A Crime in Holland Read Online Free PDF

the water of the harbour.
    The Baes’s gaze, as it wandered calmly across the scene,
contrived to take in Maigret as part of the landscape. His blue-green eyes were very small. They remained focused on the French inspector for a short while, after which the man tapped out his pipe against his wooden clog, spat, felt in his pockets for the pig’s bladder he used to hold his tobacco, and settled himself more comfortably up against the wall.
    From that point on, Maigret felt that gaze resting continuously on him, conveying neither bravado nor distrust: a cool and yet concerned gaze, one that was weighing up, appreciating and calculating.
    Maigret had been the first to leave the police station, having arranged a later meeting with the Dutch inspector, whose name was Pijpekamp.
    Any had remained inside, and presently went past, clutching her briefcase under her arm, leaning forward slightly, like a woman with no interest in anything happening in the street.
    It wasn’t Any that Maigret was watching, but the Baes, who followed her for a while with his eyes, then, with a more puckered brow, turned towards Maigret.
    So, without really knowing why, Maigret moved towards the group, which fell silent. Ten faces turned in his direction, expressing a degree of surprise.
    He addressed Oosting:
    â€˜Excuse me. Do you understand French?’
    The Baes did not budge, appearing to be thinking. A lanky seaman standing alongside him explained in English and Dutch:
    â€˜
Frenchman!
Frans
politie
.’
    The next minute was perhaps one of the strangest in Maigret’s career.
    The man he had spoken to, turning briefly towards his boat, seemed to hesitate.
    It was clear that he wanted to ask the inspector to come aboard with him. One could see a small oak-panelled cabin, with its swinging lamp, a compass.
    The other men waited. He opened his mouth.
    Then suddenly he shrugged his shoulders, as if deciding: ‘No, that’s ridiculous!’
    But that wasn’t what he said. In a hoarse voice issuing from his throat, he uttered: ‘No understand.
Hollands
 … 
English
 …’
    They could still see Any’s dark silhouette, with her crepe mourning veil, crossing the bridge over the canal before taking the towpath along the Amsterdiep.
    The Baes intercepted Maigret’s glance at his new cap, but did not flinch. Rather, the shadow of a smile crossed his lips.
    At that moment, the inspector would have given good money to be able to have a chat with this man in his own language, even for five minutes. His goodwill was such that he stammered out a few sentences in English, but his accent was so strong that nobody understood.
    â€˜No understand. Nobody understand!’ repeated the man who had spoken.
    So they resumed their conversation, while Maigret walked away with the vague feeling that he had been very close to the heart of the enigma and that now, for want of mutual comprehension, he was getting further away from it.
    He turned round a few minutes later. The Quayside Rats were still chatting as the sun set, and its last rays cast a rosier glow over the heavy-jowled face of the Baes, still turned in Maigret’s direction.
    Until then, Maigret had in some sense been circling round the drama, saving until last the visit, always a painful one, to the house of mourning.
    He rang the doorbell. It was just after six. He hadn’t realized that this was the time when Dutch people eat their evening meal, and when a young housemaid opened the door, he could see in the dining room the two women sitting at the table.
    They both stood up in a simultaneous movement with the slightly stiff air of well-brought-up schoolgirls.
    They were dressed in black. The table was laid with teacups, wafer-thin slices of bread and cold meats. Despite the gathering dusk, the lamp was not lit but a gas-fired stove, its flames visible through its mica panes, was struggling against the dark.
    It was Any who immediately