A Crime in Holland by Georges Simenon Page A

towards Maigret, or at least took a couple of steps.
    â€˜I never dreamed …’ she whispered. ‘Never. I lived … I … And when he died, I …’
    He guessed, from her breathing, that she had a heart
condition, and a moment later she confirmed his hypothesis by standing still for a long moment, pressing her hand to her chest.
    Someone else moved in the room: the farmer, with wild eyes and a fevered expression, had gone over to the table and snatched up the letters from his daughter, with the nervous gesture of a thief fearing to be caught.
    She let him go ahead. Maigret did the same.
    But Liewens did not yet dare leave. He could be heard speaking, without addressing anyone in particular. Maigret caught the word
Fransman
, and it was as if he could understand Dutch in the same way that Liewens, that day, had understood French.
    He could more or less work out the sentence: ‘And you think it was necessary to tell the Frenchman all this?’
    Liewens dropped his cap, picked it up, bowed to Any, who was standing in his way, but to her alone, muttered a few more unintelligible syllables and went out. The maid must have finished cleaning the step since they heard the door open and shut and his footsteps going away.
    In spite of the younger woman’s presence, Maigret asked some further questions, with a gentleness one might not have suspected in him.
    â€˜Have you already shown these letters to your sister?’
    â€˜No. But when that man …’
    â€˜Where were they?’
    â€˜In a drawer in the bedside table … I never used to open it. It was where the revolver was kept too.’
    Any said something in Dutch, and Madame Popinga translated automatically.
    â€˜My sister is telling me I ought to go and lie down. Because I haven’t slept for three nights. He’d never have gone away from here … He must have been imprudent, just one indiscretion, don’t you think? He liked to laugh and play. But now that I think of it, some little things come back … Beetje used to bring over fruits and home-made cake … I thought she was coming to see me. And she would ask us to play tennis … Always at a time when she knew quite well I was busy. But I didn’t see any harm in it. I was glad Conrad had a chance to relax. Because he worked very hard, and Delfzijl was a bit dull for him. Last year, she nearly came to Paris with us … and it was even my idea!’
    She said all this simply, but with a weariness in which there was hardly any rancour.
    â€˜He can’t have wanted to leave here … You heard … But he was afraid of causing pain to anyone. That was how he was. He used to be reprimanded for giving exam marks that were too generous. That’s why my father didn’t care for him.’
    She put an ornament back in its place, and this precise housewifely act was at odds with the atmosphere in the room.
    â€˜I’d just like all this to be over. Because we’re not even allowed to bury him. You know that? I don’t know … I want them to give him back to me. God will see that the guilty one is punished.’
    She became more animated. She went on, her voice firmer now:
    â€˜Yes! That’s what I believe. Things like this, they’re a matter between God and the murderer. What can we know?’
    She gave a start, as if an idea had just struck her. Pointing to the door, she gasped:
    â€˜Perhaps he’s going to kill her. He’s capable of it. That would be terrible!’
    Any was looking at her with some impatience. She must have been thinking all these words were of no help, and it was with a calm voice that she asked:
    â€˜So now, what do you think,
monsieur le commissaire
?’
    â€˜Nothing!’
    She didn’t insist. But her face showed her dissatisfaction.
    â€˜I don’t think anything, because above all there is the