A Crime in Holland Page 3

  The Dutch inspector looked annoyed, stood up suddenly as if struck by inspiration, went towards the back of the room, and returned carrying a very shabby seaman’s cap. Then, enunciating his words with exaggerated slowness, he said:

  ‘We have found the owner of this item which was discovered in the bath … He is … He is a man we call “the Baes”. In French you’d say “le patron”, the boss.’

  Was Maigret even listening?

  ‘We have not arrested him, because we wish to keep him under observation, and he is popular in the district. You know the mouth of the Ems? When you reach the North Sea, about ten sea miles from here, you come to some sandy islands, which can be more or less completely submerged in the high equinoctial tides. One of these islands is called Workum. This man has settled there with his family and some farmhands, and taken it into his head to raise livestock. That’s “the Baes” for you. He’s been granted a state subsidy, because he has established squatter’s rights. And he has even been appointed mayor of Workum, of which he is the only Dutch citizen. He has a motor launch, and comes and goes between his island and Delfzijl.’

  Maigret still did not budge. The Dutchman winked.

  ‘An odd fellow! Sixty years old, and as solid as a rock. He has three sons, all pirates like himself. Because … Listen! This is not the sort of thing to shout out loud. You know that Delfzijl is a port for handling timber from Finland and Riga … The steamboats that bring the logs here have part of the cargo on deck, held down with chains. But in emergencies, the captains have orders to cut the chains and jettison the deck cargo into the sea, to save the boat. You still don’t see what I am driving at?’

  And certainly Maigret gave no sign of being at all interested in this story.

  ‘The Baes is a cunning man. He knows all the sea captains who come in here. He has his little arrangements with them. So when they are in sight of the islands, there’s always a reason to be found for cutting at least one chain. Then several tons of timber go into the sea and the tide throws them up on Workum sands. Wreckers’ rights. Now do you understand? And the Baes shares the proceeds with the captains. And it was his cap that they found in the bath. Just one problem. He only smokes a pipe. But he may not have been alone.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘No. Ah no! Monsieur Popinga, who has contacts everywhere, or rather who had, was appointed Finnish vice-consul in Delfzijl a couple of weeks ago.’

  The skinny young man was triumphant now, puffing with satisfaction.

  ‘And where was the Baes’s boat on the night of the crime?’

  This time it was almost a shout.

  ‘In Delfzijl. Moored at the quayside. Near the lock! In other words, fifty metres from the Popinga house.’

  Maigret tamped more tobacco into his pipe, and paced up and down in the office, looking with a jaundiced eye at the reports, of which he could understand not a damned word.

  ‘And you haven’t anything else to go on,’ he said suddenly, thrusting both hands into his pockets.

  He was hardly surprised to see the other policeman blush.

  ‘You know already?’

  He checked himself.

  ‘Of course, you have spent all afternoon in Delfzijl … French tactics.’

  He seemed hesitant.

  ‘I don’t know yet what this statement means. It was on the fourth day. Madame Popinga turned up. She told me that she had consulted the minister, to see whether she ought to say anything. You know the layout of the house? Not yet? I can show you a diagram?’

  ‘Thanks! But I’ve got one,’ said Maigret, taking it from his pocket.

  The other man, looking startled, went on:

  ‘You see the Popingas’ bedroom? From the window, you can glimpse only a little section of the road leading to the farm. Just the stretch that is lit up by the lighthouse every fifteen seconds.’

  ‘And Madame Popinga was jealous, so she was spying on her husband?’

  ‘She was looking out. She saw the two bikes on the way to the farm. Then her husband cycling back. Then about a hundred metres behind him, Beetje Liewens’s bicycle.’

  ‘In other words, after Conrad Popinga saw her home, Beetje returned on her own towards the Popinga house. So what does she say about this?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The girl.’

  ‘Nothing so far. I didn’t want to question her right away. It’s very serious, and you may have chosen the right word. Jealousy. You understand? Monsieur Liewens is a member of the Council.’

  ‘What time did Cor get back to the Naval College?’

  ‘That we do know, five minutes past midnight.’

  ‘And the shot was fired …?’

  ‘Five minutes before midnight … But there’s the cap and the cigar …’

  ‘And he has a bike?’

  ‘Yes. Everybody cycles everywhere here. It’s practical. I do it myself … But that night, he didn’t have his bike with him.’

  ‘The revolver has been examined?’

  ‘Ja! It’s Conrad Popinga’s own gun. His service revolver. It was always loaded with six bullets, and inside a drawer of his bedside table.’

  ‘And the shot was fired from how many metres away?’

  ‘About six. The distance from the bathroom window. And also the distance from Monsieur Duclos’s bedroom. And perhaps the shot wasn’t fired from up above. We don’t know, because Popinga, who was putting his bike away, could have been bending down. But there’s the cap. And the cigar. Don’t forget.’

  ‘Cigar, phooey,’ muttered Maigret to himself.

  And out loud:

  ‘Is Mademoiselle Any aware of her sister’s statement?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what does she say about it?’

  ‘She hasn’t said anything. She’s highly educated. She doesn’t talk much. She’s not like other girls.’

  ‘Is she ugly?’

  Every one of Maigret’s interruptions had the knack of disconcerting the Dutch policeman.

  ‘Well … not pretty.’

  ‘Very well, she’s ugly. And you were saying that …’

  ‘She wants to find the murderer. She’s working on it. She has asked to see the reports.’

  Chance took a hand. A young woman came in, with a leather briefcase under her arm: she was dressed austerely, almost to the point of eccentricity.

  She marched straight up to the Groningen police officer. She began speaking volubly in her own language, either not seeing the stranger, or taking no notice of him.

  The Dutchman reddened, shifted from one foot to the other, shuffling his papers to give himself an air of authority and indicating Maigret with his eyes. But she did not deign to pay any attention to the Frenchman.

  In despair, the Dutch inspector spoke in French, as if with regret.

  ‘She says the law forbids you to question anyone on Dutch territory.’

  ‘This is Mademoiselle Any?’

  Irregular features. If not for the large mouth and uneven teeth, she wouldn’t have been worse-looking than average. Flat-chested. Large feet. But above all, the forbidding self-confidence of the suffragette.

  ‘Yes. According to the statutes, she’s right. But I’ve told her that in practice …’

  ‘Mademoiselle Any understands French, I believe?’

  ‘I think so.’

  The young woman didn’t react, but waited, chin held high, for the end of this consultation between the two men, which did not appear to concern her.

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ said Maigret, with exaggerated gallantry, ‘please accept my respects. Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, from Police Headquarters in Paris. All I wanted to know is what you thought about Mademoiselle Beetje and her relationship with Cornelius.’

  She tried to smile. A shy, forced smile. She looked from Maigret to her compatriot and stammered in poor French:

  ‘I not … I not understand very well.’

  And the effort was enough to make her blush scarlet to the tips of her
ears, while everything in her expression pleaded for release.

  3. The Quayside Rats Club

  There were about a dozen of them, all men, wearing heavy blue woollen jackets, seaman’s caps and varnished clogs, some lounging against the town gates, others leaning their elbows on bollards, others again just standing around, their wide trousers making their legs look monumental.

  They were smoking, chewing tobacco, spitting a lot, and now and then something made them all burst out laughing, slapping their thighs.

  Four metres away from them floated the boats. Beyond lay the smug little town, surrounded by its dykes. Further along, a crane was unloading a collier.

  At first the men did not notice Maigret strolling along the wharf. So he had plenty of time to observe them.

  He had learned that in Delfzijl this group was known ironically as ‘the Quayside Rats Club’. Without even being told, he could have guessed that most of these sailors spent the greater part of their days on the same spot, rain or shine, chatting lazily and sending jets of saliva to the ground.

  One of them was the owner of three clippers, handsome vessels of four hundred tons equipped with sails and engines, one of which was just moving up the Ems and would soon be in port.

  Other men seemed less distinguished; a ship’s caulker who probably didn’t do much caulking and the keeper of a disused lock, still wearing his government service cap.

  But in the middle of the group, one figure eclipsed all the rest, not only because he was the most massively built and the reddest of face, but because one sensed in him a man of stronger character.

  Clogs, a jacket. And on his head a brand-new cap, which had not yet had time to mould itself to the shape of his skull, and consequently looked faintly ridiculous.

  This was Oosting, commonly known as the Baes, smoking a short clay pipe as he listened to his neighbours talking.

  A vague smile played on his face. From time to time, he removed the pipe from his mouth to allow the smoke to flow gently from his lips.

  He reminded Maigret of a small-scale rhinoceros. A heavily built brute, but with mild eyes and something at the same time tough and gentle about his whole person.

  His eyes were fixed on a boat about fifteen metres long, moored to the quayside. A swift boat with clean lines, probably a former yacht, though now dirty and cluttered.

  This belonged to him, and from here it was possible to see the Ems estuary, twenty kilometres wide, and the distant glimmer of the North Sea: out there somewhere lay a golden brown sandbank known as the island of Workum, Oosting’s domain.

  Night was falling: the crimson rays of the setting sun painted the brick-built town even redder and glinted in fiery flashes on the scarlet lead paint of a cargo vessel undergoing repairs, reflected in the water of the harbour.

  The Baes’s gaze, as it wandered calmly across the scene, contrived to take in Maigret as part of the landscape. His blue-green eyes were very small. They remained focused on the French inspector for a short while, after which the man tapped out his pipe against his wooden clog, spat, felt in his pockets for the pig’s bladder he used to hold his tobacco, and settled himself more comfortably up against the wall.

  From that point on, Maigret felt that gaze resting continuously on him, conveying neither bravado nor distrust: a cool and yet concerned gaze, one that was weighing up, appreciating and calculating.

  Maigret had been the first to leave the police station, having arranged a later meeting with the Dutch inspector, whose name was Pijpekamp.

  Any had remained inside, and presently went past, clutching her briefcase under her arm, leaning forward slightly, like a woman with no interest in anything happening in the street.

  It wasn’t Any that Maigret was watching, but the Baes, who followed her for a while with his eyes, then, with a more puckered brow, turned towards Maigret.

  So, without really knowing why, Maigret moved towards the group, which fell silent. Ten faces turned in his direction, expressing a degree of surprise.

  He addressed Oosting:

  ‘Excuse me. Do you understand French?’

  The Baes did not budge, appearing to be thinking. A lanky seaman standing alongside him explained in English and Dutch:

  ‘Frenchman! Frans politie.’

  The next minute was perhaps one of the strangest in Maigret’s career.

  The man he had spoken to, turning briefly towards his boat, seemed to hesitate.

  It was clear that he wanted to ask the inspector to come aboard with him. One could see a small oak-panelled cabin, with its swinging lamp, a compass.

  The other men waited. He opened his mouth.

  Then suddenly he shrugged his shoulders, as if deciding: ‘No, that’s ridiculous!’

  But that wasn’t what he said. In a hoarse voice issuing from his throat, he uttered: ‘No understand. Hollands … English …’

  They could still see Any’s dark silhouette, with her crepe mourning veil, crossing the bridge over the canal before taking the towpath along the Amsterdiep.

  The Baes intercepted Maigret’s glance at his new cap, but did not flinch. Rather, the shadow of a smile crossed his lips.

  At that moment, the inspector would have given good money to be able to have a chat with this man in his own language, even for five minutes. His goodwill was such that he stammered out a few sentences in English, but his accent was so strong that nobody understood.

  ‘No understand. Nobody understand!’ repeated the man who had spoken.

  So they resumed their conversation, while Maigret walked away with the vague feeling that he had been very close to the heart of the enigma and that now, for want of mutual comprehension, he was getting further away from it.

  He turned round a few minutes later. The Quayside Rats were still chatting as the sun set, and its last rays cast a rosier glow over the heavy-jowled face of the Baes, still turned in Maigret’s direction.

  Until then, Maigret had in some sense been circling round the drama, saving until last the visit, always a painful one, to the house of mourning.

  He rang the doorbell. It was just after six. He hadn’t realized that this was the time when Dutch people eat their evening meal, and when a young housemaid opened the door, he could see in the dining room the two women sitting at the table.

  They both stood up in a simultaneous movement with the slightly stiff air of well-brought-up schoolgirls.

  They were dressed in black. The table was laid with teacups, wafer-thin slices of bread and cold meats. Despite the gathering dusk, the lamp was not lit but a gas-fired stove, its flames visible through its mica panes, was struggling against the dark.

  It was Any who immediately thought to switch on the electric light, while the maid closed the curtains.

  ‘Please forgive me,’ said Maigret. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you at supper time.’ Madame Popinga vaguely gestured towards an armchair and looked around her distractedly, while her sister retreated as far as possible into the room.

  A similar atmosphere to the farm. Some modern furniture, but very conservatively modern. Muted colours combining in an elegant but gloomy harmony.

  ‘You’ve come to …’

  Madame Popinga’s lower lip trembled, and she had to put her handkerchief to her mouth to stifle a sob that had suddenly broken out. Any didn’t move.

  ‘Forgive me. I’ll come back …’

  Madame Popinga shook her head. She was struggling to regain her composure. She must have been a good few years older than her sister. A tall woman, much more feminine. Regular features, a hint of broken veins in the cheeks, the odd grey hair.

  And a modest dignity in every gesture. Maigret recalled that she was the daughter of a headmaster, spoke several languages and was well educated. But that didn’t affect her timidity, the timidity of a respectable woman in a small town, liable to take fright at the slightest thing.

  He also remembered that she belonged to the most austere of Protestant sects, and that she presided over all the Delfzij
l charities and hosted the women’s literary circles.

  She regained her self-control. She looked at her sister as if asking for help.

  ‘I’m sorry! But it’s just so unbelievable, isn’t it? Conrad! A man everyone loved.’

  Her gaze fell on the wireless loudspeaker, standing in a corner, and she almost burst into tears.

  ‘That was his only distraction,’ she stammered. ‘And his little boat on the Amsterdiep, on summer evenings. He worked so hard. Who could have done this?’

  And as Maigret said nothing, she added, turning a little pink, in the tone she might have used if someone had argued with her:

  ‘I’m not accusing anyone. I don’t know. I just can’t believe it, do you understand? The police thought of Professor Duclos, because he came out holding the revolver. But I don’t know what happened. It’s too horrible! Someone killed Conrad. But why? Why him? It wasn’t even a burglary. So …’

  ‘And you told the police what you saw from the window?’

  She blushed deeper. Standing upright, one hand leaning on the dinner-table, she said:

  ‘I didn’t know if I should … I don’t think Beetje did anything. It was just that by chance I saw. They told me the smallest little detail might help their enquiries. I asked the minister for advice. He told me to speak up. Beetje’s a perfectly nice girl. Really, I don’t see who … Somebody who should be in a lunatic asylum!’

  She had no need to search for the right words. Her French was perfect, pronounced with a very slight accent.

  ‘Any told me you’ve come from Paris. Because of Conrad! Are we to believe that?’

  She had calmed down. Her sister, still standing in a corner of the room hadn’t stirred, and Maigret could only partly see her, by way of a mirror.

  ‘You’ll need to look over the house, I assume?’

  She was resigned to it. But she sighed:

  ‘Could you go with … Any?’