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fields the town of Delfzijl, few of whose houses had two storeys, and none three.
    Any was waiting at the door.
    â€˜I hear you’re carrying out your own investigation,’ Maigret said.
    She shuddered, but didn’t answer, and hurried to open the door of Professor Duclos’s room.
    A brass bedstead. A pitch-pine wardrobe. Lino on the floor.
    â€˜And this is whose bedroom?’
    She had to make an effort to speak French.
    â€˜Of me … When I am here.’
    â€˜And you’ve often stayed here?’
    â€˜Yes … I …’
    She was really very shy. The words stuck in her throat. Her eyes looked around for help.
    â€˜So since the professor was a guest here, you slept in your brother-in-law’s study?’
    She nodded yes and opened the door. A table laden with books, including new publications on gyroscopic compasses and on radio communication with ships. Some sextants. On the walls, photos of Conrad Popinga in the Far East and Africa in his uniform as first lieutenant or captain.
    There was a display of Malayan weapons. Japanese enamels. On trestles lay some precision tools and a ship’s compass in pieces, which Popinga must have been repairing.
    A divan covered with a blue bedspread.
    â€˜And your sister’s room?’
    â€˜Here, next door.’
    The study communicated both with the professor’s room and the Popingas’ bedroom, which was furnished more stylishly. An alabaster lamp over the bed. A rather fine Persian carpet. Wooden colonial furniture.
    â€˜And you were in the study,’ said Maigret thoughtfully.
    A nod, yes.
    â€˜So you couldn’t come out without going either through the professor’s room or your sister’s?’
    Another nod.
    â€˜And the professor was in his room. And your sister in hers.’
    She opened her eyes wide, her jaw dropped as if she’d had a terrible shock.
    â€˜And, you think …?’
    Maigret muttered as he paced through the three rooms:
    â€˜I don’t think anything. I’m searching. I’m eliminating possibilities! And up to now, you are the only one who can logically be eliminated, unless we assume some complicity between you and either Duclos or Madame Popinga.’
    â€˜You … you …’
    But he was carrying on talking to himself.
    â€˜Duclos might have fired the shot either from his room or the bathroom, that’s clear. Madame Popinga could have gone into the bathroom. But the professor, who went in
there immediately after hearing the shot, didn’t see her. On the contrary, he saw her coming out of her room only a few seconds later.’
    Perhaps she was now emerging a little from her shell. The student was taking over from the timid girl, as if inspired by this technical hypothesis.
    â€˜Maybe, someone shot from downstairs?’ she said, her gaze now more focused and her thin body alert. ‘The doctor says …’
    â€˜True, but that doesn’t alter the fact that the revolver that killed your brother-in-law was certainly the one Duclos was holding. Unless the murderer threw the gun upstairs through the window.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜Obviously. Why not?’
    And he went down the stairs, which seemed too narrow for him, the steps creaking under his bulk.
    He found Madame Popinga standing in the dining room, apparently on the spot where he had left her. Any followed him in.
    â€˜Did Cornelius come here often?’
    â€˜Almost every day. He only had lessons three times a week, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. But he came on the other days. His parents are in the East Indies. A month ago, he was told that his mother had died. She was dead and buried by the time he got the letter. So …’
    â€˜What about Beetje Liewens?’
    There was a slightly awkward silence. Madame Popinga looked at Any. Any looked down.
    â€˜She used to