about what happens to the young men at the end. (There's more on one of those fates here.)



***

A couple of interesting asides (including slight spoilers):

1.

As this article points out, Simenon is not that kind to the citizens of his birthplace, even though the sarcasm is humorously done: "As, for example, in a scene where a part of the high society slums it at the Gai-Moulin while remaining totally pragmatic ('It’s ridiculous to pay ten francs for a lemonade. There’s nothing to see!'), or when Simenon describes a police station that's full of activity -- not to look for Graphopoulos’ murderer, but to finalize an order for briar pipes at an unbeatable price! Maigret will actually receive one, once he returns to Paris, at the same time as a letter giving him the verdict of the trial and information on the fate of Chabot and Delfosse."

2.

Early translations into English often messed with names, details, and even plot points...

3.

And, as we experienced with The Thin Man, publishers do sometimes make extraordinary decisions to leave things out... On the subject of translations, I was bewildered to read this: "Simenon owed a lot to Geoffrey Sainsbury, his 1930s translator into English, but, as indicated, Sainsbury had played fast and loose with the books. At the end of his translation of La Danseuse du Gai-Moulin he had missed out Delfosse’s death in a mental hospital, any hint of syphilis, and Maigret’s meeting with Adele."

Errr, what again? Syphilis? Where was THAT...??

Digging a bit further, I found that this article refers to "deviance due to heredity", and quotes a phrase I didn't remember at all. I checked back in the 1977 Presses pocket edition (the one I'd read), and sure enough, that phrase was definitely not there.

So I found a different edition: Presse de la Cite, 2004. And there it was.

Below is the complete exchange (opened by Delfosse's father, who is talking to Maigret):

"'My son is not responsible...' he murmured suddenly.
"'I know!'
"And, as the other looked at him, troubled and embarrassed at the same time:
"'You are going to tell me that he has inherited from you certain defects likely to diminish his responsibility and...'
"'Who told you?'
"'Look at your face and his in the mirror!'"

In the edition I read initially, that middle sentence -- "'You are going to tell me that he has inherited from you certain defects likely to diminish his responsibility and...'" -- was completely missing...

I remember finding the exchange a bit opaque, but thought Maigret was just making the point that the father hadn't brought the son up very well.

But contemporary readers, believing syphilis could be transmitted from father to son, and aware of the visible symptoms, would presumably pick up the hint. And they would then see their suspicions confirmed when, at the end, we learn that Rene Delfosse has died in a clinic that takes care of rich mental patients.

Why, you have to wonder, was it deemed necessary to omit the sentence in 1977?



***

Richard Johnstone wonders what explains Simenon's continuing popularity. He concludes that it has to be down to "the characteristically cinematic quality of his prose" and "his unmatched ability to convey complexity, nuance and, above all, atmosphere in the seductive guise of simplicity". Sounds right...