008 Maigret in Holland by Simenon Georges

Author:Simenon Georges
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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7

PIJPEKAMP’S LUNCHEON

When Maigret arrived at the hotel, he sensed at once that something unusual was afoot.

The evening before, he had had dinner at the table next to the professor’s. But now three places had been laid on the round table in the middle of the room. The tablecloth was snowy white and the creases had not yet gone flat. Moreover, three glasses had been set for each person, and that was a thing done only on grand occasions in Holland.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, the inspector was greeted by Pijpekamp, who came forward with outstretched hand. The smile on his face was that of a man who has a pleasant surprise in store.

He was dressed in his very best. A collar that seemed to be three inches high. A formal coat. He was closely shaved, and appeared to have come straight from the barber’s hands; the place reeked of violet hair tonic.

The Dutchman’s good spirits were not shared by Jean Duclos, who stood behind him looking ill-at-ease.

“You must excuse me, Inspector,” said Pijpekamp, glowing. “I ought to have let you know beforehand… I would like to have invited you to my home, but Groningen is some way off. Besides, I’m a bachelor. So I thought we’d better have it here. Nothing formal, of course. Just a little déjeuner together… the three of us.”

As he spoke he looked at the table with nine glasses. Obviously he was expecting Maigret to make some protest.

But no protest came.

“I thought that, since the professor was a countryman of yours, you would be glad to…”

“Of course! Of course!” said Maigret. “Just a moment, while I wash my hands.”

He washed them slowly, with a sulky look on his face. From the lavatory, he could hear people bustling about in the kitchen, and the clatter of plates and saucepans.

When he rejoined the others, Pijpekamp himself was pouring out the port. With an ecstatic smile on his face he murmured modestly:

“Just what you do in France, isn’t it?… Prosit! … Or, I should say, Santé, mon cher collègue.”

He was quite touching. He meant so very well. He trotted out the most elegant phraseology he could find in French, anxious to show himself a man of the world to his fingertips.

“I ought to have invited you yesterday. But I was so—what shall I say?—so upset by this business… Have you found out anything?”

“Nothing!”

There was a little sparkle in the Dutchman’s eye, and Maigret thought:

Ah, my fine fellow! You’ve got a trump up your sleeve, and you’re going to play it over the dessert… That is, if you can hold yourself in that long.

He wasn’t wrong.

First came tomato soup, and with it Saint-Emilion. The wine had certainly been doctored for export, and was so sweet as to be positively sickly.

“Santé!” toasted Pijpekamp once again.

Poor Pijpekamp! He was doing his utmost to play the host properly. More than his utmost. Yet Maigret didn’t seem to appreciate it. Didn’t even seem to notice it!

“In Holland we never drink with meals, only afterward.

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