TEN

The Evening Drags On

Maigret’s bulky figure as he leaned against the door seemed altogether too big for the small room. His face was gray, though not stern; in fact, his humanity had never been more obvious than when he spoke, slowly, quietly, in an almost muffled voice:

“The music goes on…Barens helps Popinga roll up the carpet. In the corner there, Duclos holds forth to Madame Popinga and her sister…Wienand and his wife hold a whispered consultation about whether they ought to be going, because it’s getting late for the children…Popinga has drunk a glass of brandy, and that’s enough to get him going. He laughs. He hums to the music. He goes up to Beetje and asks her to dance with him…”

Madame Popinga stared at the floor. Any’s feverish pupils never left Maigret as he pursued his monologue.

“The murderer already knows what he’s going to do…There’s someone in this room who watches Conrad dancing, knowing that within a couple of hours this man who laughs a little too boisterously, not yet resigned to a quiet life, and still trying desperately to have a good time in spite of everything—that this man will be lying dead…”

His words sent a shock through the little audience. Madame Popinga’s mouth opened for a scream, which, however, remained under control. Beetje’s sobs continued.

In a flash the atmosphere had changed. It was as though Conrad was there in the flesh. Conrad dancing, dancing with two eyes fixed upon him, the eyes that knew he would soon be dead.

Duclos was the only one who tried to make light of it.

“Very clever!” he scoffed.

Nobody appeared to have heard him, and his words were, in any case, half drowned by the music. But he persisted:

“I see now what you’re driving at. An old trick. Play on the murderer’s nerves by bringing him back into the atmosphere of his crime. Get him thoroughly scared, in the hope that he will be so obliging as to give himself away.”

His sneering came faintly through the jazz. But no one was interested any longer in what the professor thought.

Madame Wienand whispered something in her husband’s ear, and he rose timidly from his seat. He was going to speak, but Maigret saved him the trouble.

“Yes. That’s all right. You can go.”

Poor Madame Wienand, so respectable, so well brought up. She wanted to take her leave properly and have the children say good night as good little children should. But the circumstances were too much for her. All she could do was silently give Madame Popinga a limp handshake, gather her brood, and make an ignominious exit.

The clock on the mantelpiece showed five past ten.

“Isn’t it time for the tea yet?” asked Maigret.

“Yes,” answered Any, getting up and going to the kitchen.

“Excuse me, Madame Popinga, but didn’t you go to help her?”

“A little later.”

“You found her in the kitchen?”

Madame Popinga passed her hand across her forehead. She was making a great effort to concentrate. She gazed hopelessly at the radio.

“I…I really can’t say. Not for sure. At least…Wait a moment! I think she was coming out of the dining room. She’d been to get the sugar from the sideboard.”

“Was the dining-room light on?”

“No…It might have been, but I don’t think so.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“Yes. Though that might have been in the kitchen. I remember saying, ‘I hope Conrad won’t drink any more, or he’ll be overstepping the mark.’ ”

Maigret went into the hallway just as the front door closed behind the Wienands. The kitchen was brightly lit and spotlessly clean. The water was boiling on a gas ring. Any was in the act of taking the lid off the teapot.

“Don’t bother to make any tea.”

Any looked Maigret in the eye. They were alone.

“Why did you make me take the cap?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter…Come…”

In the living room, again no one was speaking or moving.

“Have we got to listen to this music all night?” asked Duclos, feeling he must make a protest.

“Perhaps…There’s someone else I’d like to see, and that’s the maid.”

Madame Popinga looked at Any, who answered:

“She’s in bed…She always goes to bed at nine.”

“I see. Well, go and tell her to come down for a moment…She needn’t bother to dress.”

In the same quiet, monotonous voice as before, he continued:

“You were dancing with Conrad, Beetje…In the corner, they were talking seriously…And someone knew there was going to be a murder. Someone knew that it was Popinga’s last evening on this earth…”

Noises overhead. Steps, the shutting of a door on the third floor, which was mostly garrets. Then more steps and a murmur of voices. Finally Any came back into the room; the maid hovered in the hallway.

“Come inside,” growled Maigret. “Someone tell her to come in and not to be frightened.”

She had a large flat face with ill-defined features. Though still bleary-eyed with sleep, she looked scared out of her wits. Over her cream-colored flannelette nightgown, which reached to her feet, she had merely slipped on her coat. Her hair was tousled.

Maigret once more enlisted the professor’s services as interpreter.

“Ask her whether she was Popinga’s mistress.”

With a pained expression, Madame Popinga turned her head away. The question was translated. The girl shook her head.

“Ask her again…No! Ask her if her master ever tried to get her consent.”

Another vigorous denial.

“Tell her that she can be sent to prison if she doesn’t tell the truth…Let’s get down to details. Did he ever kiss her? Did he ever go into her room when she was there?”

The answer this time was a sudden gush of tears.

“I never did anything wrong,” pleaded the girl. “I never did…I swear…”

Little as Duclos liked the job, he translated what she said. With her lips pursed, Any stared at the maid.

“Now go back to the first question: Was she his mistress?”

But the girl could no longer speak coherently. She wept, she wailed, she protested. She tried to explain and asked forgiveness.

“I don’t think she was,” said the professor at last. “When he was alone in the house with her, he’d fool around with her in the kitchen—put his arm around her waist, kiss her, that sort of thing. Once, he came into her room when she was dressing. He used to give her chocolate surreptitiously…But, as far as I can make out, it went no farther than that.”

“She can go back to bed.”

They listened to the girl’s retreating footsteps as she climbed the stairs. Instead of their ceasing when she reached the third floor, there was the noise of her walking back and forth in her room, apparently moving things.

Turning to Any, Maigret said:

“Will you kindly go and see what she’s doing?”

It wasn’t long before Any reported:

“She says she’s leaving the house at once. She won’t stay a minute longer, because she could never look my sister in the face again. She’ll go to Groningen, or somewhere, and never come back to Delfzijl again.”

And, in an aggrieved tone, Any added:

“I suppose that’s what you wanted!”

The evening was dragging on. It was getting late. A voice from the radio announced the end of the program:

“Notre audition est terminée. Bonsoir, mesdames; bonsoir, mesdemoiselles; bonsoir, messieurs.”

Sudden silence. Then, dimly through the silence, faint music from another station. Suddenly it grew louder.

With a curt movement Maigret switched it off, and the silence was now complete, an almost piercing silence. Beetje was no longer sobbing, but her face was still buried in her hands.

“I suppose the conversation went on?” asked Maigret, his voice sounding tired.

No one answered. Every face showed the strain.

“I must apologize for this painful evening,” said Maigret, turning toward Madame Popinga. “But don’t forget that your husband was still alive…He was here in this room talking and laughing…Perhaps he’d had a second glass of brandy?”

“Yes.”

“And he was a condemned man. Do you understand that?…Condemned by someone watching him…And others who are here at this moment are holding back what they know, and are thus making themselves accomplices.”

Cor hiccupped. He was still trembling.

“Isn’t that so, Cornélius?” said Maigret to him point-blank.

“No!…No!…It isn’t true.”

“Then what are you trembling for?”

“I…I…”

He was on the point of breaking down again, as he had on the way back from the farm.

“Listen to me! We’ll soon have reached the time when Beetje left, escorted by Popinga. You left immediately after, Cornélius. You followed them for a moment…and you saw something…”

“No!…It isn’t true.”

“We’ll see about that…After those three had gone, the only people left were Madame Popinga, Mademoiselle Any, and Professor Duclos. They went upstairs.”

Any nodded.

“Each of you went to his own room, didn’t you?”

Then, once more rounding on Cor:

“Tell me what you saw.”

The boy squirmed and wriggled. But he couldn’t escape from the grip of Maigret’s stare.

“No!…Nothing!…Nothing!”

“You didn’t see Oosting hidden behind a tree?”

“No.”

“Yet you couldn’t tear yourself away from the place…That means you saw something.”

“I don’t know…I won’t…No. It’s not possible…”

Everyone looked at him, but he avoided catching anybody’s eye. And Maigret went on pitilessly:

“First of all you saw something on the towpath. The two bicycles were out of sight, but you knew they’d have to pass through the patch lit by the beam from the lighthouse. You were jealous. You waited. And you had a long time to wait. A time that didn’t correspond to the distance they had to go.”

“Yes.”

“In other words, they’d stopped somewhere under the shadow of some lumber…But that wasn’t enough to frighten you. It might have angered you or plunged you in despair. But you saw something else, which alarmed you so much that you stayed where you were, instead of going back to the training ship. You were over by the lumberyard. There was only one window you could see from there…”

It was those last words that unnerved the boy. He looked wildly around. Would he have the strength of mind to hold out?

“It isn’t possible. You couldn’t know that. I…I…”

“There was only one window you could see from there. Madame Popinga’s…Someone was at that window. Someone who, like you, saw the couple take much too long to pass into the lighthouse beam. Someone who knew that Conrad and Beetje had stopped on the way.”

“I was at the window,” said Madame Popinga firmly.

Now it was Beetje’s turn to look around wildly with frightened eyes.

To everyone’s surprise, Maigret asked no further questions. Not that that brought any relief; it only added to the prevailing uneasiness. They seemed to have come to the climax, and the sudden pause only heightened the suspense.

The inspector went out into the hallway, opened the front door, and called out:

“Pijpekamp! Would you come here, please? Leave Oosting where he is.”

Then, as the Dutchman approached:

“You saw the lights go on in the Wienands’?…I suppose they’re off now?”

“Yes. They’ve gone to bed.”

“And Oosting?”

“He’s standing behind the tree.”

The Groningen detective looked at everyone with surprise. They were all calm now, unbelievably calm, but they all looked as though they hadn’t slept for nights and nights.

“Have you got the revolver?”

“Here it is.”

Maigret took it and held it out to Duclos.

“Will you please go and put this in the place where you found it after the murder?”

There was no resistance left in the professor, and he meekly obeyed, rejoining them a moment later.

“Will you wait here a moment?” said Maigret to Pijpekamp. “I’m going out with Beetje Liewens, just as Popinga did. Madame Popinga will go up to her room. So will her sister and the professor…I want them to go through the same actions as on that night.”

Then, turning to Beetje:

“Will you come?”

It was cold outside. Maigret led the girl to the shed at the back of the house, where he found Popinga’s and two women’s bicycles.

“Take one of those.”

They cycled off in the direction of the lumberyard.

“Which of you suggested stopping?”

“Conrad.”

“Was he still in high spirits?”

“No. As soon as we were alone together, he seemed to droop.”

They were passing the stacks of lumber.

“We’ll stop here…Did he make love to you?”

“Yes, and no. That is, halfheartedly. He was definitely depressed by that time. Maybe it was the brandy. It made him lighthearted at first, then left him flat as a pancake. He put his arm around me. We were standing right here…He told me he was very unhappy and that I was a real good sort…Yes, he did. Those were his very words…that I was a real good sort, but that I’d come into his life too late. Then he went on to say that we had to be careful, or something dreadful might happen.”

“What had you done with the bicycles?”

“We’d leaned them against the lumber…His voice was tearful. He got like that sometimes when he drank…He began saying that it wasn’t on his account at all—that his life didn’t matter—but it would be criminal at my age to ruin my life by plunging into a risky adventure…He swore he loved me, but that he couldn’t bring himself to ruin my life. He told me that Cor was a nice boy, and I’d be happy with him when I once settled down…”

“And then?”

She was breathing hard, obviously agitated. She burst out:

“I told him he was a coward. I tried to get on my bicycle.”

“Did he stop you?”

“Yes. He seized the handlebar and wouldn’t let go. He said:

“‘Let me explain…I’m only thinking of you. It’s…’ ”

“What did he explain?”

“Nothing. I didn’t give him a chance. I threatened to shout if he didn’t let go. He did, and I jumped on and pedaled off as hard as I could. He followed, talking all the time. But he couldn’t catch up with me, and all I heard was:

“‘Beetje! Beetje! Do listen.’ ”

“Is that all?”

“When he saw that I’d reached the farm gate, he turned around…I looked back at him and saw him riding off. He seemed to be hunched over his handlebar…I thought he looked miserable.”

“And you jumped on your bicycle again and rode after him?”

“No. I was too angry with him for trying to throw me into Cor’s arms. I could see why. He wanted to be left in peace…It was only when I reached the front door that I noticed I’d dropped my scarf. I was afraid it might be found by the lumber stack, so I went back to look for it…I didn’t see anybody. But I was surprised, when I finally got home, to find that my father was still out. He came back a little later. He was pale, and there was a hard look in his eyes. He didn’t say good night to me, and I guessed he’d been watching us. He could easily have been hiding in the lumberyard too.

“The next day he must have searched my room and found Conrad’s letters, because I discovered they were missing. Then—well, you know the rest.”

“Come along.”

“Where?”

Maigret didn’t bother to answer, and they bicycled back in silence to the Popingas’ house. There was a light in Madame Popinga’s window, but there was no sign of her.

“Do you really think she did it?”

But the inspector was thinking of Popinga.

He had retraced his steps, upset by the scene he had come from. Jumping off his bicycle, he had wheeled it around to the back…He was tempted by Beetje, but incapable of taking the plunge.

Maigret got off, saying:

“Stay there, Beetje.”

He wheeled his bicycle down the path that ran along the side of the house, and crossed the yard to the shed.

Duclos’s window was lighted, and it was just possible to make out his figure sitting at the little table. Two yards farther on was the bathroom window, slightly open, but showing no light.

I don’t suppose he was in any hurry to go in, thought Maigret, his mind going back once more to Popinga. He bent his head just as I am doing as he wheeled his bicycle in under the roof.

Was he deliberately dawdling? He seemed to be waiting for something to happen. And, as a matter of fact, something did happen.

A little noise above, coming from the bathroom window, a metallic sound, the click of an unloaded revolver.

It was immediately followed by a scuffle…the thud of a body, perhaps two bodies, falling to the floor.

Maigret nipped into the house through the kitchen door and, dashing upstairs, switched on the bathroom light.

On the floor two men were wrestling. One of them was Pijpekamp, the other Cornélius Barens. As Maigret entered the room, the boy went limp, and his hand dropped a revolver.

It was the revolver Duclos had been told to replace on the bathroom windowsill, the revolver that had killed Conrad.