A Crime in Holland (13 page)

An amused smile floated across Maigret's face.

‘But with Any, it's not the same. You've seen her, haven't you? She looks a fright! Her teeth are all crooked. She's never had a man interested in her. And she knows it. She knows she'll be an old maid all her life. That's why she did all that studying: she wanted to have a profession. She's even a member of those feminist leagues.'

Beetje was getting worked up. One sensed an ancient grievance coming to the surface.

‘So she was always creeping around the house, keeping an eye on Conrad. Because she doesn't have any choice about being virtuous, she'd like everyone to be in the same boat. You understand? She guessed, I'm sure. She must have tried to get her brother-in-law to give me up. And
even Cornelius! She could see that all the men look at me, and that includes Wienands, who's never dared say a word to me, but he goes red when I dance with him. And
his
wife hates me too, because of that. Maybe Any didn't say anything to her sister. But maybe she did. Maybe she's the one that found my letters.'

‘And then went on to kill?' said Maigret sharply.

She stammered:

‘N-no, I swear I don't know, I didn't say that. Just that Any's poisonous! Is it my fault if she's ugly?'

‘And you're sure she's never had a lover?'

Ah, the little smile, or indeed giggle, in Beetje's answer, that instinctively victorious giggle of a desirable woman scorning one who is plain!

It was like little misses in boarding school, squabbling over a trifle.

‘Not in Delfzijl, at any rate.'

‘And as well as hating you, she didn't like her brother-in-law either, did she?'

‘I don't know. That's not the same thing, he was family. And perhaps all the family belonged to her a little. So she had to keep an eye on him, see he didn't get into trouble …'

‘But not shoot him?'

‘What can you be thinking? You keep saying that.'

‘I don't think anything. Just answer my questions. Was Oosting aware of your relationship with Popinga?'

‘Did they tell you that too?'

‘You went on his boat together to the Workum sandbanks. Did he leave you two … on your own?'

‘Yes, he was up on deck, steering the boat.'

‘And he let you have the cabin.'

‘Naturally, it was cold outside.'

‘You haven't seen him since … since Conrad's death?'

‘No! I swear I haven't.'

‘And he's never made any advances to you?'

She laughed out loud.

‘Him?'

And yet she was again on the brink of weeping, clearly distressed. Madame Van Hasselt, having heard their raised voices, put her head round the door, then muttered her apologies and went back to her post behind the till. There was a silence.

‘Do you really believe your father's capable of killing you?'

‘Yes! He would …'

‘So he might also have been capable of killing your lover.'

She opened her eyes wide with terror, and protested fiercely:

‘No, no! That's not true! Papa wouldn't …'

‘But when you got home on the night of the crime, he wasn't there.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘He came in a little later than you, didn't he?'

‘Straight afterwards. But …'

‘In your last letters, you showed signs of impatience. You felt Conrad was getting away from you, that the whole escapade was starting to frighten him, and that, in any case, he wouldn't leave his home to run off abroad with you.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Nothing. Just recapping. Your father will soon be here looking for you.'

She looked around in anguish, and seemed to be searching for the exit.

‘Don't be afraid. I will be needing you tonight.'

‘Tonight?'

‘Yes, we're going to stage a reconstruction of what everyone did the night of the crime.'

‘He'll kill me!'

‘Who?'

‘My father.'

‘I'll be there, never fear.'

‘But …'

Jean Duclos came into the room, shutting the door behind him quickly and turning the key in the lock. He stepped forward, looking important.

‘Watch out! The farmer's here. He …'

‘Take her up to your room.'

‘To my …!'

‘Or mine, if you prefer.'

They could hear footsteps in the corridor. Near the stage was another door communicating with the service stairs. Duclos and Beetje went out that way. Maigret unlocked the main door, and found himself face to face with Farmer Liewens, who was looking past his shoulder.

‘Beetje?'

The language barrier was between them again. They could not understand each other. Maigret merely interposed his large body to obstruct passage and gain time, while trying not to enrage the man in front of him.

Jean Duclos was quickly back downstairs, trying to look casual.

‘Tell him he can have his daughter back tonight, and that he will also be needed for the reconstruction of the crime.'

‘Do we have to …'

‘Just translate, for God's sake, when I tell you.'

Duclos did so, in a placatory voice. The farmer stared at the two men.

‘Tell him as well that tonight the murderer will be under lock and key.'

This too was translated. Then Maigret just had time to spring forward, knocking over Liewens, who had pulled out a revolver and was trying to press it to his own temple.

The struggle was brief. Maigret was so massive that his adversary was quickly immobilized and disarmed, while a stack of chairs they had collided with collapsed noisily, grazing the inspector's forehead.

‘Lock the door!' Maigret shouted to Duclos. ‘Don't let anyone in.'

And he stood up, recovering his breath.

The Wienands family arrived first, at seven thirty precisely. There were, at that moment, only three men waiting in the Van Hasselt ballroom, some distance apart, and not speaking to each other: Jean Duclos, on edge, pacing up and down the room, Farmer Liewens, looking withdrawn and sitting still on a chair, and Maigret, leaning against the piano, pipe between his teeth.

No one had thought to switch on all the lamps. A single large bulb, hanging very high up, cast a greyish light. The chairs were still stacked at the back of the room, except for one row, which Maigret had had lined up at the front.

On the little stage, otherwise empty, stood a table covered in green baize, and a single chair.

Monsieur and Madame Wienands were in their Sunday best. They had obeyed to the letter the instructions they had been given, since they had brought their two children with them. It was easy to guess that they had eaten their evening meal in haste, leaving their dining room uncleared, in order to arrive on time.

Wienands took his hat off as he walked in, looked around for someone to greet and, after thinking better of approaching the professor, shepherded his family into a corner where they waited in silence. His stiff collar was too large and his tie was awry.

Cornelius Barens arrived almost immediately afterwards, so pale and nervous that he looked as if he might run off at the slightest alarm. He also glanced around to see if he could attach himself to some group, but dared not approach anyone, and stood with his back against the stack of chairs.

Pijpekamp came in next, escorting Oosting, whose eyes lighted sternly on Maigret. Then came the last arrivals: Madame Popinga and Any, who walked in quickly, stopped for a second then both headed for the row of chairs.

‘Bring Beetje down,' Maigret instructed the Dutch inspector, ‘and have one of your men keep an eye on Liewens and Oosting. They weren't in here on the night of the murder. We'll only be needing them later. They can stand at the back for now.'

After Beetje arrived, looking flustered at first, then deliberately stiffening her back with an impulse of pride as she saw Any and Madame Popinga, there was a pause, while everyone seemed to hold their breath.

Not because the atmosphere was tense. Because it wasn't. It was merely sordid.

In that huge empty hall, with the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling, they looked like a random group of human beings.

It was hard to imagine that, a few days earlier, many people, the notable citizens of Delfzijl, had paid for the right to sit on those stacked chairs, had made their entrance hoping to impress others, exchanging smiles and handshakes, had sat down in their best clothes facing the stage and had applauded the arrival of Professor Jean Duclos.

It was as if the same sight were being viewed through the wrong end of a telescope.

Because of having to wait, and the uncertainty they all felt about what was going to happen, their faces expressed neither anxiety nor pain, but something else entirely. Empty, blank eyes, devoid of thought. Drawn features, giving nothing away.

The poor light made everyone look grey. Even Beetje did not seem alluring.

The spectacle was without prestige or dignity. It was pitiful or laughable.

Outside, a crowd had gathered, because the rumour had circulated in late afternoon that something was about to happen. But nobody had imagined it would be so lacking in excitement.

Maigret approached Madame Popinga first.

‘Would you kindly sit in the same place as the other evening?' he asked her. At home, a few hours earlier, she had been a pathetic figure. But no longer. She had aged. Her poorly tailored suit made one shoulder look noticeably higher than the other, and she had large feet. And a scar on her neck, under her ear.

Any was in a worse case, her face had never seemed more lopsided than now. Her outfit was ridiculous, a scarecrow with a frumpish hat.

Madame Popinga sat down in the middle of the row of chairs, in the place of honour. The other evening, under the lamps, with all of Delfzijl sitting behind her, she must have been pink with pleasure and pride.

‘Who was sitting next to you?'

‘The principal of the Naval College.'

‘And on the other side?'

‘Monsieur Wienands.'

He was asked to come and sit down. He had kept his coat on, and sat down awkwardly, looking away.

‘Madame Wienands?'

‘At the end of the row, because of the children.'

‘Beetje?'

She went to take her place unaided, leaving an empty chair between herself and Any: the one that had been occupied by Conrad Popinga.

Pijpekamp was standing to the side, unsettled, confused, ill at ease and anxious. Jean Duclos was awaiting his turn.

‘Go up on the stage!' Maigret told him.

He was perhaps the person who had lost most prestige. He was just a thin man, inelegantly dressed. It was hard to think that a few nights earlier a hundred people had taken the trouble to attend his lecture.

The silence was as distressing as the light, at once revealing and inadequate, being shed from the high ceiling. At the back of the room, the Baes coughed four or five times, expressing the general feeling of disquiet.

Maigret himself did not look entirely at ease. He was surveying the scene he had set. His heavy gaze moved from one person to another, halting at small details, Beetje's posture, Any's over-long skirt, the poorly kept fingernails of Duclos, who was now all alone at the lecturer's table, trying to maintain his dignity.

‘You spoke for how long?'

‘Three quarters of an hour.'

‘And you were reading your lecture from notes?'

‘Certainly not! I've given it twenty times before. I never use notes these days.'

‘So you were watching the audience.'

And Maigret went to sit for a moment between Beetje and Any. The chairs were quite close together and his knee touched Beetje's.

‘What time did the event end?'

‘A little before nine. Because first of all a girl played the piano.'

The piano was still open, with a Chopin Polonaise propped on the stand. Madame Popinga began to chew her handkerchief. Oosting shifted at the back. His feet were shuffling all the time on the sawdust-covered floor.

It was a few minutes after eight o'clock. Maigret stood up and paced around.

‘Now, Monsieur Duclos, could you summarize for me the subject of your lecture?'

But Duclos was unable to speak. Or rather he seemed to want to recite his usual speech. After clearing his throat a few times, he murmured:

‘I would not wish to insult the intelligence of the people of Delfzijl …'

‘No, stop. You were talking about crime. What approach were you taking?'

‘I was talking about criminal responsibility.'

‘And your argument was …?'

‘That society is responsible for the sins committed within it, which we call crime. We have organized our lives
for the good of all. We have created social classes, and every individual belongs in one of them …'

He was staring at the green baize table top as he spoke. His voice was indistinct.