SIX

The Letters

Along the Amsterdiep, Pijpekamp had said; but for no particular reason Maigret didn’t follow his instructions. Instead, he went across the fields.

In the eleven o’clock sun, the farm reminded him strongly of his first visit there, the girl in her shiny black boots in the up-to-date cowshed, the well-furnished living room, and the teapot standing under its cozy.

The scene was just as quiet today. The limitless horizon breathed peace. It was uninterrupted except for one big red-brown sail. He gazed at it across the fields. It seemed altogether unreal, floating in the sky, almost as though it were sailing over an ocean of grass.

The dog barked at him, just as it had the first time. It was a good five minutes before the door opened, but even then it was opened only an inch or two, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of the servant’s florid face and her checked apron.

She was on the point of shutting it again when Maigret hastily asked:

“Mademoiselle Liewens?”

The door opened a little wider. And the servant’s head emerged. The garden was between them, since Maigret had remained standing at the gate. Between them was the dog, baring its teeth as it kept watch on the intruder.

The servant shook her head.

“Isn’t she here?…Niet hier?…”

Maigret had managed to pick up one or two words of Dutch.

But the servant only shook her head more emphatically.

“And the master?…Mijnheer?…”

One more head-shake, and the door was shut. But Maigret did not go, and as he stood staring at the house he saw the door move again, though this time only a fraction of an inch. The old servant was no doubt peeping at him.

But what really made him stand there was that he had seen one of the curtains move, and he knew that that curtain belonged to Beetje’s room. It was difficult to see through it, but there was certainly a face there. What Maigret saw more clearly was a slight movement of a hand, a movement that might have been no more than a greeting. But Maigret thought it meant more:

“I’m here…Don’t insist…Look out!”

Six pairs of eyes were on him. The old servant’s behind the door, Beetje’s through the curtain, and the dog’s. The latter jumped up against the gate, barking. Around them, in the fields, the cows stood so still it was difficult to believe they were alive.

Maigret thought he’d try a little experiment. He was standing two or three yards from the gate; and he suddenly took two paces forward, exactly as though he was going to jump over it. He couldn’t help smiling, for not only was the door closed hurriedly, but also the dog slunk back toward the house with its tail between its legs.

With that, the inspector left, taking the towpath along the Amsterdiep. All he could gather from the welcome he had received was that Beetje was shut up in her room, and that orders had been given that he was not to be admitted.

Thoughtfully he puffed away at his pipe. He looked for a moment or two at the piles of logs and lumber under the shadow of which Beetje and Conrad Popinga would stop—often, no doubt—and, holding their bicycles with one hand, embrace.

Over all hung this even calm. Such quiet, such serenity—it was almost too perfect, so perfect that it was difficult for a Frenchman to believe that life here was life at all. Was it? Or was it all as flat and artificial as a picture postcard?

Everything seemed strange to Maigret. For instance, turning suddenly, he saw, only a few yards from him, a high-stemmed boat he had not seen arriving. He recognized the sail, which was broader than the canal, as the one he had seen only a little earlier far away toward the horizon. It seemed hardly possible that it could have covered the distance in so short a time.

At the helm was a woman, who steered with a hip against the tiller while she held a suckling baby to her breast. A man was sitting astride the bowsprit, his legs dangling down toward the water, fitting a new martingale.

The boat passed in front of the Wienands’ and then the Popingas’. The mast reached higher than the roofs, and the sail completely blotted out each house in turn.

Maigret stopped again. He hesitated. The Popingas’ servant was scrubbing the doorstep, her head down, her stern in the air. The door was open.

Suddenly realizing that someone was behind her, she scrambled hastily to her feet, so nervous that her hand shook.

“Madame Popinga?” he asked, pointing toward the interior of the house.

She wanted to go in first, but she hesitated, not knowing what to do with the wet cloth she was holding, which was dripping dirty water. Maigret took advantage of her embarrassment and went straight in. Hearing a man’s voice behind the living-room door, he knocked.

The voice broke off abruptly. Dead silence in the room. As a matter of fact, it was more than silence; suspense would be the better word.

At last there were steps, and a hand touched the door handle; the door slowly opened. The first person Maigret saw was Any. It was she who had opened the door, fixing him with a hard stare. Next he made out the figure of a man standing near the table. His suit was of thick broadcloth. Liewens, the farmer.

Last, he saw Madame Popinga, leaning against the mantelpiece, her face buried in her hands.

It was obvious that the newcomer was interrupting some important conversation, a tense discussion, or a dispute.

The table was covered by an embroidered cloth, on which letters lay scattered, as though they had been flung down in anger or indignation.

The farmer’s face showed every sign of strong emotion. But he quickly got his feelings under control, and his features set into cold, hostile reserve.

“I’m afraid I am interrupting you…” began Maigret.

No one answered. No one said so much as a word. Then Madame Popinga, after a wild look around, rushed out of the room and hurried off to the kitchen.

“I am really very sorry to have broken in upon you like this.”

At last Liewens spoke. Turning to Any, he rapped out a few phrases in Dutch, and the inspector could not help asking:

“What does he say?”

“That he’ll come back another time…That it’s high time…” She broke off, not knowing quite how to put it.

Maigret came to her rescue.

“That it’s high time the French police were taught manners! Something like that, wasn’t it?…We’ve run into each other before, this gentleman and I.”

The farmer was trying to understand the gist of Maigret’s words by watching his features and listening to his intonation.

Meanwhile, the inspector’s eye had wandered to the letters on the table. He caught sight of the signature at the bottom of one: Conrad.

The atmosphere became tenser. The farmer went over to a chair and picked up his cap. Then he paused. He couldn’t, after all, make up his mind to go.

“I suppose he’s brought you the letters that your brother-in-law wrote to his daughter?”

“How did you know?”

Good gracious! Wasn’t it obvious enough? One could hardly imagine a scene that was easier to reconstruct. The atmosphere was thick with it…Liewens arriving panting, trying to hold in his fury. Liewens shown into the living room, politely asked to take a seat by the two frightened women. But instead of sitting down bursting out with all his pent-up wrath, flinging the letters down on the table…

Madame Popinga, not knowing what to say, not knowing what to do, hiding her face in her hands, inwardly refusing to believe the evidence that was spread out before her eyes…

And Any, feebly arguing, trying to hold her own against the angry farmer.

That was where they’d got to when Maigret knocked, and they’d all stood, still as statues, till Any had walked stiffly over to open the door.

But the inspector’s reconstruction was not so accurate as all that. On one point he was wrong. Madame Popinga had more fight in her than he supposed. He had imagined her collapsed in the kitchen, a nerveless wreck. But the next moment she was back in the room, in the state of outward calm that is possible to some people when they are strung up to the highest pitch of emotion.

Slowly, she, too, laid some letters on the table. She did not throw them down. She laid them down. She looked at the farmer and then at the detective. Two or three times she opened her mouth before she was able to utter a sound, but when at last she did, she spoke quietly:

“Someone must judge…You must read these letters…”

Instantly the farmer’s face flushed scarlet. He was too controlled to pounce on the letters, but he seemed almost dizzy with the effort to hold himself back.

A woman’s writing…elegant blue paper…Unmistakably, they were the letters Beetje had written to Conrad.

One thing struck the eye at once: the disproportion in number between hers to him and his to her. The latter could hardly have amounted to more than ten. They were written on a single sheet, and were generally no more than four or five lines in length.

Beetje’s letters must have been three times that number. They were long and closely written.

Conrad was dead. There remained this unequal correspondence, and the stacks of lumber that had witnessed their meetings on the banks of the Amsterdiep.

“We must proceed calmly,” said Maigret. “There’s no use reading these letters in anger.”

The farmer looked at him so acutely that Maigret felt sure he understood. He took a step toward the table.

Maigret leaned over it too. At random he picked out one of Conrad’s letters.

“Will you be kind enough to translate it for me, Mademoiselle Any?”

But the girl didn’t seem to hear. She merely stared at it. Finally her sister took it from his hand.

“It was written from the training ship,” she said, with dignity. “There is no date, only the time, six o’clock, and then:

My little Beetje,—

It would be better if you did not come this evening because my chief is coming for a cup of tea with us.

‘Till tomorrow. Love.

Madame Popinga looked around with an air of calm defiance. She picked up another letter. Slowly she read:

Pretty little Beetje,—

You must calm yourself. Life is long and there’s lots of time ahead. I have a lot of work on hand just now because of the exams. I won’t be able to come this evening.

Why are you always accusing me of not loving you? You don’t expect me to give up the training ship, do you? What could we do?

Don’t get excited. We have plenty of time before us.

With an affectionate kiss…

Maigret waved his hand as much as to say that they had heard enough. But Madame Popinga picked up another letter.

“There’s this one,” she said. “I think it must be the last he wrote.

My Beetje,—

It’s quite impossible. Do please be reasonable. You know I have no money and that it might take ages to find a post abroad.

Don’t let yourself get so worked up. You must have confidence in the future. Everything will come out all right.

Don’t be frightened. If what you fear happened, I wouldn’t let you down.

I’m afraid I am rather irritable because I have so much work to do, and when I think of you, work goes badly. Yesterday I was hauled over the coals about something, and I’m rather upset about it.

I’ll try to get off tomorrow evening on some pretext or other.

Madame Popinga looked from one to the other of the people standing around her. Her eyes were dim. She looked tired, dead tired. But she stretched out her hand toward the other pile of letters, the ones she had brought in herself. The farmer winced.

She picked up the first one she touched and, opening it, read:

Dear Conrad, whom I love,—

Here’s some good news for you. As a birthday present Papa has put another thousand florins into my bank account. That’s enough to take us to America, for I have looked in the paper to see how much it costs. We could go third class, couldn’t we?

But why aren’t you more anxious to be off? I live for nothing else. Everything in Holland is suffocating to me. And I can’t help thinking that the people in Delfzijl already look at me in a disapproving way.

At the same time I’m immeasurably happy and so proud to belong to a man like you.

We absolutely must be off before the holidays, because Papa wants me to spend a month with him in Switzerland, and I don’t want to. If we don’t get off soon, we’ll be stuck here till the winter.

I’ve bought some English books, and I already understand quite a lot of words.

Quick! Quick! There’s a marvelous life for the two of us. Don’t you think so? I’m sure of it. We can’t stay here any longer. It would be worse than ever now. I think Madame Popinga hates the sight of me, and I am bothered to death by Cor, who won’t leave me alone. Try as I do, I can’t shake him off. He’s a nice boy, such good manners. But what a fool!

Besides, he’s only a boy. So different from you, who have been all over the world and know so many things.

Do you remember—it’s just a year ago now—when we met for the first time? And you didn’t even look at me.

And to think that now I may be going to have a baby—and it will be yours. At any rate I could.

But why are you so cool? You’re not getting tired of me, are you?

The letter was not yet finished, but Madame Popinga’s voice had become so weak that finally she broke off. She fumbled for a moment among the pile of letters, apparently looking for a particular one.

Having found it, she plunged straight into the middle of it, reading out:

…and I am beginning to think that you’re fonder of your wife than of me. I’m beginning to be jealous of her, to hate her. Otherwise, why do you refuse to take me away at once?

All this had been translated into French, of which the farmer did not understand a word, but his attention was riveted so closely on what she was reading that he seemed to guess the sense.

Madame Popinga swallowed, then picked up another sheet. Her voice was firmer as she went on:

I’ve heard it said that Cor is more in love with Madame Popinga than with me. And they really do seem to hit it off perfectly together. If only things could develop along those lines! Wouldn’t that be a magnificent solution? Our consciences would be clear.

The sheet of paper slipped from her hand, gliding down to rest on the floor at Any’s feet. She merely stared at it vacantly, and once more there was silence in the room.

Madame Popinga was not weeping, but she was nonetheless a tragic figure—made tragic by her controlled suffering, by her dignity purchased at the price of intense effort, and made tragic, too, by the exalted emotion that governed her.

She was defending her husband’s good name. She waited for a further attack, bracing herself to meet it.

“When did you discover those letters?” asked Maigret, not without embarrassment.

“The day after he was…”

She choked, opened her mouth to gasp. Her eyelids swelled.

“The day after…”

“Yes. I understand.”

Maigret looked at her with pity. She was not beautiful, though she had quite good features, without any of the blemishes that ruined Any’s looks.

She was tall, full of figure without being stout. A fine head of hair framed a face that, like so many Dutch women’s, was highly colored.

But many an ugly face had more charm, more piquancy. Over her face an immense dullness was written. In it was no trace of impulsiveness. Her smile was a wise, measured smile, and if she ever experienced joy, it could only be wise and measured joy.

At the age of six she must have been a model child. At sixteen she must have been just what she was today—one of those women who seem born to be sisters or aunts, nurses or nuns, or widows busying themselves with charities.

Conrad was gone, yet Maigret had never been so conscious of the man’s vitality, his ruddy jovial face, his eagerness to taste all the good things of life—and yet, with his timidity, his fear of hurting anybody’s feelings. Conrad turning the knobs of his radio set, wistfully switching from Parisian jazz to Hungarian Gypsy music or Viennese musical comedies, or even picking up messages in Morse from ships on the high seas…

Any went over to her sister, as though the latter was in need of comfort or support. But, waving her aside, Madame Popinga took two or three steps toward the inspector.

“It had never entered my mind,” she said, hardly above a whisper. “Never!…I was living…in such peace…and then, at his death, to find…”

He guessed from the way she was breathing that she suffered from some disease of the heart. The next moment she confirmed it by standing motionless with a hand pressed to her chest.

Someone moved. It was the farmer, a hard, wild look in his eye, who went to the table and started gathering up his daughter’s letters, nervously, like a thief who’s afraid he’ll be interrupted.

Madame Popinga did not attempt to stop him. Nor did Maigret.

When he had them, he did not turn to go. He began speaking, though he did not seem to be addressing anybody in particular. More than once Maigret caught the word Franzose, and it seemed to him that he could at that moment understand Dutch, just as Liewens had apparently been understanding those letters that had been translated into French.

What he heard, or thought he heard, was:

“Do you really think it’s necessary to tell all this to a Frenchman?”

His cap dropped to the floor. He stooped to pick it up, bowed to Any, who was between him and the door—but to her only—and went out, muttering a few words that probably no one understood.

The maid must have finished washing the doorstep, for they could hear the front door open and shut, then steps fading away.

In spite of her sister’s presence, Maigret began questioning Madame Popinga again, speaking with a gentleness of which he would hardly have thought himself capable.

“Had you already shown those letters to your sister?”

“No. But when that man…”

“Where were they?”

“In a drawer of his desk. A drawer I never opened. I did know he kept his revolver there.”

Any said something in Dutch, and Madame Popinga, speaking listlessly, translated:

“My sister tells me I ought to go to bed. I haven’t had a wink of sleep these last nights…He would never have gone…Perhaps he lost his head for a moment, but it was never more than that. He liked to laugh; he loved games…All sorts of things come back to me that I took no notice of at the time. Everything looks different now. Beetje coming with fruit and cakes she’d made herself. I always thought they were for me…Then she’d come and ask us to play tennis. Always at a moment when she knew I’d have something else to do. I didn’t see it. I didn’t want to think evil, and I was so glad for Conrad to have some fun…You see, he worked so hard, and I knew he must find Delfzijl rather dull…Last year, she nearly went to Paris with us. And it was I who pressed her to.”

She spoke simply, and with such lassitude that there was hardly room for any rancor.

“He didn’t want to leave me. You understand, don’t you?…He never wished to hurt anyone. Never…More than once he got into trouble by marking exams too generously. My father was always holding that against him.”

She adjusted the position of an ornament on the mantelpiece, a trivial homely gesture, which seemed altogether incongruous under the circumstances.

“Now, all I want is to know that it’s over. They haven’t yet given permission for him to be buried…You understand, don’t you? I don’t know how to explain it…Let them give him back to me, and God can punish the murderer.”

She was getting worked up. Her voice rang out more clearly.

“Yes. That’s what I believe…Things like that—what can we know about them? All we can do is to leave them to God.”

She shivered as an idea suddenly struck her. Pointing outside, she went on breathlessly:

“Perhaps he’ll kill her…He’s capable of it…That would be awful.”

Any looked at her with a touch of impatience. No doubt she considered all this a waste of words. In a calm voice she intervened:

“What do you think about the case now, Inspector?”

“Nothing!”

She did not pursue the question, but she looked annoyed.

“You see,” went on Maigret, “there’s Oosting’s cap. We mustn’t forget it. You’ve heard Professor Duclos’s views, haven’t you?…And you’ve no doubt read the works of Grosz, which he talks about…One rule above all others: never let yourself be lured by psychological considerations. Keep to the material evidence and follow wherever it may lead you, right to the end.”

It was impossible to tell whether he was sneering or serious.

“And there they are: a cap and the butt of a cigar. Someone brought them here, or threw them in from outside.”

“I can’t believe that Oosting…” began Madame Popinga, speaking more to herself than the others.

Then, suddenly looking up, she went on:

“That reminds me of something I had forgotten…”

But she broke off, as though afraid of having said too much, afraid of the effect her words might have.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Nothing of any importance.”

“Do tell us. Please.”

“When Conrad used to go seal-shooting on Workum…”

“Well?”

“Beetje went with them. She was always ready for anything like that. And here in Holland we allow girls a lot of liberties.”

“Were they away for the night?”

“Sometimes a night, sometimes two…”

She waved a hand as though trying to drive the vision away.

“No!…I mustn’t think of it. It’s too awful…too awful.”

Now the tears came welling up. The sobs were there ready to tear her apart. But before they came, Any placed her hands on her sister’s shoulders and pushed her gently out of the room.