A Crime in Holland by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online

to catch his breath. Then he set off again.
    The light was behind them now. Ahead was a lit window, in the farm. Was the sound of the frogs following them? Although they were moving forward, it stayed close by, surrounding them, as if there were scores of the creatures escorting them.
    A hundred metres from the house, a sudden final stop. A shadow detached itself from a tree trunk. A voice whispered.
    Maigret had no wish to turn round and go back. That would be ridiculous. Nor did he want to hide. In any case it was too late, since he had walked through the lighthouse beam.
    They knew he was there. He went forward slowly, unsettled now that there were no footsteps to echo his own.
    The gloom was intense because of the thick foliage either side of the path. But a white glove showed up ahead, in movement.
    An embrace. Cornelius’s hand around the waist of a girl: Beetje.
    Another fifty metres to go. Maigret paused for a moment, took some matches from his pocket and struck one to light his pipe, thus indicating his exact position.
    Then he stepped forward. The lovers stirred. When he was no more than ten metres away, Beetje’s silhouette detached itself and came to stand in the middle of the path, her face turned towards him, as if waiting for him. Cornelius stayed behind, flattening himself against a tree trunk.
    Eight metres.
    The window at the farm was still lit behind them. A plain reddish rectangle.
    Suddenly there came a strangled cry, an indescribable cry of fear, indicating a loss of nerve, an utterance such as often precedes an outbreak of tearful sobs.
    It was Cornelius weeping, his head in his hands, pressing himself against the tree as if for protection.
    Beetje was standing in front of Maigret. She was wearing a coat, but the inspector noted that underneath she was in her nightdress, her legs were bare and her feet in bedroom slippers.
    â€˜Pay no attention!’
    Well, this one was calm at any rate. Indeed she shot a glance at Cornelius, full of reproach and impatience.
    The boy turned his back on them, trying to calm down. He couldn’t manage it and was ashamed of his emotion.
    â€˜He’s on edge … He thinks …’
    â€˜What does he think?’
    â€˜That he’s going to be accused …’
    Cornelius was still keeping his distance. He wiped his eyes. Was he about to make a break for it?
    â€˜I haven’t accused anyone yet!’ announced Maigret, for the sake of saying something.
    â€˜Of course not!’
    And turning towards her companion, she spoke to him in Dutch. Maigret thought he understood, or guessed, that she was saying:
    â€˜You see? The inspector isn’t accusing you. Calm down. This is childish!’
    Then she suddenly stopped speaking. She stayed still,
listening. Maigret hadn’t heard anything. A few seconds later, he thought he too could hear the snapping of a twig coming from the farm’s direction. It was enough to rouse Cornelius, who looked round, his features drawn and his senses alerted.
    Nobody spoke.
    â€˜Did you hear?’ Beetje whispered. Cornelius tried to move towards the sound, with the bravado of a young cock. He was breathing heavily.
    Too late. The enemy was nearer than they had realized.
    Ten metres away, a figure loomed up, immediately recognizable: Farmer Liewens, in his carpet slippers.
    â€˜Beetje!’ he called.
    She did not dare answer at once. But as he repeated her name, she sighed, tremulously:
    â€˜
Ja.
’
    Liewens was still coming forward. He walked past Cornelius, affecting not to notice him. Perhaps he had not yet seen Maigret?
    But it was in front of the latter that he stopped foursquare, eyes blazing and nostrils quivering with anger. He managed to contain himself, however. And stood quite still. When he spoke, his words were addressed to his daughter, in a harsh, peremptory voice.
    Two or three sentences. She hung her head. Then he repeated the same word several times, in a