A Crime in Holland

by Georges Simenon

  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.

  ‘All right, that will do,’ snapped Maigret. ‘I know how it goes: “There are some exceptions, they’re sick or they’re misfits. They meet barriers they can’t overcome. They’re rejected on all sides, so they turn to a life of crime.” That sort of thing, yes? Not original. With the conclusion: “We don’t need more prisons, we need more rehabilitation centres, hospitals, clinics …”’

  Duclos, looking sullen, did not reply.

  ‘Right, so you were talking about this for three quarters of an hour, with a few striking examples. You quoted Lombroso, Freud and company.’

  He looked at his watch, then spoke mainly to the row of chairs.

  ‘I’m going to ask you to wait another few minutes.’

  Just at that moment, one of the Wienands children started to cry, and her mother, in a state of nerves, gave the little girl a shake to quieten her. Wienands, seeing that this was having no effect, took the child on his knees and first patted her hand, then pinched her arm to make her stop.

  The empty chair between Beetje and Any was the only reminder that what had happened was a tragedy. And even then it was hard to take it in. Was Beetje, with her fresh complexion but quite ordinary features, really worth breaking up a marriage for?

  There was just one thing about her that was really seductive, and it was the spell cast by Maigret’s staging of the scene that had brought out that pure truth, reducing events to their crudest common denominator: her two splendid breasts, made even more enticing by the
shiny silk surface. Eighteen-year-old breasts, quivering a little under her blouse, just enough to make them look even more luscious.

  Along the row sat Madame Popinga, who even at the age of eighteen hadn’t had breasts like that, Madame Popinga, swathed in too many clothes, layer upon layer of sober, tasteful garments, which took away from her any fleshly allure.

  Then there was Any, skinny, ugly, flat-chested, but enigmatic.

  Conrad Popinga had met Beetje: Popinga, a man who loved life, a man who had such an appetite for good things. And he hadn’t been looking at Beetje’s face, with her baby-blue eyes. Nor, above all, had he guessed at the desire to escape lurking beneath that china-doll face.

  What he’d seen was that quivering bosom, that attractive young body bursting with health!

  As for Madame Wienands, she was no longer a woman in that sense: she was all mother and housewife. Just now she was wiping the nose of her child, who had worn herself out with crying.

  ‘Do I have to stay up here?’ asked Duclos from the stage.

  ‘If you please.’

  And Maigret approached Pijpekamp, and spoke to him in an undertone. Shortly afterwards, the Dutch policeman went out, taking Oosting with him.

  Men were playing billiards in the café. The clash of the billiard balls could be heard.

  And in the hall, people’s chests were constricted. It felt like a spiritualist session, as if they were waiting for some terrifying thing to happen. Any was the only one who dared stand up, abruptly, and after hesitating for a while she said:

  ‘I don’t see what you want us to do. It’s …’

  ‘It’s time now. Excuse me, where is Barens?’

  He’d forgotten about him. He located him, standing at the back of the hall, leaning against the wall.

  ‘Why didn’t you come and take your seat?’

  ‘You said: the same as the other night …’

  The boy’s gaze shifted around, and his voice came out breathless.

  ‘The other night I was in the cheap seats, with the other students.’

  Maigret took no further notice of him. He went to open the door that led to an entry porch giving directly on to the street, making it possible to avoid going through the café. He could see only three or four silhouettes in the darkness outside.

  ‘I presume that when the lecture finished, some people clustered around the foot of the stage: the college principal, the minister, a few elders of the town congratulating the lecturer.’

  No one replied, but these few words were enough to conjure up the scene: the bulk of the audience moving towards the exit, the scraping of chairs, conversations and around the stage a little group: handshakes and words of praise for the professor.

  As the room emptied, the last handful of people would finally move towards the door. Barens would come to join the Popingas.

  ‘You can come down now, Monsieur Duclos.’

  They all stood up. But everyone seemed unsure about the role he or she should play. They were watching Maigret. Any and Beetje were pretending not to see each other. Wienands, looking awkward and embarrassed, was carrying his younger child, a baby.

  ‘Follow me.’

  And just before they reached the door:

  ‘We’re going to walk to the house in the same order as on the evening of the lecture. Madame Popinga and Monsieur Duclos …’

  They looked at each other, hesitated, then started to walk along the dark street.

  ‘Mademoiselle Beetje! You were walking with Monsieur Popinga. So go along now, I’ll catch up with you.’

  She scarcely dared set off alone towards the town, and above all was afraid of her father, at present being guarded in a corner of the hall by a policeman.

  ‘Now Monsieur and Madame Wienands …’

  These two could behave the most naturally, since they had the children to look after.

  ‘Now Mademoiselle Any and Barens.’

  The last named almost burst into tears, but bit his lip and walked out past Maigret.

  Then the inspector turned to the policeman guarding Liewens.

  ‘On the evening of the murder, at this time, he was at home. Can you take him there, and get him to do exactly what he did that night?’

  It looked like a straggling funeral procession. The first to leave kept stopping and wondering whether they should keep going. There were hesitations and halts.

  Madame Van Hasselt was watching the scene from her doorway, while exchanging remarks with the billiard players.

  The town was three-quarters asleep, the shops all closed. Madame Popinga and Duclos headed straight for the quayside, the professor seemingly trying to reassure his companion.

  Pools of light alternated with darkness, since the street lamps were far apart.

  The black waters of the canal were visible, and boats bobbed gently, each with a lamp attached to its mast. Beetje, sensing Any following behind her, was trying to walk casually, but being on her own made that difficult to achieve.

  A few paces separated each group. A hundred metres or so ahead, Oosting’s boat could easily be seen, since it was the only one with a hull painted white. No light showed from the portholes. The quayside was deserted.

  ‘Please stop where you are now!’ Maigret called out, loudly enough to be heard by everyone.

  They all froze. It was a dark night. The luminous beam of the lighthouse passed very high overhead, without illuminating anything.

  Maigret spoke to Any:

  ‘This is where you were in the procession?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what about you, Barens?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘You’re sure? You were definitely walking along with Any?’

  ‘Yes. Wait … Not here but a few metres further on, Any pointed to one of the children’s coats, dragging in the mud.’

  ‘And you ran ahead a little way to tell Wienands?’

  ‘Madame Wienands, yes.’

  ‘And that just took a few seconds?’

  ‘Yes. The Wienands family went on, and I waited for Any to catch up.’

  ‘And you didn’t notice anything unusual?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go on another ten metres, everyone,’ Maigret ordered. By that time, Madame Popinga’s sister was level with Oosting’s boat.

  ‘Now Barens, go and catch up the Wienands family.’

  And to Any:

  ‘Pick up that cap from the deck!’

  She had only to take three steps and lean across. The cap was clearly visible, black on white: the metallic badge on it was catching the light.

  ‘Why do you want me to …?’

  ‘Just pick it up. ‘

  The others could be glimpsed ahead of them turning round to see what was happening.

  ‘But I didn’t …’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. We haven’t got enough people. Everyone will have to act several parts. It’s just an experiment.’

  She picked up the cap.

  ‘Now hide it under your coat. And go and join Barens.’

  Then he went on to the deck of the boat and called:

  ‘Pijpekamp!’

  ‘Ja!’

  And the Dutch inspector showed himself at the forward hatch. It was where Oosting slept. There wasn’t room for a man to stand upright inside it, so it made sense, if you were smoking the last pipe of an evening, say, to lean out and put your elbows on the deck.

  Oosting was in precisely this attitude. From the bank, from the level where the cap had been placed, he could not be seen, but he would have been able to see the person who had stolen the cap quite clearly.

  ‘Good. Now get him to act exactly the same as he did the other night.’

  And Maigret strode on, overtaking some of the groups.

  ‘Keep walking! I will take Popinga’s place.’

  He found himself alongside Beetje, with Madame Popinga and Duclos ahead of him, the Wienands family behind him, and Any and Barens bringing up the rear. There was a sound
of steps further behind. Oosting, accompanied by Pijpekamp, had started to walk along the bank.

  From that point, there was no more street lighting. After the harbour, one went past the lock, now deserted, separating the sea from the canal. Then came the towpath, with trees on the right, and half a kilometre ahead, the Popinga house.

  Beetje stammered:

  ‘I … I don’t see what …’

  ‘Hush. It’s a quiet night. The others can hear us, just like we can hear the people in front of us and behind us. So Popinga was talking to you out loud about this and that, the lecture probably.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But under your breath you were remonstrating with him.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Never mind. Wait. During the lecture, you were sitting next to him. You tried to press his hand. Did he push you away?’

  ‘Y-yes,’ she stammered, impressed, and looking at him wide-eyed.

  ‘And you tried again.’

  ‘Yes. He wasn’t so cautious before, he even kissed me behind a door in his house. And once in the dining room, when Madame Popinga was in the parlour, and saying something to us. It was only recently he started to get scared.’

  ‘So, you were arguing with him. You told him again that you wanted to go away somewhere with him, while you carried on the more innocent conversation in normal voices.’

  They could hear the footsteps of the people ahead of them and behind, voices murmuring, and Duclos saying:

  ‘… assure you that this does not correspond to any proper method of conducting a police investigation.’

  And behind them Madame Wienands was telling her child in Dutch to behave herself. Ahead of them, the house loomed up through the darkness. There were no lights on. Madame Popinga stopped at the door.

  ‘You stopped like this the other night too, didn’t you, because your husband had the key?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The groups all caught up.

  ‘Open the door,’ said Maigret. ‘Was the maid in bed then?’

  ‘Yes, as she is tonight.’

  After opening the door, she pressed an electric switch. The hall, with the bamboo coat-stand on the left, was now illuminated.

  ‘And Popinga was in a good mood at this point?’

  ‘Yes, very, but he was not his usual self. He was speaking too loudly.’