SEVEN

Pijpekamp’s Luncheon

When Maigret arrived at the hotel, he sensed at once that something unusual was afoot.

The evening before, he had had dinner at the table next to the professor’s. But now three places had been laid on the round table in the middle of the room. The tablecloth was snowy white and the creases had not yet gone flat. Moreover, three glasses had been set for each person, and that was a thing done only on grand occasions in Holland.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, the inspector was greeted by Pijpekamp, who came forward with outstretched hand. The smile on his face was that of a man who has a pleasant surprise in store.

He was dressed in his very best. A collar that seemed to be three inches high. A formal coat. He was closely shaved, and appeared to have come straight from the barber’s hands; the place reeked of violet hair tonic.

The Dutchman’s good spirits were not shared by Jean Duclos, who stood behind him looking ill-at-ease.

“You must excuse me, Inspector,” said Pijpekamp, glowing. “I ought to have let you know beforehand…I would like to have invited you to my home, but Groningen is some way off. Besides, I’m a bachelor. So I thought we’d better have it here. Nothing formal, of course. Just a little déjeuner together…the three of us.”

As he spoke he looked at the table with nine glasses. Obviously he was expecting Maigret to make some protest.

But no protest came.

“I thought that, since the professor was a countryman of yours, you would be glad to…”

“Of course! Of course!” said Maigret. “Just a moment, while I wash my hands.”

He washed them slowly, with a sulky look on his face. From the lavatory, he could hear people bustling about in the kitchen, and the clatter of plates and saucepans.

When he rejoined the others, Pijpekamp himself was pouring out the port. With an ecstatic smile on his face he murmured modestly:

“Just what you do in France, isn’t it?…Prosit!…Or, I should say, Santé, mon cher collègue.”

He was quite touching. He meant so very well. He trotted out the most elegant phraseology he could find in French, anxious to show himself a man of the world to his fingertips.

“I ought to have invited you yesterday. But I was so—what shall I say?—so upset by this business…Have you found out anything?”

“Nothing!”

There was a little sparkle in the Dutchman’s eye, and Maigret thought:

Ah, my fine fellow! You’ve got a trump up your sleeve, and you’re going to play it over the dessert…That is, if you can hold yourself in that long.

He wasn’t wrong.

First came tomato soup, and with it Saint-Emilion. The wine had certainly been doctored for export, and was so sweet as to be positively sickly.

“Santé!” toasted Pijpekamp once again.

Poor Pijpekamp! He was doing his utmost to play the host properly. More than his utmost. Yet Maigret didn’t seem to appreciate it. Didn’t even seem to notice it!

“In Holland we never drink with meals, only afterward. In the course of the evening—that is, at large receptions—they serve a small glass of wine with the cigars…Another point on which we differ from you: we never put bread on the table.”

He looked proudly at the chunks of bread he had had the foresight to order, and equally proudly at the bottle of port, which stood in the center of the table. He had chosen it with great care, to take the place of the native schnapps.

What more could he have done? He had left no stone unturned to provide all the requisites for a pleasurable meal. Looking tenderly at the Saint-Emilion, he grew quite pink. Duclos ate in silence, his thoughts apparently elsewhere.

Really, it was a shame these two Frenchmen couldn’t enter into the spirit of it. Pijpekamp had looked forward to this lunch as one that would be sparkling with wit, with verve, with éIan, and all the other things he could think of as being preeminently Parisian.

He had, nevertheless, considered that a national dish would be proper to the feast. So hutschpot was brought on, the meat swimming in an ocean of sauce. With an arch expression he said:

“You must tell me what you think of it.”

But no! Maigret was not in the right mood. As a matter of fact, he was genuinely preoccupied, trying to guess what it was all about. Certainly there was a mystery here somewhere.

Of one thing he felt pretty sure. There was a kind of secret understanding between the Dutch detective and Jean Duclos. Every time his host filled his glass, he seemed to cast a significant glance at the professor.

The burgundy was warming beside the stove.

“I expected you to be much more of a wine drinker. Don’t you drink much wine?”

“It all depends…”

Another thing that was certain was that Duclos was far from feeling happy about it. He took little part in the conversation. He sipped rather nervously at his mineral water, having refused wine on the grounds that he was dieting.

Pijpekamp was finding it very hard work, though not so much to keep the ball rolling—for the wine helped him there—as to prevent its rolling too far. It would spoil the effect if he played his trump too soon. It was hard to wait, but he held out for quite a long time. He spoke of the beauty of the harbor, of the amount of traffic carried by the Ems, of the University of Groningen, where the greatest scholars in Europe came every year to lecture.

Then at last:

“By the way,” he said, trying to sound casual, “I have some news for you…”

“Really?”

“Your health, Inspector! And health to the French police force!…Yes, there’s some news to tell you. In fact, I might say that the mystery is practically solved…”

Maigret looked at him stolidly with eyes in which there was not the faintest trace of either excitement or curiosity.

“At ten o’clock this morning I was told that someone wanted to see me. Who do you think it was?”

“Cornélius Barens…Go on.”

It was too bad! Pijpekamp was thoroughly crestfallen to see his trump producing so little effect upon his guest. And after all the trouble he had taken!

“How did you know?…I suppose someone told you?”

“Nothing of the sort! What did he want?”

“You know him, don’t you? A shy boy. Secretive, I think. He couldn’t look me in the face, and he seemed, the whole time, on the verge of tears…He confessed that when he left the Popingas’ house he did not go at once on board the training ship.”

Pijpekamp was regaining confidence with the sound of his own voice. He looked knowingly at Maigret, and in a more confidential tone went on:

“Do you see?…He’s in love with Beetje. So he was jealous, because Beetje had been dancing that evening with Popinga. And he was annoyed with her for drinking a glass of brandy.

“He watched them leave together, then followed them a short way, though, of course, being on foot, he was soon outdistanced. He waited there for Popinga to return…”

Maigret was merciless. He knew perfectly well that the Dutchman would give anything in the world for some sign of astonishment or admiration. But his face betrayed neither.

“Cornélius took a little coaxing, because he was afraid, but finally he told me everything. And here it is: Immediately after the shot was fired, he saw a man run toward the stacks of lumber and take cover there.”

“I suppose he described the man minutely?”

“Yes.”

Pijpekamp’s recovery had been short-lived. He looked dejectedly at Maigret, having lost all hope of seeing him taken aback. His well-prepared surprise was nothing but a damp squib.

“A sailor, a foreigner. Tall, thin, clean-shaven.”

“And there was a boat, no doubt, that left next morning?”

“Three have left since then,” said Pijpekamp, struggling on as bravely as he could. “It really clears the case up, as far as we are concerned. There’s no longer any point in looking for the murderer in Delfzijl…Some foreigner killed him. Probably a sailor who’d known Popinga when he was at sea. Perhaps somebody who served under him, and who had an old score to pay off.”

Jean Duclos looked woodenly at the opposite wall, avoiding Maigret’s eye. Madame Van Hasselt, in her best clothes, was sitting at the cash desk. Pijpekamp made a sign to her to bring another bottle.

The meal was not over. On the contrary, its crowning triumph was only now brought on: a cake garnished with three different creams and, the final touch, the name Delfzijl in chocolate letters.

The Dutchman modestly lowered his eyes.

“Perhaps you would like to cut it…”

“Did you arrest Barens?”

Pijpekamp started, staring at Maigret as though the latter had taken leave of his senses.

“But…what for?”

“If you have no objection, we might question him together presently.”

“It can easily be arranged. I’ll telephone to the training ship.”

“While you’re about it, you might also arrange for Oosting to be brought along. We’ll have some questions for him, too.”

“About the cap?…That’s easily explained now. A sailor, passing his boat, saw the cap lying on the deck. It wouldn’t take him a second to pinch it.”

“Of course not.”

Pijpekamp could have wept. Maigret’s sarcasm, though it wasn’t laid on thick, was unmistakable. In his agitation, Pijpekamp bumped into the side of the door as he went into the telephone booth.

The inspector was left alone with Duclos, whose eyes were now glued on his plate.

“While you were about it, you might have told him to slip a few florins discreetly into my hand.”

The words were spoken quite gently, without any bitterness at all. Duclos raised his head, and opened his mouth to protest.

“Come, come! We don’t have time to argue about it…You told him to give me a good meal and plenty to drink with it. You told him that that was the way to get around officials in France…Please don’t interrupt…And that after that he could do just as he liked with me.”

“I assure you…”

But Maigret, lighting his pipe, turned toward Pijpekamp, who was returning from the telephone. Looking at the table, the latter stammered:

“You won’t refuse a little glass of brandy, will you? They have some good stuff here.”

“If you don’t mind, it’s my turn now,” said Maigret, in a tone that tolerated no opposition. “Only, since I don’t speak Dutch, I must ask you to order it for me. A bottle of brandy and some glasses.”

Pijpekamp meekly interpreted:

“Those glasses won’t do,” Maigret said when Madame Van Hasselt came bustling up.

He got up and went himself to get some bigger ones. Placing them on the table, he filled them right up to the rim.

“A toast for you, gentlemen,” he said gravely. “The Dutch police!”

The stuff was so strong it brought tears to Pijpekamp’s eyes. But Maigret, with a smile on his face, gave no quarter. Again and again he raised his glass, repeating:

“Your health, Monsieur Pijpekamp!…To the Dutch police!”

And then he added:

“What time are you expecting Cornélius at the police station?”

“In half an hour…May I offer you a cigar?”

“Thanks, I’d rather smoke my pipe.”

Once more Maigret filled up the three glasses, doing it with such authority that neither Pijpekamp nor Duclos dared say a word.

“It’s a lovely day,” he said two or three times. “I may be greatly mistaken, but somehow I have the impression that before the day is out poor Popinga’s murderer will be under lock and key.”

“Unless he’s steaming across the Baltic,” answered Pijpekamp.

“Oh!…Do you really think he’d be as far as that?”

Duclos turned a pale face to the inspector.

“Is that an insinuation?” he asked acidly.

“What would I be insinuating?”

“You seem to suggest that, if he isn’t far, he might be very close indeed.”

“What an imagination you have, Professor!”

It might easily have degenerated into a quarrel. Perhaps the large glasses of brandy had something to do with it. Pijpekamp was scarlet, his eyes glistening.

It took Duclos another way; its effect on him showed outwardly as morbid pallor.

“A final glass, gentlemen, and then we’ll go and put that wretched boy through the hoop.”

He picked up the bottle again. With each glass he poured out, Madame Van Hasselt moistened the point of her pencil, and jotted them down in her book.

Leaving the hotel, they plunged into an atmosphere heavy with peace and sunshine. Oosting’s boat was in its place.

They had only some three hundred yards to go. The streets were deserted. So were the clean, well-stocked shops, which looked like the booths of some international exhibition just about to open its doors.

Pijpekamp seemed to find it necessary to hold himself much more stiffly than usual. Summoning all his faculties in a last despairing effort, he turned to Maigret and said:

“It will be almost impossible to find the sailor, but it’s a good thing we know it’s him, for it clears everybody else of suspicion…I’ll be making a report, and as soon as that’s done there ought to be no objection to the professor’s going on with his lecture tour.”

He strode into the Delfzijl police station with more than a suspicion of a stagger, bumping against a table and then sitting down far too emphatically.

Not that he was actually drunk. But the alcohol had deprived him of that smoothness and gentleness that characterize the majority of Dutchmen.

He waved an arm, pressed a button, then tilted his chair. The bell was answered by a policeman in uniform, to whom he gave some brief orders. The man disappeared, returning a moment later with Cor.

Pijpekamp received him with almost exaggerated cordiality, but that did not in any way reassure the boy, who, the moment he caught sight of Maigret, felt the ground sink from beneath his feet.

“There are a few little points we’d like to get cleared up,” said Pijpekamp in French, “and my colleague would like to ask you one or two questions.”

Maigret was in no hurry. He walked quietly up and down the room, puffing away at his pipe, before saying:

“Look here, Barens, my boy!…What was it the Baes was talking to you about last night?”

The cadet turned his thin face this way and that, like a frightened bird.

“I…I think…”

“Good! Perhaps I’d better help you. You have a father, haven’t you? Somewhere out in India, I think…It would be a fearful blow to him if anything happened to you, if you got into trouble in any way…I don’t know what it might be, but, in a case like this, perjury, for instance, would be a very serious offense…It would mean prison.”

Cor stood rigid now, not daring to move, not daring to look at anybody, hardly daring to breathe.

“Oosting was waiting for you last night by the Amsterdiep…Now, confess that it was he who put you up to it, who told you to tell the police what you’ve told them…Come on! Out with it!…You never saw a tall, thin man near the Popingas’ house, did you?”

“I…I…”

But he hadn’t the strength to go further. He crumpled up and burst into tears.

Maigret looked first at Duclos, then at Pijpekamp, with that ponderous, impenetrable stare that sometimes led people to take him for a fool. It was a stare that was so utterly stagnant as to seem empty.

“You think…?” began Pijpekamp.

“What can one think? Look at him!”

The contrast between Cor’s unformed figure and the uniform he was wearing made him appear almost childlike. He was blowing his nose and trying to hold back his sobs. At last he succeeded in stammering:

“I haven’t done anything.”

No one spoke for a moment. All eyes were watching his struggle to get control of himself.

“I never said you’d done anything,” said Maigret at last. “Oosting asked you to pretend you’d seen a stranger near the house…I suppose he told you that was the only way to save some person…Who?”

“I swear…by all that’s holy…he didn’t say who…I don’t know. I haven’t the least idea…I wish I were dead.”

“Of course you do. At eighteen one often wishes one were dead…Have you any further questions, Monsieur Pijpekamp?”

The latter shrugged his shoulders in a way that showed he was quite out of his depth.

“That’s all right, little one! You can run along now.”

“It’s not Beetje, anyhow…”

“I daresay you’re right. But now be off with you and get back on board.”

And he pushed him roughly, but not unkindly, out of the room.

“Now for the other,” he growled. “Is Oosting here?…If only he could speak French!”

The bell was rung again, and soon the policeman brought in the Baes, who held his new cap in one hand and his pipe in the other.

He threw a look, a single look, at Maigret. Strangely enough, it was a look of reproach. Then he walked up and stood in front of Pijpekamp’s desk.

“If you wouldn’t mind asking him…Where was he when Popinga was killed?”

Pijpekamp translated. Oosting replied with a long rigmarole, which Maigret could not get the hang of at all. But that did not prevent him cutting in with:

“No. Stop him! I want an answer in three words.”

When that was translated, there was another reproachful look from the Baes.

“He was on board his boat,” said Pijpekamp, translating the reply.

“Tell him it isn’t true.”

Maigret paced up and down, his hands clasped behind his back.

“What does he say to that?”

“He swears he was.”

“All right. In that case, he can tell you how his cap was stolen.”

Pijpekamp was now merely an interpreter. He was docility itself. But he hadn’t much choice. Maigret gave such an impression of power that there was no question of taking the lead out of his hands.

“Well?”

“He was in his cabin. He was doing his accounts. Looking through a porthole in the coaming of the coach roof, he saw the legs of someone standing on deck. Trousers. Sailor’s trousers…”

“Did he follow the man?”

When that question reached him, Oosting hesitated, with half-closed eyes. Then he started speaking volubly, impatiently.

“What’s he saying?”

“He admits he wasn’t telling the truth at first. But now he wants to tell everything. He knows his own innocence is bound to be established…When he came up on deck, the sailor was already making off. He followed, keeping his distance. The man led him along the Amsterdiep to the neighborhood of the Popingas’ house, where he hid. Wondering what it was all about, Oosting hid in turn.”

“And later he heard the shot fired?”

“Yes…But he couldn’t catch the man, who ran away.”

“He saw him enter the house?”

“The garden, at any rate…He thinks he must have climbed up to the second floor by means of the drainpipe.”

Maigret smiled. The vague, happy smile of a man who has dined well and whose digestion is excellent.

“Would he recognize the man again?”

Translation. A shrug of the shoulders from the Baes.

“He’s not sure.”

“Did he see Barens spying on Beetje and Popinga?”

“Yes.”

“And because he was afraid of being accused himself, he thought the best way to put the police on the right track was to get Barens to tell them?”

“Exactly. That’s what he says…But I ought not to believe him, ought I?…Of course he’s guilty. I can see that now.”

Duclos was fidgeting with impatience. Oosting, on the other hand, was perfectly calm, like a man who is prepared for the worst. He spoke again, and the Dutch detective promptly translated.

“He says we can do what we like with him now, but he wants us to know that Popinga was his friend and benefactor.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“I’ll have to detain him. He admits he was there…”

The effect of the brandy had not worn off. Pijpekamp’s voice was louder than usual, his gestures jerky, his decisions abrupt. He wanted to appear to be a man who knew how to make up his mind. He was no longer the docile interpreter. Now that the solution to the case was obvious, he would show this foreigner how good the Dutch police were.

His face grew serious. He looked important. Once more he rang the bell.

When the policeman hurried in, he gave orders succinctly, at the same time tapping the table with a paper knife.

“Arrest this man. Lock him up. I’ll see him again later.”

The orders were given in Dutch, but there was no need for translation now.

With that he got up, saying:

“It won’t be long before we have the whole thing cleared up. I will certainly mention the assistance you’ve given us…Your countryman is free to go, and I greatly regret that his tour has been interrupted.”

He spoke with the utmost self-assurance. It would have given him a shock to know what Maigret was thinking:

You’re going to regret this, my friend! You’re going to regret it bitterly, when you’ve had time to cool down!

Pijpekamp opened the door, but Maigret was in no hurry to take his leave.

“I’d like to ask you just one thing more,” he began, in the sweetest of tones.

“Certainly, my dear fellow. What is it?”

“It’s not yet four…Perhaps this evening we might reconstruct the crime, with all the people present who were directly or indirectly mixed up in it…You might jot down the names, please…Madame Popinga, Any, Monsieur Duclos, Barens, the Wienands, Beetje, Oosting, and, last, Monsieur Liewens, Beetje’s father.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to go through the evening step by step, from the moment the professor finished his lecture at the Hotel Van Hasselt.”

A pause. Pijpekamp was thinking it over.

“I must telephone Groningen,” he said finally, “and ask whether it’s all right…But I’m afraid there’ll be one person missing—Conrad Popinga.”

Then, afraid the joke was in bad taste, he shot a furtive glance at the two Frenchmen. But Maigret took it quite seriously.

“Don’t bother about that,” he said. “I’ll take Popinga’s part myself.”

Then, as he turned to go, he added:

“And many thanks for the excellent lunch.”