A Crime in Holland (10 page)

Madame Popinga was a tall woman, well-built, but not fat. A glossy helmet of fine hair framed her delicately pink Dutch face.

But would he perhaps have preferred it if she had been ugly? Those regular features and her controlled, sensible expression somehow conveyed a total lack of enthusiasm for life.

Even her smile had to be a sensible, measured smile, her joy a sensible joy, always under control.

Already at six years old, she must have been a serious child. And by sixteen, much as she was today.

One of those women who seem born to be sisters, or aunts, or nurses, or widows patronizing good causes.

Conrad was no longer there, and yet Maigret had never felt him to be so alive as at this moment, with his hearty open face, his greed or rather appetite for life, his shyness, his fear of offending people and his wireless set, with which he fiddled for hours in order to pick up jazz from Paris, gypsy music from Budapest, an operetta from Vienna, or perhaps even faraway boat-to-boat calls on short wave.

Any approached her sister, as one would someone who is ill and about to collapse. But Madame Popinga went towards Maigret, or at least took a couple of steps.

‘I never dreamed …' she whispered. ‘Never. I lived … I … And when he died, I …'

He guessed, from her breathing, that she had a heart
condition, and a moment later she confirmed his hypothesis by standing still for a long moment, pressing her hand to her chest.

Someone else moved in the room: the farmer, with wild eyes and a fevered expression, had gone over to the table and snatched up the letters from his daughter, with the nervous gesture of a thief fearing to be caught.

She let him go ahead. Maigret did the same.

But Liewens did not yet dare leave. He could be heard speaking, without addressing anyone in particular. Maigret caught the word
Fransman
, and it was as if he could understand Dutch in the same way that Liewens, that day, had understood French.

He could more or less work out the sentence: ‘And you think it was necessary to tell the Frenchman all this?'

Liewens dropped his cap, picked it up, bowed to Any, who was standing in his way, but to her alone, muttered a few more unintelligible syllables and went out. The maid must have finished cleaning the step since they heard the door open and shut and his footsteps going away.

In spite of the younger woman's presence, Maigret asked some further questions, with a gentleness one might not have suspected in him.

‘Have you already shown these letters to your sister?'

‘No. But when that man …'

‘Where were they?'

‘In a drawer in the bedside table … I never used to open it. It was where the revolver was kept too.'

Any said something in Dutch, and Madame Popinga translated automatically.

‘My sister is telling me I ought to go and lie down. Because I haven't slept for three nights. He'd never have gone away from here … He must have been imprudent, just one indiscretion, don't you think? He liked to laugh and play. But now that I think of it, some little things come back … Beetje used to bring over fruits and home-made cake … I thought she was coming to see me. And she would ask us to play tennis … Always at a time when she knew quite well I was busy. But I didn't see any harm in it. I was glad Conrad had a chance to relax. Because he worked very hard, and Delfzijl was a bit dull for him. Last year, she nearly came to Paris with us … and it was even my idea!'

She said all this simply, but with a weariness in which there was hardly any rancour.

‘He can't have wanted to leave here … You heard … But he was afraid of causing pain to anyone. That was how he was. He used to be reprimanded for giving exam marks that were too generous. That's why my father didn't care for him.'

She put an ornament back in its place, and this precise housewifely act was at odds with the atmosphere in the room.

‘I'd just like all this to be over. Because we're not even allowed to bury him. You know that? I don't know … I want them to give him back to me. God will see that the guilty one is punished.'

She became more animated. She went on, her voice firmer now:

‘Yes! That's what I believe. Things like this, they're a matter between God and the murderer. What can we know?'

She gave a start, as if an idea had just struck her. Pointing to the door, she gasped:

‘Perhaps he's going to kill her. He's capable of it. That would be terrible!'

Any was looking at her with some impatience. She must have been thinking all these words were of no help, and it was with a calm voice that she asked:

‘So now, what do you think,
monsieur le commissaire
?'

‘Nothing!'

She didn't insist. But her face showed her dissatisfaction.

‘I don't think anything, because above all there is the matter of Oosting's cap!' he said. ‘You heard Jean Duclos's theories. You've read the books by Grosz he told you about. One principle! Never allow yourself to be distracted from the truth by psychological considerations. Follow to the end the reasoning resulting from material evidence.'

It was impossible to know whether he was serious or whether he was teasing her.

‘And here we have a cap, and the stub of a cigar! Somebody must have brought them or thrown them into the house.'

Madame Popinga sighed to herself:

‘I can't believe that Oosting …'

Then suddenly, lifting her head:

‘That makes me think of something I'd forgotten.'

Then she fell silent, as if fearing she had said too much, terrified by the consequences of her words.

‘Tell me.'

‘No, no, it's nothing.'

‘I would still like …'

‘When Conrad went seal-hunting on the Workum sandbanks …'

‘Yes? What about it …?'

‘Beetje went with them. Because she goes hunting too … Here in Holland, girls have a lot of freedom.'

‘Did they spend the night away?'

‘Sometimes one night. Sometimes two.'

She took her head in her hands with a gesture of the most extreme frustration and groaned.

‘No! I don't want to think about it! It's too horrible! Too horrible.'

This time, sobs were rising in her throat, ready to break out, and Any took her sister by the shoulders and gently propelled her into the next room.

When Maigret arrived back at the hotel, he realized that something unusual was happening. The previous day he had dined at the table next to Jean Duclos's.

Now, three places were laid on the round table in the centre of the dining room. A dazzling white cloth, with knife-sharp creases, had been spread. And at each place stood three glasses, which in Holland is only done for a truly ceremonial meal.

As soon as he came in, Maigret was greeted by Inspector Pijpekamp, who advanced towards him, hand outstretched, with the wide smile of a man who has arranged a pleasant surprise.

He was in his best clothes: a wing-collar eight centimetres high! A formal jacket. He was freshly shaved, and must have come straight from the barber's, for around him there still hovered a scent of Parma violets.

Less formally dressed, Jean Duclos stood behind him, looking slightly jaundiced.

‘You must forgive me, my dear colleague. I should have warned you this morning … I would have liked to invite you back home, but I live in Groningen and I'm a bachelor. So I have taken the liberty of inviting you to lunch here. Just a simple lunch, no fuss.'

And looking, as he pronounced the last words, at the
cutlery and crystal glasses, he was obviously waiting for Maigret to contradict him.

He did no such thing.

‘I thought that since the professor is your compatriot, you would be happy to …'

‘Very good! Very good!' said Maigret. ‘Would you excuse me while I go to wash my hands.'

He did so, looking grumpy, at the little washbasin in an adjacent room. The kitchen was next door, and he could hear much bustle, the clink of dishes and saucepans.

When he went back to the dining room, Pijpekamp himself was pouring port into the glasses and murmuring with a modest but delighted smile:

‘Just like in France, eh?
Prosit!
Your very good health, my dear colleague.'

His goodwill was touching. He was making an effort to find the most sophisticated expressions and show that he was a man of the world to his fingertips.

‘I ought to have invited you yesterday. But I was so … how would you say? So shaken about by this affair. Have you discovered anything?'

‘No, nothing.'

The Dutchman's eyes lit up, and Maigret thought to himself:

‘Aha, my little man, you've got some prize exhibit to show me, and you'll bring it out over dessert. If you have the patience to wait that long.'

He was not mistaken. The first course was tomato soup, which was served with a Saint-Émilion sweet enough to make you feel bilious, and obviously fortified for export.

‘Your health!'

What a good show Pijpekamp was putting on! Doing his very best or even better. And Maigret didn't even seem to notice it. He showed no appreciation!

‘In Holland, you know, we never drink with the meal, only afterwards. In the evening, on special occasions a little glass of wine with a cigar. And we don't have bread with the meal either.'

And he looked at the bread basket, which he had ordered specially. He had even arranged for port as an aperitif, instead of the national drink of genever.

What more could he have done? He was pink with excitement. He looked at the golden wine bottle with emotion. Jean Duclos was eating as if his mind were elsewhere.

And Pijpekamp had been so anxious to inject some gaiety into this lunch, to create an atmosphere of abandon, a real explosion of Frenchness!

The waiters brought in the national Dutch dish: the
hutspot
. The meat was swimming in litres of gravy, and Pijpekamp assumed a mysterious air to announce:

‘Now, you must tell me if you like it.'

Unfortunately, Maigret was not in a good mood. He could indeed sense some kind of mystery in the air, but as yet was unable to fathom it.

It seemed to him that there was a kind of freemasonry between Duclos and the Dutch policeman. For instance, every time the latter refilled Maigret's glass, he stole a glance at the professor.

A bottle of Burgundy was warming by the stove.

‘I thought you'd be drinking more wine.'

‘That depends …'

Duclos was certainly ill at ease. He avoided joining in the conversation, and was drinking nothing but mineral water, claiming he was on a diet.

Pijpekamp could wait no longer. He'd chatted about the beauties of the harbour, the volume of traffic on the Ems, the University of Groningen, where the greatest scholars in the world came to give lectures.

‘And now you know, we've come up with something new.'

‘Really?'

‘Your health! The health of the French police! Yes, now, the mystery is more or less cleared up.'

Maigret looked at him with his most neutral gaze, showing not the slightest trace of emotion, or even curiosity.

‘This morning, at about ten o'clock, I was told that someone was waiting to see me in my office. Guess who?'

‘Barens. Yes, go on.'

Pijpekamp was even more crestfallen than over the lack of effect the luxurious meal had had on his guest.

‘How did you know? Someone told you, didn't they?'

‘Not at all. What did he want?'

‘You know him. Very timid, very – what's the French word? Reserved. He didn't dare look me in the eye. You'd have thought he was about to burst into tears. He confessed that on the night of the crime, when he left the Popingas' house, he didn't go straight back to the boat.'

At this point, the Dutch inspector gave a whole series of winks and nudges.

‘You get it? He is in love with Beetje. And he was jealous because Beetje had been dancing with Popinga. And he
was cross with her, because she'd drunk a cognac. He saw them both leave. He went after them at a distance. Then he followed his tutor back home.'

Maigret remained hard-hearted. And yet he could see that the other man would have given anything to receive some indication on his part of surprise, admiration or indeed discomfiture.

‘Your good health, monsieur. Barens didn't tell us at first, because he was frightened. But now, here's the truth! He saw a man running away immediately after the gunshot, towards the timber yard where he must have been hiding.'

‘And he described him in detail, I suppose?'

‘Yes.'

The Dutchman was dripping with perspiration. He no longer had any hope of astonishing his colleague. His story was falling flat.

‘A sailor. Undoubtedly a foreign sailor. Very tall, thin, clean shaven.'

‘And naturally, a boat left early next morning.'