The Flemish House Read Online Free PDF Page A

the rounded sterns of barges.
    The
Étoile Polaire
at its
     head.
    He went outside, filling his pipe,
     turning up the collar of his overcoat, and the wind was so strong that in spite of
     his bulk he had to brace himself to stand up to it.

3. The Midwife
    As usual, Maigret had got up at eight
     o’clock in the morning. With his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, his
     pipe between his teeth, he stood motionless facing the bridge for a long while, now
     watching the river in its madness, now letting his gaze drift over the
     passersby.
    The wind was as violent as it had been
     the previous day. It was much colder than in Paris.
    But how exactly could you tell that you
     were at the border? Was it the transition to Belgian-style houses with their ugly
     brown brickwork, their freestone doorsteps and their windows decorated with copper
     pots?
    The harder, more chiselled features of
     the Walloons? The khaki uniforms of the Belgian customs officers? Or was it that the
     currency of both countries was used in the shops?
    In any case, it was unmistakable: you
     were at the border. Two peoples lived side by side.
    Maigret felt better than ever as he
     stepped into a waterside bistro for a hot rum. A French bistro, with the whole range
     of multicoloured aperitifs. Mirrors on pale walls. And people standing drinking
     their morning glass of white wine.
    There were about ten sailors around the
     owners of two tugs. They were talking about the possibility of going down the river
     in spite of everything.
    â€˜There’s no chance of getting
     beyond the Dinant bridge! Even if you could, we’d be forced to take fifteen
     French francs per ton. It’s too expensive. At that price it’s better to
     wait.’
    And they looked at Maigret. One man
     nudged another with his elbow. The inspector had been spotted.
    â€˜There’s a Fleming
     who’s talking about leaving tomorrow, without an engine, and just letting
     himself be carried along by the current …’
    There were no Flemings in the café. They
     preferred the Peeters’ shop, all in dark wood, with its smells of coffee,
     chicory, cinnamon and genever. They must have stayed there with their elbows on the
     counter for hours at a time, stretching out an idle conversation, looking with their
     pale eyes at the stickers on the door.
    Maigret listened to what was being said
     around him. He learned that the Flemish sailors were not liked, not so much
     personally, but because, with their boats and their powerful engines, maintained
     like kitchen utensils, they were in competition with the French and accepted freight
     at derisory prices.
    â€˜And what if they’re
     involved in killing girls?’
    They were speaking for Maigret’s
     benefit, looking at him out of the corners of their eyes.
    â€˜I wonder what’s keeping the
     police from arresting the Peeters family! Maybe they’ve got too much money so
     they’re in two minds about it …’
    Maigret left the bistro and wandered
     along the quayside for another few minutes, looking at the brown water, which was
     sweeping tree branches along. In the little streeton the left he
     spotted the house that Anna had pointed out to him.
    The light that morning was sad, the sky
     a uniform grey. The people, who were cold, didn’t linger in the streets.
    The inspector walked to the door and
     pulled on the bell cord. It was just after a quarter past eight. The woman who
     opened the door must have been busy with some big cleaning project, because she
     wiped her hands on her wet apron.
    â€˜Who do you want?’
    At the end of the corridor a kitchen
     could be seen, with a bucket and a brush in the middle of it.
    â€˜Is Monsieur Piedboeuf at
     home?’
    She looked him suspiciously up and
     down.
    â€˜The father or the son?’
    â€˜The father.’
    â€˜I suppose you’re from the
     police? Then you should know that at this time of day