A Crime in Holland Read online

  ‘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.’

  ‘Three have left since then. So it’s obvious. The whole thing’s as clear as day. It’s not in Delfzijl that we should be looking. It was an outsider, no doubt some sailor who used to know Popinga in the past, when he was at sea. A sailor with a grudge, someone he’d punished when he was an officer or captain.’

  Jean Duclos was obstinately presenting only his profile to Maigret’s observation. Pijpekamp signalled to Madame Van Hasselt, who was sitting at the till in her Sunday best, to bring them another bottle. They still had the dessert to eat, a pièce de résistance, a cake decorated with three kinds of cream on which the name Delfzijl was written in chocolate icing.

  Pijpekamp lowered his eyes modestly.

  ‘Would you like to cut the first slice?’

  ‘And you let Cornelius go?’

  His neighbour started, and looked at Maigret as if wondering whether he had gone mad.

  ‘But …’

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, we can question him together presently.’

  ‘That will be quite easy. I can phone the college.’

  ‘And while you’re at it, you can telephone Oosting, and we’ll question him after that.’

  ‘Because of his cap? But now that’s explained, isn’t it? A passing sailor saw his cap on the deck. Picked it up and …’

  ‘Naturally.’

  Pijpekamp was close to tears. Maigret’s grave yet hardly perceptible irony had unsettled him so much that he bumped into the door-frame of the café’s telephone booth as he went to make his call.

  Maigret remained alone for a moment with Jean Duclos, who was looking determinedly at his plate.

  ‘You didn’t ask him to slip me a few discreet florins perhaps, while you were about it?’

  These words were spoken quietly, without bitterness, and Duclos raised his head, opening his mouth to protest.

  ‘Hush. We haven’t time to argue. You advised him to offer me a good lunch with plenty of wine. You said, in France that’s the way to get round a public employee. Hush, not a word. And after that I’d be putty in his hands.’

  ‘I swear …’

  Maigret lit his pipe and turned towards Pijpekamp, who was coming back from the telephone, and who, as he looked at the table, stammered:

  ‘You’ll, er, accept a little brandy? There’s some fine old stuff …’

  ‘Please allow me to be the one offering the drinks now. Could you ask Madame to bring over a bottle of her best cognac and some brandy glasses?’

  But Madame Van Hasselt brought them some shot glasses. Maigret got up and went over to the counter himself to fetch brandy glasses, which he filled to the brim.

  ‘To the health of the Dutch police!’ he said.

  Pijpekamp did not dare protest. The alcohol brought tears to his eyes, it was so strong. But Maigret, with a ruthless smile, kept raising his glass and repeating:

  ‘Good health to your police force! … What time will Barens be in your office?’

  ‘In half an hour. A cigar?’

  ‘Thank you, but I prefer my pipe.’

  And Maigret refilled the glasses with such authority that neither Pijpekamp nor Duclos dared refuse to drink.

  ‘What a beautiful day!’ he said several times. ‘Maybe I’m mistaken, but I have the feeling that tonight poor Popinga’s murderer will be under arrest.’

  ‘Unless he’s sailing in the Baltic,’ Pijpekamp replied.

  ‘Bah! You really think he’s that far away?’

  Duclos looked up, the blood draining from his face.

  ‘Is that an insinuation, inspector?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘What kind of insinuation?’

  ‘You seem to be suggesting that if he is not far away, he might be very close at hand.’

  ‘What a lively imagination you have, professor.’

  They were within inches of an incident. Due in part, no doubt, to the glasses of cognac. Pijpekamp was scarlet in the face. His eyes were glistening.

  As for Duclos, the effect of the alcohol was to make him deathly pale.

  ‘Just one more glass, gentlemen, and we can go and interview this poor boy.’

  The bottle was on the table. Every time Maigret poured out a glass, Madame Van Hasselt licked her pencil and noted each measure in her book.

  As they stepped outside, hot sunshine and tranquillity engulfed them. Oosting’s boat lay calmly at its berth. Pijpekamp clearly felt the need to hold himself straighter than usual.

  They had only three hundred metres to walk. The streets were deserted. The shops stretched before them, empty of customers, but as clean and well stocked as if for an international exhibition about to open its gates.

  ‘It will be well-nigh impossible to catch this sailor,’ Pijpekamp declared. ‘But it’s a good thing we know it was him, because now we needn’t suspect anyone else. I will write a report so that your compatriot, Monsieur Duclos, can be quite at liberty.’

  He entered the local police station with far from steady steps, and bumped into a piece of furniture before sitting down rather too heavily.

  He wasn’t exactly drunk. But the alcohol had taken away some of the mildness and politeness that characterize most Dutchmen.

  With a rather expansive gesture, he tilted back his chair and pressed an electric bell. He spoke in Dutch to a uniformed policeman, who went out, returning a moment later with Cornelius.

  Although Pijpekamp welcomed him with the utmost cordiality, the young man seemed to lose confidence as he entered the room, because his eyes had immediately lighted on Maigret.

  ‘The chief inspector from Paris just wants to ask you about a few details,’ Pijpekamp said in French.

  Maigret was in no hurry. He sauntered across the office, puffing at his pipe.

  ‘Well now, young Barens! What did the Baes say to you last night?’

  The young man twisted his thin face in every direction, like a panicking
bird.

  ‘I … I think …’

  ‘Come on, I’ll help you. You still have your papa, don’t you, out in the Indies? He would be very upset, wouldn’t he, if anything were to happen to you? If you were to get into trouble? I’m guessing, but possibly perjury, in an affair like this, could land you several months in prison.’

  Cornelius was choking, not daring to make a movement or to look at anyone.

  ‘Come on, admit it, Oosting was waiting for you yesterday on the bank of the Amsterdiep, and he instructed you to tell the police what you in fact told them. Let’s have the truth now: you never did see any tall, thin man hanging around the Popinga house.’

  ‘I …’

  But no. He didn’t have the strength to resist. He burst into tears. He was in a state of collapse.

  And Maigret looked first at Jean Duclos then at Pijpekamp with that heavy but impenetrable expression that made some people think him an idiot. Because that gaze was so neutral that it appeared completely vacant.

  ‘So you think …?’ began the Dutch inspector.

  ‘See for yourself.’

  The young man, whose officer’s uniform, by its formality, made him look even slighter than he was, blew his nose, and clenched his teeth to try and stifle his sobs, but finally stammered:

  ‘I haven’t done anything …’

  They watched him for some moments, as he tried to regain control.

  ‘That’s all,’ pronounced Maigret firmly at last. ‘I didn’t say you had done anything. Oosting asked you to claim you had seen a stranger lurking by the house. He probably told you that it was the only way to save a certain someone … Who?’

  ‘I swear on the head of my mother he didn’t tell me who. I don’t know! I want to die!’

  ‘Tut, tut! At eighteen, everyone wants to die. You don’t have any more questions, Monsieur Pijpekamp?’

  The Dutch officer shrugged his shoulders, a gesture signifying that he had no idea what was going on.

  ‘All right, young man, you can be off now.’

  ‘You know, it wasn’t Beetje …’

  ‘Possibly. Time for you to run off and join your college friends.’

  And he pushed him outside, muttering:

  ‘Next! Has Oosting arrived? Unfortunately that one doesn’t understand French.’

  The electric bell rang again. Presently, the duty officer brought in the Baes, who was holding his new cap as well as his pipe, which he had allowed to go out.

  He looked in only one direction, at Maigret. And, strange to say, his expression was reproachful. He stood in front of the Dutch inspector’s desk and greeted him.

  ‘Would you mind asking him where he was when Popinga was shot?’

  Pijpekamp translated. Oosting embarked on a long speech that Maigret couldn’t understand, which didn’t prevent him interrupting.

  ‘No! Stop him. Just get him to answer the question in a couple of words.’

  Pijpekamp translated. Another reproachful stare. And an answer, translated at once:

  ‘On board his boat.’

  ‘Tell him that is not true.’

  And Maigret paced up and down again, hands behind his back.

  ‘What does he say to that?’

  ‘He swears it’s true.’

  ‘Right, well in that case, get him to tell you who stole his cap.’

  Pijpekamp was all docility. It is true that Maigret was now conveying the impression that he was in charge.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He was in his cabin. Doing the accounts. He saw through the porthole some legs up on deck. He recognized a seaman’s trousers.’

  ‘And he followed the man?’

  Oosting hesitated, half-shut his eyes, snapped his fingers and spoke volubly.

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘That he prefers to tell the truth. That he is quite sure that his innocence will be recognized. By the time he got up on deck, the seaman was far away. He followed at a distance. And he was led along the Amsterdiep to a point near the Popinga house. Then the sailor hid. Oosting was intrigued, so he hid as well.’

  ‘Did he hear the shot, an hour or two later?’

  ‘Yes, but he couldn’t catch the man who was running away.’

  ‘He saw the man enter the house?’

  ‘The garden, at any rate. He supposes he must have climbed to the first floor, using the drainpipe.’

  Maigret smiled. The vague, contented smile of a man who is digesting his meal with total satisfaction.

  ‘Would he recognize this man again?’

  Translation, shrug of shoulders.

  ‘He doesn’t know.’

  ‘He saw Barens spying on Beetje and his tutor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And since he was afraid he would be accused himself, and since he also wanted to give the police a line to follow, he got Cornelius to testify on his behalf.’

  ‘That’s what he says. But I don’t have to believe him, do I? He’s clearly guilty …’

  Jean Duclos was showing signs of impatience. Oosting was calm, a man who was now ready for anything. He spoke again and the policeman translated his words.

  ‘He’s saying now that we can do what we like with him, but that Popinga was both his friend and his benefactor.’

  ‘And what are you going to do?’

  ‘Hold him in custody. He’s admitted he was there.’

  Still under the influence of the cognac, Pijpekamp’s voice was louder than usual, his gestures less controlled, and his decisions reflected this. He wanted to appear authoritative. He had a foreign colleague opposite him and he was trying to save his own reputation as well as that of Holland.

  He assumed a serious expression and pressed the bell again. And when the duty officer hurried in, he gave orders punctuated by little taps of his paper-knife on the desk.

  ‘Arrest this man! Take him away. I’ll see to him later.’

  All this in Dutch, but it was easy to understand what was being said.

  Upon which, he stood up: ‘I will try to clear this matter up for good. I shall of course report on the role you have played. And naturally your compatriot is free to leave.’

  He did not suspect that Maigret, as he watched his Dutch colleague gesticulating wildly, his eyes bright with drink, was thinking to himself: ‘My dear fellow, in a few hours’ time, when you’ve calmed down, you will bitterly regret what you have done.’

  Pijpekamp opened the door, but Maigret did not seem ready to leave.

  ‘May I prevail on you for a final favour?’ he said, with unaccustomed politeness.

  ‘I am all ears, my dear colleague.’

  ‘It’s not yet four o’clock. Tonight we could hold a reconstruction of the drama, with all those who have been connected with it, closely or otherwise. Could you make a list of their names? Madame Popinga, Any, Monsieur Duclos, Barens, the Wienands, Beetje, Oosting and lastly Monsieur Liewens, Beetje’s father.’

  ‘You want to …’

  ‘Re-enact the events, from the time the lecture ended at the Van Hasselt Hotel.’

  There was a silence. Pijpekamp was thinking.

  ‘I’ll telephone Groningen,’ he said at last, ‘and ask my superiors for advice.’

  He added, not quite sure how his joke would go down, and watching the faces of the others:

  ‘But you know, someone will be missing. Conrad Popinga won’t be able to …’

  ‘… I will take his place,’ Maigret finished the sentence.

  And he went out followed by Jean Duclos, having issued his parting shot:

  ‘And thank you for that excellent lunch!’

  8. Two Young Women

  Instead of going straight through town from the police station to the Van Hasselt, Maigret went round by the quayside, followed by Jean Duclos, whose bearing, expression, and the tilt of his head all indicated ill temper.

  ‘You do realize you’re making yourself utterly obnoxious?’ he muttered at last, his eyes fixed on the crane unloading a
ship in the harbour, as its arm swung across just above their heads.

  ‘Because …?’

  Duclos shrugged, and walked on a few paces without replying.

  ‘You wouldn’t even understand. Or perhaps you’re deliberately refusing to understand. You’re like all the French …’

  ‘But I thought we were the same nationality.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve travelled a lot. My culture is worldwide. I know how to fit in with the country where I find myself. But you, ever since you’ve been here, you’ve just been barging ahead without bothering about the consequences.’

  ‘Without bothering to find out, for instance, whether people really want the murderer to be found?’

  Duclos reacted angrily.

  ‘Why should they? This wasn’t a gangland killing. So the murderer isn’t a professional criminal. We’re not talking about someone who has to be put away in order to protect society.’

  ‘So in that case …?’

  Maigret had a self-satisfied way of puffing at his pipe, with his hands behind his back.

  ‘Just take a look,’ Duclos said in an undertone, pointing to the scene all around them, the picture-book town, with everything in its place, like ornaments on the mantelpiece of a tidy housewife, the harbour too small for serious trouble, the placid inhabitants standing there in their yellow clogs.

  Then he went on:

  ‘Everyone here earns his living. Everyone’s more or less content. And above all, everyone keeps his instincts under control, because that’s the rule here, and a necessity if people want to live in society. Pijpekamp will confirm that burglaries are extremely rare. It’s true that someone who steals a loaf of bread can expect a jail sentence of at least a few weeks. But where do you see any disorder? There are no prowlers. No beggars. This is a place of clean living and organization.’

  ‘And I’m the bull in the china shop!’

  ‘Hear me out! See the houses on the left, by the Amsterdiep? They’re the residences of the city elders, wealthy men, powerful locally. Everyone knows them. There’s the mayor, the church ministers, the teachers and civil servants, everyone who sees to it that nothing disturbs the peace of the town, that everyone knows his place and isn’t a nuisance to his neighbours. These people, as I think I’ve already told you, don’t even approve of one of their number going to a café, because it would be setting a bad example. Then a crime is committed. And you suspect some family quarrel.’