A Crime in Holland

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Right. Come.’

  ‘Where to?’

  He didn’t even reply, but cycled back to the Popinga house. There was a light in Madame Popinga’s window, but she could not be seen.

  ‘You think she did it?’

  The inspector was muttering to himself:

  ‘He came back this way, he was worried. He got off his bike, probably about here. He went round the house, wheeling the bike. He knew his peace of mind was threatened, but he was incapable of running away with his mistress.’

  And then, suddenly:

  ‘Stay here, Beetje.’

  Maigret wheeled the bike along the path around the house. He went into the courtyard and towards the shed, where the varnished boat was a long silhouette.

  Jean Duclos’s window was lit up. The professor could be glimpsed sitting at a small table. Two metres along was the bathroom window, open, but in darkness.

  ‘He probably wasn’t in a hurry to go inside.’ Maigret was still talking to himself. ‘He bent down to push the bike in under cover.’

  Maigret fidgeted. He seemed to be waiting for something. And something did happen, but unexpectedly. A little noise up above, at the bathroom window, a metallic click – the sound of a revolver firing a blank.

  And then immediately, there was the sound of a struggle, and of two bodies falling to the ground.

  Maigret went into the house through the kitchen door, ran upstairs and into the bathroom, where he switched on the light.

  Two shapes were wrestling on the floor: Pijpekamp and Barens, who was the first to give up, as his right hand opened and dropped the revolver.

  11. The Light in the Window

  ‘You idiot!’

  Those were Maigret’s first words, as he literally picked up Barens from the floor and held him upright, supporting him for a second, otherwise the young man would no doubt have fallen over again. Doors opened. Maigret thundered:

  ‘Everyone downstairs!’

  He was holding the revolver, handling it without precautions, since he had himself replaced its bullets with blank cartridges.

  Pijpekamp was brushing down his dusty jacket with the back of his hand. Jean Duclos asked, pointing to Barens:

  ‘Was it him?’ The young naval cadet looked pitiful, not so much a hardened criminal, more a schoolboy caught out in some misdemeanour. He dared not meet anyone’s eye, and didn’t know what to do with his hands or where to look.

  Maigret switched on the lights in the parlour. Any was the last to enter. Madame Popinga refused to sit down, and one sensed that under her dress her knees were trembling.

  Then, for the first time, they saw the inspector looking awkward. He filled his pipe, lit it, let it go out, sat down in an armchair, but immediately stood up again.

  ‘I have become involved in a case that has nothing to do with me,’ he began hurriedly. ‘A French citizen was a suspect, and I was sent to shed light on the matter.’

  He relit his pipe to give himself time to think. He turned to Pijpekamp.

  ‘Beetje is outside, as are her father and Oosting. We must either tell them to go home, or to come inside. It depends. Do you want everyone to know the truth?’

  The Dutch inspector went to the door. A few moments later, Beetje came in, timid and shamefaced, then Oosting with his obstinate expression, and finally Liewens, pale and wild-eyed.

  Then they watched as Maigret opened the door into the dining room. They heard him feeling around in a cupboard. When he came back, he was holding a bottle of cognac and a glass.

  He drank alone. His expression was grim. Everyone was standing around him and he seemed reluctant to speak.

  ‘Do you want to know, Pijpekamp?’

  And suddenly:

  ‘Well, there’s no help for it! No help for it, even if your method is the right one. We’re different countries, different people. We have different climates. When you sense a family drama, you leap on the first bit of evidence that lets you explain away the crime. It must have been committed by some foreign seaman. That would be preferable perhaps, from the point of view of public morale. No scandal! No bad example being set by the bourgeoisie to the lower classes. Only my problem is I can still see Popinga, in this very room, turning on the wireless and dancing under the very eyes of his murderer.’

  And he muttered crossly, without looking at anyone:

  ‘The revolver was found in the bathroom. So the shot came from inside the house. Because it would be ridiculous to assume that the killer, after committing the crime, had the presence of mind to aim at a half-open window and throw the weapon inside. Let alone go and put a cap in the bath and a cigar in the dining room.’

  He began pacing up and down, still avoiding looking anyone in the eye. Oosting and Liewens, neither of whom could understand what he was saying, were gazing at him intently, trying to guess what he was driving at.

  ‘The cap, the cigar butt, and then the revolver taken from Popinga’s own bedside table – it was all too much. Do you see? Someone wanted to provide too much evidence. To cause too much confusion. Oosting, or someone like him from outside, might have left half those clues, but not everything.

  ‘Therefore, there was premeditation. Therefore, a desire to escape punishment.

  ‘So we simply have to proceed by elimination. We can eliminate the Baes, first of all. What reason could he possibly have to go into the dining room and drop a cigar, then go up to the bedroom to look for the revolver, and finally to leave a cap in the bath?

  ‘Next we can rule out Beetje, who in the course of the evening never once went upstairs, couldn’t have left the cap, and couldn’t even have taken it from the boat, because she was walking back from the lecture with Popinga.

  ‘Her father could well have killed Popinga, after surprising him with his daughter. But by that stage, it was too late for him to gain access to the bathroom.

  ‘Then there is Barens. He didn’t go upstairs either. He didn’t steal the cap. He was jealous of his tutor, but an hour beforehand, he had no certainty of what he suspected.’

  Maigret stopped talking, and knocked out his pipe on his heel without worrying about the carpet.

  ‘So that’s all. It leaves us a choice between Madame Popinga, Any and Jean Duclos. There is no evidence against any of them. But it’s not materially impossible for any of them to have done it either. Jean Duclos came out of the bathroom holding the revolver. We could take that as a sign of his innocence. Or it could be a very clever double bluff. But since he walked back from town with Madame Popinga, he couldn’t have stolen the cap. And Madame Popinga, by the same token, being with him, couldn’t have done it either.

  ‘The cap could only have been taken by one of the last couple, Barens or Any. And just now, on the way here, I had it confirmed that Any remained alone for a moment or two alongside Oosting’s boat.

  ‘As for the cigar, let’s not bother about it. Anyone could pick up an old cigar end anywhere.

  ‘So, of all those who were here the night of the crime, Any is the only person who stayed upstairs without any witnesses, and who, we also know, had been into the dining room.

  ‘But she had a cast-iron alibi concerning the crime.’

  And Maigret, still avoiding looking at anyone, placed on the table the plan of the house drawn by Jean Duclos.

  ‘Any could only have reached the bathroom by going through either her sister’s bedroom or that of the French visitor. A quarter of an hour before the murder, she was in her own room. How could she get into the bathroom? And how could she be sure to be able to pass through one of the two bedrooms at the right moment? Don’t forget that she has not only studied the law but also forensic science. She’s discussed them with Duclos. They talked together about the possibility of a crime which could be committed with mathematical impunity.’

  Any, standing very upright and pale in the face, was nevertheless in control of herself.

  ‘Now I will embark on a digression. I’m the only person here who didn’t know Poping
a. I have had to construct my idea of him from other people’s evidence. He was keen to enjoy himself, but equally he was intimidated by his responsibilities and especially by received standards of proper behaviour. One day, in a jolly mood, he made advances to Beetje. And she became his mistress. Principally because she wanted it. I questioned the maid just now. And we know that he snatched kisses from her too, casually, in passing. But it didn’t go any further, because he got no encouragement.

  ‘In other words, he was a man attracted to all women. He was capable of taking small risks. A kiss in the corner, the odd caress. But above all, he was keen to ensure his own safety.

  ‘He’d been an ocean-going captain. He’d known the delights of shore leave with no consequences. But he was also a servant of the Dutch Crown, and he wanted to hold on to his position, his house and his wife.

  ‘He was a mixture of appetites and repression, imprudence and caution.

  ‘Beetje, only eighteen years old, didn’t understand that, and she believed he was ready to run away with her.

  ‘Any lived in close proximity with him. Never mind that she is not particularly beautiful, she’s a woman. A mystery therefore … and one day …’

  The silence around him was painful.

  ‘I’m not suggesting that he became her lover. But with Any, too, he was imprudent enough to make advances. She believed him. And she conceived a passion for him, though not as blind a passion as that of Madame Popinga. So here they were, all living together: Madame Popinga, suspecting nothing, Any more withdrawn, more passionate, more jealous and more subtle.

  ‘She guessed he was having an affair with Beetje. She sensed the presence of the enemy. Maybe she even looked for the letters and found them.

  ‘She could tolerate sharing him with her sister. But she couldn’t accept this pretty girl brimming with good health who was talking of running away.

  ‘She decided to kill.’

  And Maigret concluded:

  ‘That’s all. Love that had turned to hate. Love-hate. A complex, wild emotion, capable of driving someone to any lengths. She decided to kill Conrad. Decided that in cold blood. To kill, without laying herself open to the least suspicion.

  ‘And that very night the professor had spoken about crimes that were never detected, about unpunished murders.

  ‘She is as proud of her intelligence as she is passionate. She committed the perfect crime. A crime that could easily be blamed on a prowler.

  ‘The cap, the cigar and the unshakeable alibi: she couldn’t escape from her room to fire the gun without going through either her sister’s room or the Frenchman’s. During the lecture, she saw the hands feeling for each other. On the way home, Popinga walked with Beetje. They drank, they danced and they went off together on their bikes.

  ‘All she had to do was get Madame Popinga to stand for a while at her window, and insinuate something to make her suspicious of the pair who had just left.

  ‘And while her sister thought she was in her own room, Any was able to creep behind her, already in her underclothes. Everything was planned. She got into the bathroom. She fired the shot. The lid of the bath was up. The cap was already in it. She just had to slip inside.

  ‘On hearing the shot, Duclos rushed in, found the weapon on the window sill, and rushed out again, meeting Madame Popinga on the landing, and they went downstairs together.

  ‘Any was ready and, half-undressed, she followed them. Who would ever suspect she wasn’t coming straight from her room, in a state of panic? Here she was, appearing in public in her underwear, when she was known to be extremely prudish.

  ‘No pity! No remorse! The hatred of a lover extinguishes any other feelings. There remains only the desire to conquer.

  ‘Oosting, who had seen the person who took his cap, kept quiet. Both out of respect for the dead man, and from love of order. He didn’t want scandal to surround Popinga’s death. He even dictated to Barens what he should say to the police, so that they would just assume that this was a banal crime, committed by an unknown sailor.

  ‘Liewens, who saw his daughter finally return home after Popinga had been accompanying her, and who next day read the letters, believed Beetje was guilty, so he locked her up and tried to find out the truth. When he thought I was going to arrest her earlier on, he tried to kill himself.

  ‘And lastly we come to Barens. Barens suspected everyone. He was wrestling with the unknown and feeling under suspicion himself. Barens who had seen Madame Popinga at her window. Could it be that she had shot her husband, having discovered that he was unfaithful?

  ‘Cornelius had been received here like a son. Orphaned of his own mother, he had found another in Madame Popinga.

  ‘He wanted to devote himself to her. To save her. We forgot about him during the reconstruction. He fetched the revolver and went into the bathroom. He wanted to shoot the only man who knew, and no doubt to kill himself afterwards. A poor, heroic child. Generous as only an eighteen-year-old can be!

  ‘And that’s all … What time is the next train for France?’

  Nobody said a word. They were all struck dumb with amazement, anguish, fear or horror. Finally Jean Duclos spoke:

  ‘Well, a lot of good that has done …’

  But Madame Popinga was leaving the room with mechanical steps and a few minutes later she was found on her bed, suffering a heart attack.

  Any had not budged. Pijpekamp tried to get her to speak:

  ‘Have you anything to say to this?’

  ‘I will speak only in the presence of the examining magistrate.’

  She was very pale. The deep circles under her eyes had spread to her cheeks.

  Oosting alone remained calm, but he was looking at Maigret with eyes full of reproach.

  And the fact is that at five o’clock in the morning, Detective Chief Inspector Maigret boarded a train, alone, at the little railway station of Delfzijl. No one had accompanied him. No one had thanked him. Not even Duclos, who had claimed he could only manage to catch the next train!

  Day was breaking as the train crossed a bridge over a canal. Boats were waiting to pass, their sails flapping. An official was standing by to swing the bridge open after the train had gone across.

  It was not until two years later, in Paris, that Maigret met Beetje again: she was the wife of a representative for Dutch electrical lamps, and had put on weight. She blushed when she recognized him.

  She told him she now had two children, but gave him to understand that life with her husband was not up to expectations.

  ‘And what about Any?’ he asked her.

  ‘Didn’t you hear? It was all over the Dutch papers. She killed herself with a fork on the day of her trial, a few minutes before she was due in court.’

  And she added:

  ‘You must come and see us: 28 Avenue Victor Hugo. Don’t leave it too late, we’re off next week for winter sports in Switzerland.’

  That day, when Maigret returned to headquarters, he contrived excuses to shout at all his inspectors.

  • • •

  For a complete list of this author’s books click here or visit www.penguin.com/simenonchecklist

  1. The Glass Eater

  … that he’s the finest young man around here there ever was, and that all this could well be the death of his mother. He’s all she’s got. I am absolutely sure that he’s innocent: everybody here is. But the sailors I’ve talked to reckon he’ll be found guilty because civilian courts never understand anything to do with the sea.

  Do everything you can, old friend, just as if you were doing it for me. I see from the papers that you’ve become something very important in the Police Judiciaire, and …

  It was a June morning. The windows of the flat on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir were wide open. Madame Maigret was finishing packing large wicker trunks, and Maigret, who was not wearing a collar, was reading aloud.

  ‘Who’s it from?’

  ‘Jorissen. We were at school together. He’s a primary-school teacher now in Qu
imper. Listen, are you still set on passing our week’s holiday in Alsace?’

  She stared at him, not understanding. The question was so unexpected. For the past twenty years they’d always spent their holidays with family, and always in the same village in eastern France.

  ‘What if we went to stay by the sea instead?’

  He read out parts of the letter again, in a half whisper:

  … you are better placed than I am to get accurate information. Very briefly, Pierre Le Clinche, aged twenty, a former pupil of mine, sailed three months ago on the Océan, a Fécamp trawler which was going fishing for cod off Newfoundland. The boat docked back in port yesterday. Hours later, the body of the captain was found floating in the harbour, and all the signs point to foul play. Pierre Le Clinche is the man who’s been arrested.

  ‘We’ll be able to take it just as easy at Fécamp as anywhere else!’ said Maigret, holding out no great hopes.

  Objections were raised. In Alsace, Madame Maigret was with her family and helped with making jam and plum brandy. The thought of staying in a hotel by the seaside with a lot of other people from Paris filled her with dread.

  ‘What would I do all day?’

  In the end, she packed her sewing and her crocheting.

  ‘Just don’t expect me to go swimming! I thought I’d better warn you in advance.’

  They had arrived at the Hôtel de la Plage at five. Once there, Madame Maigret had set about rearranging the room to her liking. Then they’d had dinner.

  Later, Maigret, now alone, pushed open the frosted-glass door of a harbour-front café, the Grand Banks Café.

  It was located opposite the berth where the trawler the Océan was tied up, just by a line of railway trucks. Acetylene lamps hung from the rigging, and in their raw light a number of figures were busily unloading cod, which they passed from hand to hand and piled into the trucks after the fish had been weighed.