OU_214051 UNIVERSA - Osmania University

178 MAINLY MAIGRET
" Mademoiselle Liewens? "
The door opened a little wider. And the servant's head emerged.
The garden was between them, as Maigret had remained standing
at the gate. In the middle stood the dog, baring its teeth and keeping
a watch upon the intruder.
The servant shook her head.
" Isn't she here? .. . Niet hier? ., ."
Maigret had managed to pick up one or two words of Dutch.
But the servant only shook her head more emphatically.
" And the master? . . . Mijnheer ? . . ."
One more head-shake, and the door was shut. But Maigret did
not go, and as he stood staring at the house he saw the door move
again, though this time only a fraction of an inch. The old servant
was no doubt peeping at him.
But what really made him stay there was that he had seen one
of the ciiTtains move, and he knew that that curtain belonged to
Beetje's room. It was difficult to see through the curtain^ but there
was certainly a face there. What Maigret saw more clearly was a
slight movement of a hand, a movement which might have been
no more than a greeting. But Maigret thought it meant more:
" I'm here . . . don't insist. . . look out! . . ."
Three pairs of eyes were upon him. The old servant's behind the
door, Beetje's through the curtain, and the dog's. The latter jumped
up against the gate, barking. Around them, in the fields, the cows
stood so still it was difficult to believe they were alive.
Maigret thought he'd try a little experiment. He was standing
two or three yards from the gate; and now he suddenly took two
paces forward, exactly as though he was going to jump over it. He
couldn't help smiling, for not only was the door closed hurriedly,
but the dog slunk back towards the house with its tail between its
legs.
With thatr the inspector went, taking the path along the Amsterdiep.
All he could gather from 1 the welcome he had received was
that Beetje was shut up in her room, and that orders had been given
that he was not to be admitted.
Thoughtfully he puffed away at his; pipe He looked for a moment
at the piles of tree-trunks and timber under the shadow of which
Beetje and Conrad Popinga would stop—often, no doubt—and^
holding their bicycles with one hand, would embrace with the other.
And over all hung this even calm. Such quiet, such serenity—
it was almost too perfect, so perfect that it was difficult for a French*