A Crime in Holland by Georges Simenon

you’ve got some prize exhibit to show me, and you’ll bring it out over dessert. If you have the patience to wait that long.’
    He was not mistaken. The first course was tomato soup, which was served with a Saint-Émilion sweet enough to make you feel bilious, and obviously fortified for export.
    â€˜Your health!’
    What a good show Pijpekamp was putting on! Doing his very best or even better. And Maigret didn’t even seem to notice it. He showed no appreciation!
    â€˜In Holland, you know, we never drink with the meal, only afterwards. In the evening, on special occasions a little glass of wine with a cigar. And we don’t have bread with the meal either.’
    And he looked at the bread basket, which he had ordered specially. He had even arranged for port as an aperitif, instead of the national drink of genever.
    What more could he have done? He was pink with excitement. He looked at the golden wine bottle with emotion. Jean Duclos was eating as if his mind were elsewhere.
    And Pijpekamp had been so anxious to inject some gaiety into this lunch, to create an atmosphere of abandon, a real explosion of Frenchness!
    The waiters brought in the national Dutch dish: the
hutspot
. The meat was swimming in litres of gravy, and Pijpekamp assumed a mysterious air to announce:
    â€˜Now, you must tell me if you like it.’
    Unfortunately, Maigret was not in a good mood. He could indeed sense some kind of mystery in the air, but as yet was unable to fathom it.
    It seemed to him that there was a kind of freemasonry between Duclos and the Dutch policeman. For instance, every time the latter refilled Maigret’s glass, he stole a glance at the professor.
    A bottle of Burgundy was warming by the stove.
    â€˜I thought you’d be drinking more wine.’
    â€˜That depends …’
    Duclos was certainly ill at ease. He avoided joining in the conversation, and was drinking nothing but mineral water, claiming he was on a diet.
    Pijpekamp could wait no longer. He’d chatted about the beauties of the harbour, the volume of traffic on the Ems, the University of Groningen, where the greatest scholars in the world came to give lectures.
    â€˜And now you know, we’ve come up with something new.’
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜Your health! The health of the French police! Yes, now, the mystery is more or less cleared up.’
    Maigret looked at him with his most neutral gaze, showing not the slightest trace of emotion, or even curiosity.
    â€˜This morning, at about ten o’clock, I was told that someone was waiting to see me in my office. Guess who?’
    â€˜Barens. Yes, go on.’
    Pijpekamp was even more crestfallen than over the lack of effect the luxurious meal had had on his guest.
    â€˜How did you know? Someone told you, didn’t they?’
    â€˜Not at all. What did he want?’
    â€˜You know him. Very timid, very – what’s the French word? Reserved. He didn’t dare look me in the eye. You’d have thought he was about to burst into tears. He confessed that on the night of the crime, when he left the Popingas’ house, he didn’t go straight back to the boat.’
    At this point, the Dutch inspector gave a whole series of winks and nudges.
    â€˜You get it? He is in love with Beetje. And he was jealous because Beetje had been dancing with Popinga. And he
was cross with her, because she’d drunk a cognac. He saw them both leave. He went after them at a distance. Then he followed his tutor back home.’
    Maigret remained hard-hearted. And yet he could see that the other man would have given anything to receive some indication on his part of surprise, admiration or indeed discomfiture.
    â€˜Your good health, monsieur. Barens didn’t tell us at first, because he was frightened. But now, here’s the truth! He saw a man running away immediately after the gunshot, towards the timber yard where he must have been