A Crime in Holland by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page A

commanding tone. Beetje spoke in French:
    â€˜He wants me to say to you …’
    Her father was watching her as if to guess whether she was translating his words exactly.
    â€˜â€¦Â that in Holland the police do not make arrangements to meet unmarried girls after dark out in the countryside.’
    Maigret blushed as he had rarely had occasion to before. The rush of warm blood made his ears buzz.
    What an idiotic accusation! And made in such bad faith!
    Because there was Cornelius, skulking in the shadows, his eyes anxious and his shoulders hunched!
    And Beetje’s father must surely have known that it was to meet him that she had gone out. So? … What could he say in reply? Especially since he would have to go through an interpreter!
    In any event, nobody waited for his answer. The father snapped his fingers as if to call a dog, and pointed out the path to his daughter, who hesitated, turned towards Maigret, did not dare look at her young admirer, and finally trudged away ahead of her father.
    Cornelius hadn’t moved. He raised a hand as if to stop the farmer’s progress, but let it fall. Father and daughter disappeared into the distance. Shortly afterwards the farmhouse door slammed shut.
    Had the frogs stopped croaking during this scene? It was hard to be sure, but their chorus now reached a deafening pitch.
    â€˜Do you speak French?’
    â€˜â€¦Â Little bit.’
    The cadet was looking at Maigret with dislike, opening his mouth to speak only reluctantly, and was standing sideways as if to offer less purchase to an attacker.
    â€˜Why are you so frightened?’
    Tears sprang to his eyes, but there were no sobs.
Cornelius blew his nose at length. His hands were shaking. Was he going to have another panic attack?
    â€˜Do you really think you’re going to be accused of killing your tutor?’
    And Maigret added in a gruff voice:
    â€˜Come on, let’s go.’
    He pushed Cornelius in the direction of the town. He spoke slowly, sensing that his listener could only grasp about half his words.
    â€˜Is it for yourself that you’re afraid?’
    He was just a kid! A thin face with still unformed features, pale skin. Slender shoulders under the tight-fitting uniform. The cadet’s cap was the finishing touch, making him look like a little boy dressed up as a sailor.
    And distrust in his whole attitude, in the expression on his face. If Maigret had shouted at him, he would probably have raised his arms to fend off blows.
    The black armband contributed a sombre and pitiful note to his appearance. It was only a month ago, wasn’t it, that this boy had learned that his mother had died in the East Indies, perhaps one night when he had been enjoying himself in Delfzijl, possibly even at the annual college ball?
    He would be going home in two years, with the rank of third officer, and his father would show him a grave already overgrown, and maybe another woman installed in the family home.
    And his life would begin on some great steamship: watches on deck, ports of call, Java–Rotterdam, Rotterdam–Java, two days here, five or six hours there.
    â€˜Where were you when your teacher was shot?’
    Now a terrible heart-wrenching sob. The boy seized Maigret’s lapels in his white-gloved hands, which were trembling convulsively.
    â€˜No, not true! Not true,’ he repeated a dozen or more times. ‘
Nee!
You not understand. No, no. Not true!’
    They had reached the patch of light beamed out by the lighthouse once more. The brightness dazzled them, outlining their shapes, making every detail stand out.
    â€˜Where were you?’
    â€˜Over there.’
    Over there was the Popinga house, and the canal, which he must have been in the habit of crossing by jumping from log to log.
    This was an important detail. Popinga had died at five to midnight. Cornelius had reported back to his ship at five past midnight. The usual route, through the