Free A Crime in Holland by Georges Simenon Page B

moments later with a calm bearing such as is reached only at a high pitch of emotion.
    And slowly, she too put some letters on the table. She did not throw them down. She placed them deliberately. She looked at the farmer and then at the inspector.
    She opened her mouth several times before managing to speak and then said:
    â€˜You will have to judge for yourselves … Someone should read these out …’
    At that moment, Liewens blushed a deep scarlet as blood rushed to his cheeks. He was too Dutch to fall on the letters at once, but they drew him as if by an irresistible spell.
    A woman’s handwriting. Blue paper … Letters from Beetje, obviously. One thing was immediately striking: the disproportion between the two piles of letters. There were perhaps ten notes from Popinga, always written on a single sheet of paper, and usually consisting of four or five lines.
    There were about thirty letters from Beetje, long and closely written!
    Conrad was dead. And there remained these two unequal piles of letters, as well as the stack of timber that had protected the couple’s rendezvous, on the banks of the Amsterdiep.
    â€˜Best if everyone calms down,’ said Maigret. ‘And perhaps it would be preferable to read out these letters without getting too angry.’
    The farmer stared at him, with remarkable sharpness,
and must have understood since he took a step towards the table, in spite of himself.
    Maigret leaned on to the table with both hands, and picked up a note from Popinga at random.
    â€˜Would you have the goodness to translate this, please, Mademoiselle Any?’
    But the young woman did not seem to hear him. She looked down at the writing, without speaking. Her sister, serious and dignified, took the letter from her hands.
    â€˜It was written at college,’ she said. ‘There’s no date, just six o’clock. This is what it says:
Dear little Beetje,
    Better if you don’t come tonight as the college principal is coming round for a cup of tea. See you tomorrow.
    Love and kisses.
    She looked around with an air of calm defiance. Then she picked up another note. She read it out slowly:
Dear pretty little Beetje,
    You must calm down. And remember that life is long. I’ve got a lot of work to do with the third-year exams. I can’t come tonight.
    Why do you keep saying I don’t love you? I can’t leave the college. What on earth would we do?
    Take it easy, I beg you. We’ve got plenty of time.
    With affectionate kisses.
    And as Maigret seemed to say that that was enough, Madame Popinga took up another letter:
    â€˜There’s this one, probably the last.’
My dear Beetje,
    It’s impossible. I beg you to be sensible. You know perfectly well that I don’t have any money and that it would take a long time to find employment abroad.
    You must be more careful and not get so wrought up. And above all, trust me.
    Don’t be afraid. If what you are worried about happens, I’ll do my duty.
    I’m anxious because I’ve got a lot of work on just now, and when I think of you, I can’t work properly. The principal passed a critical remark yesterday and I was very upset.
    I’ll try to get out tomorrow evening, and tell them I’m going to visit a Norwegian ship in port.
    I embrace you fondly, little Beetje.
    Madame Popinga looked at each of them in turn, wearily, her eyes hooded. Her hand moved to the other pile, the one she had brought in, and the farmer gave a start. She pulled out a letter.
Dear Conrad, that I love so much,
    Good news: Papa has put another thousand florins in my bank account for my birthday present. That’s enough to get to America, because I looked up the boat fares in the newspaper. And we could travel third class!
    But why don’t you hurry up? I can’t live here any more. Holland is stifling me to death. The people in Delfzijl seem to be staring at me with disapproval all the