A Crime in Holland by Georges Simenon

along with you,’ grunted the inspector.
    The boy understood his gesture better than his words, put his hand to his peaked cap, made a clumsy military salute and opened his mouth to say something.
    â€˜That’ll do! Get going.’
    Because the quartermaster was on the point of going inside, while a student was taking up his post as sentry. Through the portholes, the young men could be seen shaking out hammocks, throwing their clothes around with abandon.
    Maigret stayed where he was until he had seen Cornelius go timidly into the dormitory, looking awkward, with hunched shoulders – and receive a pillow full in the face before he went over to a hammock at the back of the cabin.
    Another scene was about to begin, a more picturesque one. The inspector had gone no more than a dozen paces towards the town when he saw Oosting who, like himself, had come to watch the cadets going back.
    The two men were both middle-aged, heavily built and calm.
    They surely looked ridiculous, both of them, observing the youngsters climbing into their hammocks and having pillow-fights.
    They were for all the world like mother-hens, weren’t they, keeping watch over a wayward chick?
    They glanced at each other. The Baes did not move, but touched the peak of his cap.
    They knew that any conversation was impossible, since neither spoke the other’s language.
    But, ‘
Goedenavond
,’ muttered the man from Workum.
    â€˜
Bonne nuit
,’ said Maigret, as if echoing him.
    They were going in the same direction, following a path which after about two hundred metres turned into a road, leading into town.
    They were now walking along side by side. To separate, one of them would have had to slow his pace deliberately, and neither wanted to do so.
    Oosting in his clogs, Maigret in his city clothes. Both men were smoking pipes, only Maigret’s was a briar, the Baes’s made of china clay.
    The third building they came to was a café, and Oosting went in, after stamping his clogs and then leaving them on the doormat, as was the Dutch custom.
    Maigret thought for no more than a second before entering in turn.
    A dozen or so seamen and bargees sat around the same table, smoking pipes and cigars, and drinking beer or genever.
    Oosting shook a few hands, pulled up a chair on which he sat down heavily, and listened to the general conversation.
    Maigret settled himself off to one side, well aware that in fact attention was focused on him. The proprietor, who was sitting with the group, waited a few moments before coming to ask him what he would have to drink.
    The genever came from a porcelain and brass fountain. This was the predominant smell, peculiar to all Dutch cafés, making the atmosphere very different from a café in France.
    Oosting’s small eyes were full of laughter every time he looked at the inspector.
    Maigret stretched his legs, brought them back under his chair, stretched them again, and stuffed his pipe, all to give himself an impression of composure. The café owner got up to come and offer him a light in person.
    â€˜
Mooi weer!
’
    Maigret, having no idea what this meant, frowned, and had it repeated.
    â€˜
Mooi weer, ja … Oost wind.
’
    Everyone else waited, nudging each other. Someone pointed at the window, at the starry sky.
    â€˜
Mooi weer
 … Fair weather.’
    And he tried to explain that the wind was in the east, which was a very good sign.
    Oosting was selecting a cigar from a box. He fingered five or six placed in front of him. He conspicuously chose a Manila one, as black as coal, and spat the end on the floor before lighting up.
    Then he showed his new cap to his companions.
    â€˜
Vier gulden
.’
    Four florins! Forty francs! His eyes were still laughing.
    But someone came in, opening a newspaper and talking about the latest freight prices on the Amsterdam Stock Exchange.
    And in the animated conversation that followed, which sounded like a