The Flemish House by Georges Simenon, Georges Simenon; Translated by Shaun Whiteside

3 January, and no one had seen her again since
     then.
    The inspector noticed for the first time
     that the kitchen was separated from the shop only by a glass door. It was decorated
     with a tulle curtain, so that one could vaguely make out the outlines of the
     figures.
    Someone got up.
    â€˜Don’t let me disturb
     you!’ Maigret exclaimed.
    And he went into the kitchen, walking in
     on the normal daily routine. It was Madame Peeters who had got up to go to the shop.
     Her husband was in his wicker armchair, still so close to the stove that one might
     have worried that he was going to catch fire. In his hand he held a meerschaum pipe
     with a long cherry-wood stem. But he wasn’tsmoking any more.
     His eyes were closed. Regular breaths issued from his half-open lips.
    As to Anna, she was sitting at the
     sanded white wooden table, which had been polished by the years. She was doing some
     calculations in a little notebook.
    â€˜Bring the inspector to the dining
     room, Anna …’
    â€˜No!’ he protested.
     ‘I’m just passing through …’
    â€˜Give me your coat …’
    And Maigret noticed the Madame Peeters
     had a beautiful, serious voice, deep and warm, a faint Flemish accent making it all
     the more delightful.
    â€˜You will have a cup of
     coffee!’
    He wanted to know what she had been
     doing before he got there. At her place he saw steel-rimmed glasses and the
     day’s newspaper.
    The old man’s breath seemed to
     provide a rhythm to the life of the house. Anna closed her notebook, put a cap on
     the pencil, got up and went to fetch a cup from a shelf.
    â€˜You will forgive me …’ she
     murmured.
    â€˜I hoped to meet your sister,
     Maria.’
    Madame Peeters nodded sadly. Anna
     explained:
    â€˜You won’t see her for a few
     days, unless you pay her a visit in Namur. One of her colleagues, who also lives in
     Givet, came just now … Marie was getting off the train, this morning, when she
     sprained her ankle …’
    â€˜Where is she?’
    â€˜At the school … They have a room
     for her there …’
    Madame Peeters sighed, still
     nodding:
    â€˜I don’t know what
     we’ve done to offend the Lord!’
    â€˜And Joseph?’
    â€˜He won’t be back before
     Saturday. Although that’s only tomorrow …’
    â€˜Your cousin Marguerite
     hasn’t paid you a visit?’
    â€˜No! I saw her at vespers
     …’
    Boiling coffee was poured into the cup.
     Madame Peeters went out and came back in with a little glass, a bottle of
     genever.
    â€˜It’s old
     Schiedam.’
    He sat down. He didn’t expect to
     find anything out. Perhaps even his presence was barely relevant to the case.
    The house reminded him of an
     investigation he had conducted in Holland, but with differences that he was unable
     to define. There was the same calm, the same heaviness in the air, the same
     sensation that the atmosphere was not fluid, but formed a solid body that one would
     break by moving.
    From time to time the wicker of the
     armchair creaked even though the old man hadn’t moved. And his breathing still
     provided a rhythm for life, for the conversation.
    Anna said something in Flemish, and
     Maigret, who had learned some words in Delfzijl, more or less understood:
    â€˜You should have given him a
     bigger glass …’
    Every so often a man in clogs passed
     along the quay. The rain could be heard hammering on the front window.
    â€˜You told me it was raining,
     didn’t you? As hard as it is today? …’
    â€˜Yes … I think so …’
    And the two women, sitting down again,
     watched him pick up his glass and bring it to his lips.
    Anna didn’t have her
     mother’s fine features, nor herbenevolent, indulgent smile.
     As usual, she didn’t take her eyes off Maigret.
    Had she noticed that the portrait was
     missing from her room?