A Crime in Holland Read Online Free Page B

on,’ he said suddenly, thrusting both hands into his pockets.
    He was hardly surprised to see the other policeman blush.
    â€˜You know already?’
    He checked himself.
    â€˜Of course, you have spent all afternoon in Delfzijl … French tactics.’
    He seemed hesitant.
    â€˜I don’t know yet what this statement means. It was on the fourth day. Madame Popinga turned up. She told me that she had consulted the minister, to see whether she ought to say anything. You know the layout of the house? Not yet? I can show you a diagram?’
    â€˜Thanks! But I’ve got one,’ said Maigret, taking it from his pocket.
    The other man, looking startled, went on:
    â€˜You see the Popingas’ bedroom? From the window, you can glimpse only a little section of the road leading to the
farm. Just the stretch that is lit up by the lighthouse every fifteen seconds.’
    â€˜And Madame Popinga was jealous, so she was spying on her husband?’
    â€˜She was looking out. She saw the two bikes on the way to the farm. Then her husband cycling back. Then about a hundred metres behind him, Beetje Liewens’s bicycle.’
    â€˜In other words, after Conrad Popinga saw her home, Beetje returned on her own towards the Popinga house. So what does she say about this?’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜The girl.’
    â€˜Nothing so far. I didn’t want to question her right away. It’s very serious, and you may have chosen the right word. Jealousy. You understand? Monsieur Liewens is a member of the Council.’
    â€˜What time did Cor get back to the Naval College?’
    â€˜That we do know, five minutes past midnight.’
    â€˜And the shot was fired …?’
    â€˜Five minutes before midnight … But there’s the cap and the cigar …’
    â€˜And he has a bike?’
    â€˜Yes. Everybody cycles everywhere here. It’s practical. I do it myself … But that night, he didn’t have his bike with him.’
    â€˜The revolver has been examined?’
    â€˜
Ja!
It’s Conrad Popinga’s own gun. His service revolver. It was always loaded with six bullets, and inside a drawer of his bedside table.’
    â€˜And the shot was fired from how many metres away?’
    â€˜About six. The distance from the bathroom window. And also the distance from Monsieur Duclos’s bedroom. And perhaps the shot wasn’t fired from up above. We don’t know, because Popinga, who was putting his bike away, could have been bending down. But there’s the cap. And the cigar. Don’t forget.’
    â€˜Cigar, phooey,’ muttered Maigret to himself.
    And out loud:
    â€˜Is Mademoiselle Any aware of her sister’s statement?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜And what does she say about it?’
    â€˜She hasn’t said anything. She’s highly educated. She doesn’t talk much. She’s not like other girls.’
    â€˜Is she ugly?’
    Every one of Maigret’s interruptions had the knack of disconcerting the Dutch policeman.
    â€˜Well … not pretty.’
    â€˜Very well, she’s ugly. And you were saying that …’
    â€˜She wants to find the murderer. She’s working on it. She has asked to see the reports.’
    Chance took a hand. A young woman came in, with a leather briefcase under her arm: she was dressed austerely, almost to the point of eccentricity.
    She marched straight up to the Groningen police officer. She began speaking volubly in her own language, either not seeing the stranger, or taking no notice of him.
    The Dutchman reddened, shifted from one foot to the other, shuffling his papers to give himself an air of authority and indicating Maigret with his eyes. But she did not deign to pay any attention to the Frenchman.
    In despair, the Dutch inspector spoke in French, as if with regret.
    â€˜She says the law forbids you to question anyone on Dutch