The Flemish House (2 page)

Joseph had had a child by a young local
girl … The child was three years old … But the girl had suddenly disappeared, and
the Peeters family were accused of killing or kidnapping her.

Maigret didn't have to get
involved in any of that. A
colleague in Nancy was on the case. He
had sent him a telegram, and received his categorical reply:

Peeters family v guilty. Stop.
Arrest imminent.

That had made his mind up. He arrived in
Givet without a mission, without an official title. And, from the station he fell
under the wing of Anna, whom he never grew tired of observing.

The current was violent. The flood
formed noisy cascades by each pier of the bridge, and dragged whole trees along.

The wind, which swept through the Meuse
valley, blew against the direction of the river, lifting the water to unexpected
heights and creating real waves.

It was three in the afternoon. The first
hints of night falling.

There were gusts of wind in the almost
deserted streets. The few passersby walked quickly, and Anna wasn't the only
one blowing her nose.

‘See this alleyway on the left
…'

Anna paused discreetly for a moment,
pointing almost imperceptibly at the second house in the sidestreet. A poor-looking,
single-storey house. There was already a light on – a paraffin lamp – at one
window.

‘That's where she
lives!'

‘Who?'

‘Her! Germaine Piedboeuf … The
girl who …'

‘The one your brother had a child
with?'

‘If the child is his! It
hasn't even been proved. Look!'

In a doorway a couple could be seen: a
hatless girl, probably a little factory worker, and the back of a man who was
hugging her.

‘Is that her?'

‘No, because she's
disappeared … But she's the same kind of girl … You understand? She made my
brother believe …'

‘Doesn't the child look like
him?'

She replied crisply:

‘He looks like his mother. Come
on! These people are always watching from behind their curtains …'

‘Does she have a
family?'

‘Her father, who is a night
watchman at the factory, and her brother Gérard …'

The little house, and particularly the
window lit by the paraffin lamp, were now etched in the inspector's
memory.

‘Do you know Givet?'

‘I once passed through without
stopping.'

An endless quay, very wide, with mooring
posts every twenty metres for the barges. Some warehouses. A low building with a
flag flying on it.

‘French customs … Our house is
further away, near Belgian customs …'

The water was lapping so furiously that
the barges were bumping against one another. Untethered horses were grazing the
sparse grass.

‘You see that light? That's
where we live.'

A customs officer watched them passing
without a word. In a group of sailors, someone started speaking Flemish.

‘What are they saying?'

She hesitated to reply, and averted her
head for the first time.

‘That we'll never know the
truth!'

And she walked more quickly, against the
wind, her back bent to offer less resistance to the wind.

Now they were outside the town. This was
the realm of the river, of boats, of customs, of charterers. Here and there an
electric light was lit, in the middle of the wind. On a barge, washing flapping on a
line. Children playing in the mud.

‘Your colleague came to our house
again and told us on behalf of the examining magistrate that we were to place
ourselves at the disposal of the forces of law and order … It's the fourth
time everything has been searched, even the water-tank …'

They were almost there. The Flemish
house was becoming more clearly visible. It was a building of a considerable size,
beside the river, in the place where the boats were most concentrated. There was no
other house nearby. The only building in sight, a hundred metres away, was the
Belgian customs house, flanked by a traffic light.

‘If you would care to come in
…'

On the glass panes of the door there
were transparent stickers advertising brass-cleaning creams. A bell rang.

And from the doorway, they were wrapped
in warmth, an indefinable atmosphere, quiet and syrupy and dominated by smells. But
what were the smells? There was a hint of cinnamon and a darker note of ground
coffee.
There was also a smell of paraffin, but with a whiff of
genever.

An electric lightbulb, just one. Behind
the dark-brown-painted wooden counter a white-haired woman in a black blouse was
talking in Flemish to a barge woman. The latter was carrying a child in her
arms.

‘Please come this way, inspector
…'

Maigret had had time to see shelves
filled with goods. He had particularly noticed, at the end of the counter, the part
that had a zinc top, some bottles tipped with tin spouts, containing eau de vie.

He didn't have time to stop.
Another glass door, with a curtain. They passed through the kitchen. An old man was
sitting in a wicker armchair, right against the stove.

‘This way …'

A colder corridor. Another door. And it
was an unexpected room, half drawing room, half dining room, with a piano, a violin
case, a carefully waxed parquet floor, comfortable furniture and reproductions of
paintings on the walls.

‘Give me your coat.'

The table was laid: a tablecloth with a
wide check, silver cutlery and fine china cups.

‘You'll have something to
drink, won't you?'

Maigret's coat was already in the
corridor, and Anna came back in a white silk blouse that made her look even less
girlish.

And yet she had a full figure. So why
that lack of femininity? It was impossible to imagine her in love. Even harder to
imagine a man in love with her.

Everything was prepared in advance. She
brought in a steaming coffee pot. She filled three cups. After disappearing again,
she came back with a rice tart.

‘Sit down, inspector … My mother
is on her way …'

‘Are you the pianist?'

‘Me and my sister … But she has
less time than I do. She marks homework in the evening.'

‘And the violin?'

‘My brother …'

‘Isn't he in
Givet?'

‘He'll be here shortly … I
told him you were coming …'

She sliced the tart. She served her
guest, without asking him whether he wanted anything. Madame Peeters came in, her
hands folded over her stomach, and with a shy smile of welcome on her face, a smile
full of melancholy and resignation.

‘Anna told me you'd agreed
…'

She was more Flemish than her daughter
and still had a slight accent. But she had very fine features, and her surprisingly
white hair gave her a certain nobility. She sat down on the edge of her chair, like
a woman who is used to being disturbed.

‘You must be hungry, after your
journey … As for myself, I haven't had an appetite since …'

Maigret thought of the old man who was
still in the kitchen. Why didn't he come and have some tart as well? At that
very moment, Madame Peeters said to her daughter:

‘Bring your father a piece
…'

And, to Maigret:

‘He hardly ever leaves his armchair
now. He barely knows what's going on.'

Everything about the atmosphere was the
opposite of a drama. It was as if the worst events could happen outside, without
disturbing the peace and quiet of the Flemish house, in which there was not a speck
of dust, not the slightest draught, no sound but the roar of the stove.

And Maigret asked, as he ate the heavy
tart:

‘What day was it
exactly?'

‘January the third. A
Wednesday.'

‘It's the twentieth now
…'

‘Yes, we weren't accused
immediately …'

‘That girl … What did you say her
name was?'

‘Germaine Piedboeuf. She came at
about eight o'clock in the evening. She came into the shop, and it was my
mother who received her.'

‘What did she want?'

Madame Peeters looked as if she was
wiping a tear from her eyelid.

‘The same as ever. To complain
that Joseph never went to see her, never got in touch … A boy who works so hard!
It's to his credit, I assure you, that he's continuing his studies in
spite of everything …'

‘Did she stay here for
long?'

‘Perhaps five minutes. I had to
tell her not to shout. The sailors could have heard her. Anna came and told her it
would be a good idea for her to leave …'

‘And did she leave?'

‘Anna led her outside. I went back
into the kitchen and cleared the table.'

‘And you haven't seen her
again since then?'

‘Never!'

‘No one around here has met
her?'

‘They all say they
haven't!'

‘Did she threaten to commit
suicide?'

‘No! Women of that kind never kill
themselves. More coffee? A piece of cake? Anna made it.'

A new feature to be added to the image
of Anna. She was sitting calmly on her chair. She watched the inspector as if their
roles had been swapped, as if she belonged to the Quai des Orfèvres, and he to the
Flemish house.

‘Do you remember what you did that
evening?'

It was Anna who replied, with a sad
smile.

‘We have been asked about this so
many times that we've had to remember the tiniest details. After coming home,
I went up to my room to get some wool to knit with. When I came down, my sister was
at the piano, in this room, and Marguerite had just arrived.'

‘Marguerite?'

‘Our cousin. The daughter of Dr
Van de Weert. They live in Givet. I should tell you straight away, since
you'll find out anyway, that she's Joseph's fiancée.'

Madame Peeters got up with a sigh,
because the bell had rung in the shop.

She could be heard speaking Flemish, in
an almost playful voice, and weighing out beans or peas.

‘It was a source of great pain to
my mother. It had been decided long since that Joseph and Marguerite would get
married. They had got engaged at sixteen. But Joseph had to finish his studies. That
was when that child came along.'

‘And in spite of that they expected
to get married?'

‘No! Except that Marguerite
didn't want to marry anyone else. They still loved each other.'

‘Did Germaine Piedboeuf know
that?'

‘Yes! But she was counting on
getting married! So much so that my brother, to have a bit of peace, had promised he
would. The wedding was to be held after his exams.'

And the bell in the shop rang. Madame
Peeters tottered through the kitchen.

‘I was asking you what happened on
the evening of the third.'

‘Yes. I was saying that when I
came downstairs my sister and Marguerite were in this room. We played the piano
until half past ten. My father had gone to bed at nine, as usual. My sister and I
walked Marguerite to the bridge.'

‘And you didn't meet
anyone?'

‘No one. It was cold. We came
back. The next day we didn't suspect a thing. That afternoon people were
saying that Germaine Piedboeuf had disappeared. It was only two days later that
people thought of accusing us, because someone had seen her coming in here. The
police chief called us in, then your colleague from Nancy. Apparently Monsieur
Piedboeuf made a complaint. They searched the house, the cellar, the sheds,
everything. They even dug up the garden.'

‘Wasn't your brother in
Givet on the third?'

‘No! He only comes on Saturdays,
on his motorbike. Rarely on any other weekday. The whole town is against us, because
we are Flemish and have some money.'

A note of pride in her voice. Or rather
a superior degree of confidence.

‘You can't imagine all the
things they made up.'

Again the bell in the shop rang, then
the sound of a young voice:

‘It's me! Don't
disturb yourselves on my account …'

Hurried footsteps. A very feminine
figure swept into the dining room, stopping abruptly in front of Maigret.

‘Oh! Excuse me. I didn't
know …'

‘Inspector Maigret, who's
come to help us. My cousin Marguerite.'

A little gloved hand in Maigret's
paw. And a nervous smile.

‘Anna told me you'd accepted
…'

She was very elegant, more elegant than
pretty. Her face was framed by blonde, slightly wavy hair.

‘I gather you were playing the
piano.'

‘Yes. Music is my only love.
Especially when I'm sad …'

And she smiled like one of the pretty
girls on an advertising calendar. Lips in a pout, a veiled expression, her face
leaning slightly forwards …

‘Maria isn't
back?'

‘No! Her train must be
late.'

The fragile chair creaked when Maigret
tried to cross his legs.

‘What time did you get here on the
third?'

‘Half past eight. Perhaps a little
earlier. We eat early. My father had friends for bridge.'

‘Was the weather the same as
today?'

‘It was raining. It rained for a
whole week.'

‘Was the Meuse already in
spate?'

‘It was starting to be. But the
barriers weren't knocked
over until the fifth or the sixth.
There were still trains of barges on the water.'

‘A piece of cake, inspector? No? A
cigar, then?'

Anna held out a box of Belgian cigars
and murmured as if in apology:

‘It isn't contraband. Part
of the house is in Belgium and part in France.'