THREE

The Quay Rats Club

There were about a dozen of them, men in heavy blue knit smocks, peaked caps, and varnished sabots. Some of them were leaning against the town gate, some sitting on bollards, others simply standing on their two legs, which their wide trousers made enormous.

They smoked, chewed tobacco, and, more than anything else, spat. Now and again someone would make a joke, at which the others would roar with laughter and slap their thighs.

A few yards from them were the boats, and farther off the prim little town, nestling within the circle of its dike. Beyond, a crane was at work, unloading a collier.

Maigret, as he approached the group, had time to observe them, especially when no one noticed him coming along the quay.

He already knew who they were. That is to say, he knew they were the men who were laughingly spoken of as the Quay Rats Club. But even without that information he would have had no difficulty in guessing that the majority of these sailors spent the greater part of their days at the same place, regardless of rain or sunshine, yarning lazily, and bespattering the ground with their saliva.

One of them was the owner of three fine sailing ships of four hundred tons, provided with auxiliary motors. One of these was at that moment beating up the Ems and would, before long, be entering Delfzijl’s harbor.

Others were of humbler station. One, a caulker, didn’t look as if he had very much to caulk. Another was lockkeeper of a disused lock, but he had, nonetheless, the distinction of wearing a uniform cap.

One, standing in the middle, eclipsed all the others, not only because he was the tallest, broadest, and reddest in the face, but also because his was apparently by far the strongest personality.

Sabots. A smock. The cap on his head was brand-new, and somehow it looked ridiculous, as though it had not yet had time to settle down on its wearer’s head.

He was Oosting, more often called the Baes. He was smoking a short-stemmed clay pipe while listening to the talk around him.

A vague smile hung around his mouth. From time to time he would remove his pipe to exhale the smoke with greater relish between almost closed lips.

A minor pachyderm, thick and tough, he had very gentle eyes. In fact, there was, at the same time, something tender and something hard about his whole person.

His eyes were fixed on a boat made fast to the quay, a boat about fifty feet long, of good lines, obviously fast. Probably it had once been a pleasure craft, but was now ill-kept and dirty. It was his.

Beyond it stretched the Ems, twelve or thirteen miles wide, and beyond that again the distant expanse of the North Sea. In one place a streak of reddish sand was Oosting’s domain, the island of Workum.

The day was closing in, and the colors of sunset made this little brick town of Delfzijl redder than ever.

Oosting’s eyes, wandering gently over the scene, gathered Maigret—so to speak—on the way. The greenish-blue eyes were tiny. For quite a while they remained fixed on the inspector. Then he knocked his pipe on the heel of his sabot, spat, groped for something in his pocket, and produced a tobacco pouch made of a pig’s bladder. Shifting his position, he leaned lazily back against the wall.

From that moment, Maigret never ceased to be conscious of the man’s gaze trained on him. A gaze in which there was neither arrogance nor defiance. A gaze that was calm, and yet not free from care, and which measured, weighed, and calculated.

The inspector had been the first to leave the police station after his meeting with Any and Pijpekamp—for that was the Dutch detective’s name.

Any emerged shortly afterward, walking briskly, with her briefcase under her arm, her body leaning forward, like a woman engaged on some important business who had no time to spare for what went on around her in the street.

Maigret did not bother about her, but watched the Baes. The latter’s eyes followed her as she receded into the distance, finally turning back once more to Maigret.

Without knowing exactly why he did so, the inspector went up to the group, among whom all talking ceased abruptly. A dozen faces were turned on him, all expressing some measure of surprise. He addressed himself to Oosting:

“Excuse me! Do you understand French?”

The Baes did not flinch. He seemed to be reflecting. A wizened sailor standing next to him explained:

“Frenchman!…French politie!”

It was not dramatic, and yet it was one of the strangest minutes Maigret ever lived through. The Baes, whose eyes had rested for a moment on his boat, was obviously hesitating.

There was no doubt about it. He wanted to ask the inspector to go on board his boat with him. It was fitted with a small oak-paneled cabin, in which was a compass and a compass lamp.

Everyone remained stock-still, waiting. Finally Oosting opened his mouth.

Then all at once he shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say:

“It’s preposterous.”

But those were not his words. In a hoarse voice, which came from right at the back of his throat, he said:

“Pas comprendre…Hollandsch…English.”

Any, wearing her mourning veil, was still visible in silhouette as she crossed the canal bridge and turned along the Amsterdiep.

The Baes caught Maigret looking at the new cap, but it didn’t seem to trouble him at all. The shadow of a smile flickered on his lips.

Maigret would have given all he possessed to be able to talk to this man in his own language, even if it was only for five minutes. In desperation he went so far as to blurt out a few syllables of English, but with such an accent that no one understood a word.

“Pas comprendre!…Personne comprendre!…” said the wizened sailor who had intervened before.

The Quay Rats Club gradually resumed their conversation as Maigret sadly walked off with the feeling that he had come close to the heart of the mystery, but all to no purpose.

A few minutes later he turned around to look at the group, who were still gossiping in the last rays of the setting sun, which made Oosting’s red face more inflamed than before.

So far, Maigret had kept—so to speak—to the outskirts of the case, postponing the visit—invariably painful—to a bereaved household.

He rang. It was a little after six. He had not realized that it was a mealtime for the Dutch until he saw, over the shoulder of the little servant who opened the door, two women sitting at the table in the dining room.

They both rose hastily, with prompt but rather stiff politeness. The sort of manners a girl might bring away with her from finishing school.

They were both in black from head to foot. On the table were the tea things, thin slices of bread, and cold meats. In spite of the twilight, the lamps were not lit, the light of a gas fire being left to battle with the gathering darkness.

It was Any who thought of switching on a light in the living room, telling the servant to draw the curtains.

“I am so sorry to disturb you,” said Maigret. “All the more so at mealtime. I didn’t know…”

Madame Popinga waved a hand awkwardly toward a chair and looked embarrassed; her sister edged away to the farthest corner.

The room was similar to the one he had been in at the farm. Modern furniture, but of a modernism in no way exaggerated. The soft neutral colors combined somberness with elegance.

“You’ve come about…?”

Madame Popinga’s lower lip quivered, and she had to put her handkerchief to her mouth to stifle a sudden sob. Any did not move.

“I won’t bother you now,” said Maigret. “I’ll come back later…”

With a sign, she insisted on his staying. She was making a valiant effort to regain her composure. She must have been some years older than her sister; she was tall and altogether much more of a woman. Her features were regular, though her cheeks were just a little too florid. In places, her hair was beginning to turn gray.

All her movements were marked by well-bred self-effacement. Maigret remembered that she was a headmaster’s daughter, and that she had the reputation of being very cultured and speaking several languages. But all that had not sufficed to make her a woman of the world. On the contrary, her shy awkwardness was thoroughly provincial, and obviously she was the sort of person who would be shocked by the least untoward thing.

He remembered, too, that she belonged to the strictest of Protestant sects, that she generally ran any charity that was organized in Delfzijl, and was also the leading spirit in intellectual circles.

She managed to recover her self-control—though she looked pleadingly at her sister, as though to ask her to come to the rescue.

“You must excuse me, Inspector…It’s unbelievable, isn’t it?…Conrad, of all people!…A man who was loved by everybody.”

Her eyes fell on the radio in a corner of the room, and at the sight she nearly burst into tears.

“It was his chief amusement,” she stammered. “That and his boat, in which he spent summer evenings on the Amsterdiep. He was a very hard worker…Who could have done such a thing?”

Maigret said nothing, and she went on, reddening slightly, in a tone she might have used had she been taken to task.

“I’m not accusing anybody…I don’t know…that is, I don’t want to think…It’s only the police who thought of Professor Duclos, because he was holding the revolver…I really have no idea…It’s too terrible. But there it is—someone killed Conrad…Why? Why him? And not even for robbery…Then what could it have been for?”

“You spoke to the police about what you saw from your window?”

She reddened still more. She was standing, leaning one hand on a table.

“I didn’t know whether I ought to or not. I don’t for a moment think Beetje had anything to do with it…Only, as I happened to look out of the window, I saw…And I’ve heard that the most insignificant details can help the police…I asked the pastor what he thought about it, and he said I ought to speak…Beetje is a good girl…Really, I can’t imagine who…But whoever it is, it’s someone who ought to be in an asylum.”

Unlike Beetje, she did not have to grope for her words. Her French was easy, and tinctured with only the faintest accent.

“Any told me you’d come from Paris because of Conrad’s death. Is that really so?”

She was much calmer. Her sister, still in her corner, did not move, and Maigret could see only her reflection in a mirror.

“I suppose you’d like to see the house?”

She seemed resigned to it, though she added with a sigh:

“Would you like to go with…Any?”

The young woman’s black figure stalked past the inspector, and he followed it up the newly carpeted stairs. The house, which could not have been more than ten years old, was lightly built of hollow brick and wood, but it was so well kept and so well painted as to be perfect in its way. Almost too perfect, suggesting an ornament or a model rather than a real home.

The bathroom door was the first to be opened. The wooden cover was lowered over the bathtub, which was thus transformed into an ironing board. Leaning out the window, Maigret saw the bicycle shed, the well-kept vegetable garden, the fields beyond, and the low houses of Delfzijl. Few had more than one story, and not one had more than two.

Any waited in the doorway.

“I hear you’re making your investigations too,” said Maigret.

She winced, but made no answer, and hastily turned to open the door of the room Duclos had occupied.

A brass bed. A pine wardrobe. The floor covered with linoleum.

“Whose room is this as a rule?”

It cost her an effort to find her words.

“Mine…when I stay here.”

“Do you come often?”

“Yes…I…”

It must have been her shyness. The sound seemed to be strangled in her throat. She looked around as though for a way of escape.

“But, since the professor was here, I suppose you slept in your brother-in-law’s study?”

She nodded, and opened the door for him to inspect it. A table was filled with books, including some new handbooks on gyroscopic compasses and the control of ships by radio. Sextants. Photographs on the walls showing Conrad Popinga in Asia and in Africa wearing the uniform of first officer or captain.

A divan covered with blue rep.

“And your sister’s room?”

“It’s the next one.”

There was a door leading to it, as well as one leading to the professor’s room. The Popingas’ room was better furnished than the latter. An alabaster lamp stood at the head of the bed, and the Persian carpet was quite a fine one. The furniture was of some exotic wood.

“And you were in the study…” said Maigret dreamily.

A nod from Any.

“Which you could only leave by passing through one of the two bedrooms…”

Another nod.

“And the professor was in his room, and your sister in hers…”

Any’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth, gaping with astonishment.

“You don’t think…?”

“I don’t think anything,” muttered Maigret. “I’m simply investigating, eliminating. And, so far, you’re the only person who can be logically eliminated—that is, unless Duclos or your sister is shielding you.”

“You…you…”

But Maigret went on talking to himself:

“Duclos could have fired the shot from either his room or the bathroom. That’s obvious…Madame Popinga, for her part, could have fired from the bathroom. But the professor was there within a few seconds, and he saw nobody…When he did see her, she was coming out of her own room a moment or so later…”

Any seemed to be getting over her shyness. These technical considerations seemed to reassure her. The angular half-fledged woman was giving way to the full-fledged graduate in law.

“The shot could have been fired from below,” she said, her eyes brightening, her thin body tense. “The doctor says…”

“Whatever he says doesn’t alter the fact that the revolver that killed your brother-in-law is the one Duclos was holding in his hand…Unless, of course, the murderer threw it up through the bathroom window onto the sill inside.”

“Why not?”

“Indeed! Why not?”

And Maigret turned, without waiting for her to lead the way, and went down the stairs, which seemed too narrow for him, and whose steps creaked beneath his weight.

He found Madame Popinga still standing, apparently not having moved since he left her. Any followed him into the room.

“Did Cornélius come here often?”

“Nearly every day. He had lessons only three days a week, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. But he’d come just the same the other days…His parents live in India, and it was only a month ago that he learned of his mother’s death. She was buried, of course, long before he got the letter…So we tried…”

“And Beetje Liewens?”

There was an awkward pause. Madame Popinga looked at Any. Any stared at the floor.

“She used to come…”

“Often?”

“Yes.”

“Did you invite her?”

They were getting down to brass tacks. Maigret felt he was making progress, if not toward the solution of the mystery, at any rate in his knowledge of the Popingas’ private life.

“No…yes…”

“She’s not quite the same type as you and Mademoiselle Any, is she?”

“She’s very young, of course…Her father was a friend of Conrad’s…She would bring us apples, raspberries, cream.”

“Was she in love with Cornélius?”

“No.”

The answer was categorical.

“You never cared much for her, did you?”

“Why shouldn’t I?…A jolly girl: whenever she came she’d fill the house with her chatter and laughter. More like the chirping of a bird, if you know what I mean.”

“Do you know Oosting?”

“Yes.”

“Was he a friend of your husband’s?”

“Last year he had a new engine put in his boat, and he asked Conrad’s advice about it. In fact, Conrad drew up some plans for him. And they used to go seal-shooting together on the sandbanks.”

She hesitated a moment before suddenly blurting out:

“You’re thinking of the cap, perhaps…You think he might have…Oosting!…It’s impossible.”

She heaved a sigh and then went on:

“No. I can’t believe it’s Oosting either. I can’t believe it’s anybody. Nobody could have wanted him to die…You never knew him…He…he…”

Weeping, she turned her head away. Maigret thought it better to go. They didn’t offer to shake hands, so he simply bowed his way out, muttering excuses.

Outside, he was surprised by the chill dampness that rose from the canal. On the other bank, not far from the shipwright’s yard, he caught sight of the Baes talking to a young man in uniform, evidently one of the cadets from the training ship.

They were standing together in the twilight. Oosting was apparently speaking emphatically. The young man hung his head. Maigret could only just make out the pale oval of his face, but he at once jumped to the conclusion that it was Cornélius. And when he saw a crepe band on his sleeve, he felt quite sure.