The Saint-Fiacre Affair (13 page)

He had no intention of leaving. He sat
down on the chair facing him. He was very animated, his cheeks flushed, like someone
in a hurry to finish a delicate job. He seemed
to be looking around for Jean Métayer, but there was no
sign of him.

‘You will understand, inspector …
I wouldn't have dared to go to the chateau. That's normal … But since
chance will have it that we meet on neutral terrain, if I might put it that way
 …'

And he forced a smile. After each phrase
he looked as if he was greeting the two others, thanking them for their
approval.

‘In a situation as awkward as this
there's no point, as I have told my client, in complicating things further by
being overly touchy … Jean Métayer has understood very clearly … And, when you
turned up, inspector, I was just telling the Count of Saint-Fiacre that we asked
only to reach an agreement …'

Maigret murmured:

‘Good heavens!'

And he thought very precisely:
You,
young fellow, will be lucky if the fist of the man you're talking to so
smoothly doesn't make contact with your face
 …

The billiard-players went on walking
around the green baize. The woman got up, left her handbag on the table and went to
the end of the room.

Someone else who's making a big mistake. She's just had a bright
idea. Didn't Métayer go outside to talk to her without a witness? … So,
she's going off to find him …

And Maigret wasn't mistaken. Hand
on hip, the woman was pacing back and forth, looking for the young man.

The lawyer was still talking.

‘There are very complex interests
involved, and we for our part are willing …'

‘To do what?' Saint-Fiacre
cut in.

‘Well … to …'

He forgot that the glass within reach
wasn't his and drank from Maigret's in order to maintain his
composure.

‘I realize it may not have been
the best choice of place … Or of time … But we do know better than anyone else about
the financial situation of …'

‘Of my mother! So?'

‘My client, with a delicacy that
does him credit, preferred to stay at the inn …'

That poor lawyer! The words, now that
Maurice de Saint-Fiacre was staring at him, issued from his throat one by one as if
he'd had to tear them out.

‘You understand me, don't
you, inspector? We know there is a will deposited with the notary … Don't
worry! The rights of the count will be respected … But Jean Métayer is mentioned
none the less. The financial affairs are confused. My client is the only one who
knows them …'

Maigret admired Saint-Fiacre, who
managed to remain almost angelically calm. There was even a faint smile playing on
his lips!

‘Yes! He was a model
secretary!' he said without a hint of irony.

‘Bear in mind that he is a boy
from an excellent family, who has had a solid upbringing. I know his parents … his
father …'

‘Can we get back to the
fortune?'

It was too good to be true. The lawyer
could hardly believe his ears.

‘Will you let me buy a round?
Waiter! The same again, gentlemen? I'll have a St Raphaël and lemon
 …'

Two tables away the woman came back with
a gloomy expression because she hadn't been able to find anything, and was
resigning herself to launching an assault on the billiard-players.

‘I was saying that my client is
willing to help you. There are people he doesn't trust. He'll tell you
himself that some shady operations have been carried out by people not over-burdened
with scruples … So …'

Now came the hard part! In spite of
everything, the lawyer had to swallow his saliva before he was able to continue:

‘You found the chateau coffers
empty … And yet it is indispensable that your mother, her ladyship …'

‘Your mother, her ladyship!'
Maigret repeated admiringly.

‘Your mother, her ladyship
 …' the lawyer continued without blinking. ‘Where was I? Yes! That the
funeral should be worthy of Saint-Fiacre … As we wait for everything to be sorted
out in everyone's best interests, my client will set about …'

‘In other words, he will advance
the funds necessary for the funeral … Is that it?'

Maigret didn't dare to look at the
count. He stared at Émile Gautier, who had just played another long break, and
waited, nerves on edge, for a row to break out next to him.

Not a bit of it! Saint-Fiacre had risen to
his feet and was talking to someone who had approached their table.

‘Please, come and join
us!'

It was Métayer. Seeing him come in, the
lawyer must have waved to him to tell him everything was going well.

‘A St Raphaël and lemon for you
too? Waiter!'

A round of applause rang out in the
hall, because the band had finished its piece. And once the background noise had
stopped it was more awkward, because the voices rang out more clearly. Now the
silence was broken only by the click of the ivory billiard balls.

‘I told his lordship, who
understood very well …'

‘Who's having the
Raphaël?'

‘Did you come from Saint-Fiacre by
taxi, gentlemen? In that case I will put my car at your disposal to drive you back …
You'll be a bit cramped. I'm already bringing the inspector … How much
was that? No, I insist, it's my round …'

But the lawyer had got to his feet and
was putting a hundred-franc note into the hand of the waiter, who asked him,
‘All together?'

‘Of course! Of course!'

And the count said with his most
gracious smile, ‘Too charming of you, too charming.'

Émile Gautier watched the four men
leaving and politely standing aside to let one another pass in the doorway and
forgot to get on with his game.

The lawyer sat in the front, beside
Saint-Fiacre, who was driving. Behind him, Maigret made just enough room for Jean
Métayer.

It was cold. The headlights weren't
bright enough. The car had no silencer, which made it impossible to talk.

Was Maurice de Saint-Fiacre used to
driving at such speed? Was he taking a little revenge? Either way, he covered the
twenty-five kilometres from Moulins to the chateau in less than a quarter of an
hour, braking through the corners, hurtling through the dark, once only just
avoiding a cart that was taking up the middle of the road, which forced him to climb
up the slope.

Their faces were whipped by the breeze.
Maigret had to clutch the collar of his overcoat with both hands. They passed
through the village without slowing down. They could just make out the light of the
inn, then the pointed spire of the church.

The car stopped abruptly, throwing the
passengers against one another. They were at the bottom of the steps. Servants could
be seen eating in the basement kitchen. Someone laughed loudly.

‘You'll allow me, gentlemen,
to invite you to dinner …'

Métayer and the lawyer looked hesitantly
at one another. The count pushed them inside with a friendly pat on the
shoulder.

‘Please … It's my turn,
isn't it?'

And, in the hall:

‘I'm afraid it won't
be very cheerful …'

Maigret would have liked to say a few
words in particular, but the count wouldn't give him time and opened the door
to the smoking room.

‘Will you wait for me for a few
moments and have an aperitif? I need to give some instructions. Do you know
where the bottles are, Monsieur
Métayer? Do we have anything drinkable? …'

He pressed an electric switch. The
butler was a long time coming and arrived with his mouth full and a napkin in his
hand.

Saint-Fiacre briskly took it from
him.

‘Call the estate manager … Then
please call the presbytery for me, then the doctor's house …'

And to the others:

‘Will you excuse me?'

The telephone was in the hall, which,
like the rest of the chateau, was badly lit. In fact, since there was no electricity
supply in Saint-Fiacre, the chateau had to make its own power, and the generator
wasn't powerful enough. The lightbulbs, rather than giving off a white light,
revealed reddish filaments, as some trams do when they stop.

There were lots of deep shadows, in
which it was barely possible to make out objects.

‘Hello … Yes, I'd love to …
Thank you, doctor …'

Maigret and the lawyer were worried, but
they didn't yet dare admit their concern. It was Métayer who broke the silence
by asking the inspector:

‘What can I offer you? I
don't think there's any port left. But there are some spirits
 …'

All the ground-floor rooms were in a
row, separated by big open doors. First the dining room. Then the drawing room. Then
the smoking room, where the three men were sitting. And then the library, where the
young man went to get some bottles.

‘Hello! … Yes … Can I count on it? …
Straight away …'

The count spoke on the phone a little
longer, then walked down the corridor that ran alongside all the rooms, climbed the
stairs, and his footsteps stopped in the dead woman's bedroom.

Other, heavier footsteps in the hall.
There was a knock at the door, which opened immediately. It was the estate
manager.

‘You asked to see me?'

But he realized that the count
wasn't there, looked in bafflement at the three people sitting together,
retreated and asked the butler what was going on.

‘Some mineral water?' Jean
Métayer asked, concerned.

And the lawyer, full of goodwill,
cleared his throat:

‘We both have very strange
professions, inspector … Have you been with the police for a long time? … I have
been at the bar for nearly fifteen years … That is to say that I have been involved
in the most troubling events you can imagine … Cheers! … Your good health, Monsieur
Métayer. I'm happy for you about the turn things are taking …'

The count's voice, in the
corridor:

‘Well! You'll find some!
Call your son, who's playing billiards at the Café de Paris, in Moulins …
He'll bring whatever you need …'

The door opened. The count came in.

‘Do you all have something to
drink? … Are there no cigars here?'

And he gave Métayer an inquisitorial
look.

‘Cigarettes … I only smoke
 …'

The young man didn't finish his
sentence, but turned his head away, embarrassed.

‘I'll bring you
some.'

‘Gentlemen, please forgive me for
the very basic meal that you are about to have … We're a long way from the
town and …'

‘Come! Come!' interrupted
the lawyer, who was beginning to show the effects of alcohol. ‘I'm sure
it'll be fine … Is that a portrait of one of your relatives? …'

He pointed to the wall of the big
drawing room, at the portrait of a man in a stiff frock coat, his neck trapped in a
heavy false collar.

‘That's my
father.'

‘So it is! You look like
him.'

The maid ushered in Dr Bouchardon, who
looked suspiciously around, as if he expected trouble. But Saint-Fiacre welcomed him
cheerfully.

‘Come in, doctor … I expect you
know Jean Métayer … His lawyer … A charming man, as you will see … As for the
inspector …'

The two men shook hands, and a few
moments later the doctor murmured in Maigret's ear: ‘What have you been
up to here?'

‘Not me … Him!'

The lawyer, affecting composure, kept
walking towards the little round table on which his glass was standing and
didn't notice that he was drinking more than was sensible.

‘How wonderful it is, this old
chateau! … And what a setting it would be for a film! … That was what I said
recently to the state prosecutor in
Bourges, who can't stand the cinema … People film in all sorts of …'

He was growing animated and trying to
draw someone into conversation.

The count, meanwhile, had approached
Métayer and was being unnervingly friendly towards him.

‘What's saddest about this
place is the long winter evenings, isn't that so? … 
In my day
, I
remember that my father too used to invite the doctor and priest … They
weren't the same as the ones we have today … But even then the doctor was a
non-believer, and discussions always turned to philosophical issues … And sure
enough, here is the …'

It was the priest, with circles around
his eyes, his posture stiff, who didn't know what to say and hesitated in the
doorway.

‘I'm sorry I'm late
but …'

Through the open doors two servants
could be seen setting out the cutlery in the dining room.

‘Give Father something to drink
 …'

The count was addressing Métayer.
Maigret noticed that he himself was not drinking. But the lawyer would soon be
drunk. He was explaining to the doctor, who was looking with bafflement at the
inspector:

‘A little diplomacy, that's
all! Or, if you prefer, knowledge of the human soul … They are about the same age,
both of good family … Tell me why they should be glaring at each other like a pair
of china dogs? … Don't they have common interests? … The most curious thing
 …'

He laughed. He took a swig from his
glass.

‘… And to think that it happened
by chance, in a
café … So those dear old
provincial cafés, where you could be in your own home, have their good side
 …'