The Saint-Fiacre Affair (6 page)

‘I'm going to the chateau
 …' he said as he joined the inspector. ‘It's the first time
I've celebrated mass without even knowing what I'm doing … The idea that
a crime …'

‘It really was a crime,'
Maigret murmured.

They walked in silence. Without a word,
the inspector held out the piece of paper to his companion, who read it and gave it
back.

And they walked another hundred yards
without uttering a word.

‘Chaos creates chaos … But she was
an unhappy creature …'

They both had to hold on to their hats
as the wind grew stronger.

‘I didn't have the energy
 …' the priest added in a grim voice.

‘You?'

‘She came to see me every day … She
was ready to return to the ways of the Lord … But every day, in there …'

There was a hint of harshness in his
voice.

‘I didn't want to go there!
And yet it was my duty …'

They nearly stopped, because two men
were walking along the big avenue of the chateau and they were about to meet them.
They recognized the doctor, with his brown beard and, beside him, Jean Métayer, who
was talking feverishly to him. The yellow car was in the courtyard. They guessed
that Métayer didn't dare go back to the chateau while the Count of
Saint-Fiacre was there.

The village was wrapped in an ambiguous
light. An ambiguous situation! With all those dark comings and goings!

‘Come on!' said Maigret.

And the doctor must have said the same
thing to Métayer, then dragged him along until the moment when he could say,
‘Hello, Father! You know, I can reassure you at last … It's true that
I'm a non-believer, but I can guess your horror at the idea that a crime might
have been committed in your church … Well, it hasn't! … Science is clear on
the matter … 
Our
countess died of a heart attack …'

Maigret had walked over to Jean
Métayer.

‘One question …'

He was aware of the tension in the young
man, who was panting with anxiety.

‘When was the last time that you
went to the
Journal de Moulins
?'

‘I … wait …'

He was about to speak, but his unease
made him cautious. He darted a suspicious glance at the inspector.

‘Why are you asking me
that?'

‘Doesn't matter!'

‘Am I obliged to
answer?'

‘You are free to remain
silent!'

Not the face of a degenerate, perhaps,
but a face that was worried, tormented. Nervousness far beyond the average, capable
of interesting Dr Bouchardon, who was talking to the priest.

‘I know I'll be the one
tormented! … But I will defend myself …'

‘Of course! You will defend
yourself!'

‘First I want to see a lawyer.
It's my right … And besides, what right do you have? …'

‘Just a moment. Have you studied
law?'

‘For two years.'

He tried to regain his composure and
smile.

‘No charges have been brought,
nobody's been caught in flagrante … So you have no right to …'

‘Very good! Ten out of
ten!'

‘The doctor maintains that
 …'

‘And I claim that the countess was
killed by the most revolting sort of swine. Read this!'

And Maigret held out the piece of
printed paper. Suddenly quite stiff, Jean Métayer looked at his companion as if he
was going to spit in his face.

‘By the … What did you say? … I
can't allow you to …'

And the inspector, gently resting his hand
on his shoulder, said:

‘But my dear boy, I haven't
said anything to
you
at all! Where's the count? Go on reading. You
can give me the paper later on …'

A flame of triumph flared in
Métayer's eyes.

‘The count is talking cheques with
the estate manager! … You'll find them in the library! …'

The priest and the doctor walked ahead,
and Maigret heard the doctor's voice saying, ‘No, Father! It's
human! It's more than human! If only you had studied a little physiology
rather than poring over the writings of Saint Augustine …'

And the gravel crunched under the feet
of the four men who slowly climbed the steps, turned even harder and whiter by the
cold.

Maigret couldn't be everywhere at
once. The chateau was huge. That was why he could only have the most approximate
idea of the morning's events.

It was the time of day when, on Sundays
and holidays, country folk delay going home, savouring the pleasure of being in a
group, in their best clothes, in the village square or at the café. Some of them
were already drunk. Others were talking too loudly. And the children in their stiff
clothes looked admiringly at their fathers.

At the Château de Saint-Fiacre, Jean
Métayer, looking sallow in the face, had gone all alone to the first floor, where he
could be heard pacing back and forth in one of the rooms.

‘If you'd like to come with
me …' the doctor said to the priest.

And he led him towards the
countess's bedroom.

On the ground floor, a wide corridor ran
the length of the building, pierced by a row of doors. Maigret could hear the hum of
voices. He had been told that the Count of Saint-Fiacre and the estate manager were
in the library.

He tried to go in, got the wrong door
and found himself in the drawing room. The communicating door with the library was
open. In a gilt-framed mirror he caught the image of a young man sitting on a corner
of the desk,
looking overwhelmed, and the
estate manager, standing foursquare on his short legs.

‘You should have worked out that
there was no point in pushing the matter!' Gautier was saying.
‘Especially when forty thousand francs were involved!'

‘Who answered my phone
call?'

‘Monsieur Jean, of
course!'

‘And he didn't pass the
message on to my mother!'

Maigret coughed and stepped into the
library.

‘Which phone call are you talking
about?'

And Maurice de Saint-Fiacre replied,
unabashed, ‘My call to the chateau the day before yesterday. As I've
already told you, I needed money. I wanted to ask my mother for the necessary sum,
but that … that … well, that Monsieur Jean, as they call him here, was the one I got
through to …'

‘And he told you there was nothing
to be done? And you came anyway …'

The estate manager observed the two men.
Maurice had stepped away from the desk he was perched on.

‘I didn't take Gautier aside
to talk about this, by the way!' he said agitatedly. I didn't hide the
situation from you, inspector. Tomorrow, a complaint will be lodged against me.
Obviously, with my mother dead, I'm the sole natural heir. So I asked Gautier
to find the forty thousand francs for tomorrow morning … And well! Apparently
it's impossible.'

‘Completely impossible!'
repeated the estate manager.

‘Naturally we can't do
anything before the notary gets involved, and he won't bring the interested
parties together
until after the funeral.
And Gautier adds that even without that it would be hard to find forty thousand
francs to borrow on what's left of the estate …'

He had started pacing back and
forth.

‘It's obvious, isn't
it? It's staring us in the face! And there's even a chance that they
won't let me walk at the head of the cortège … But incidentally … One more
question … You mentioned a crime … Is it possible that? …'

‘No complaint has been brought,
and probably none will be,' said Maigret. ‘So the courts will not be
involved in the affair …'

‘Leave us on our own,
Gautier!'

And as soon as the estate manager had
left, he said sadly, ‘A crime, really?'

‘A crime that doesn't
officially concern the police!'

‘Explain yourself … I'm
beginning to …'

But a woman's voice was heard in
the hall, accompanied by the more serious voice of the estate manager. Maurice
frowned and walked towards the door, opening it abruptly.

‘Marie? What are? …'

‘Maurice! Why won't they let
me in? … It's intolerable! I've been waiting at the hotel for an hour
 …'

She spoke with a very marked foreign
accent. This was Marie Vassiliev, who had arrived from Moulins in an old taxi that
could be seen in the courtyard.

She was tall and very beautiful, with
blonde hair, probably dyed. Seeing that Maigret was looking at her carefully, she
started talking rapidly in English, and Maurice replied in the same language.

She asked him if he had any money. He
replied that it was out of the question, that his mother was dead, that she had to
go back to Paris, where he would join her soon.

Then she laughed sarcastically:

‘With what? I don't even
have enough money to pay for the taxi!'

Maurice de Saint-Fiacre started to lose
his composure. His mistress's shrill voice echoed around the chateau, lending
a note of scandal to the scene.

The estate manager was still in the
corridor.

‘If you stay here, I'll stay
with you!' announced Marie Vassiliev.

And Maigret said to Gautier: ‘Send
the car away and pay the driver.'

The chaos mounted. Not material,
reparable chaos, but a moral chaos that seemed to be contagious. Gautier himself was
losing his footing.

‘And yet we need to talk,
inspector,' the young man said.

‘Not now!'

And he pointed at the aggressively
elegant woman who was pacing up and down in the library and the drawing room as if
drawing up an inventory.

‘Who is this stupid portrait of,
Maurice?' she exclaimed with a laugh.

Footsteps on the stairs. Maigret saw
Jean Métayer walking past, now wearing a big overcoat and carrying a suitcase.
Métayer must have suspected that he wouldn't be allowed to leave, because he
stopped by the library door and waited.

‘Where are you going?'

‘To the inn! I think it would be more
dignified of me to …'

Maurice de Saint-Fiacre, to get rid of
his mistress, led her towards a bedroom in the right wing of the chateau. They went
on talking in English.

‘Is it true that forty thousand
francs couldn't be borrowed on the chateau?' Maigret asked the estate
manager.

‘It would be difficult.'

‘Well do the impossible, by
tomorrow morning!'

The inspector hesitated to leave. At the
last minute he decided to go to the first floor, where a surprise awaited him. While
downstairs everyone seemed to be milling around aimlessly, upstairs someone had made
the Countess of Saint-Fiacre's bedroom neat and tidy.

The doctor, with the assistance of the
maid, had washed the corpse.

The atmosphere was no longer sordid and
ambiguous, as it had been that morning! And the body wasn't the same
either.

The dead woman, wearing a white
nightdress, lay on her four-poster bed in a peaceful and dignified pose, with her
hands folded over a crucifix.

Everything was already in place: lit
candles, holy water and a sprig of olive-wood in a cup.

Bouchardon looked at Maigret as he came
in and seemed to be saying: ‘Well! What do you think? Isn't this a good
piece of work?'

The priest prayed, soundlessly moving
his lips. He remained alone with the dead woman while the other two left.

In the square in front of the church the
groups had thinned out. Through the curtains of the houses, families could be seen
sitting down at the table for lunch.

For a few seconds, the sun tried to
pierce the clouds, but then a moment later the sky turned dreary again, and the
rustling of the trees grew louder.

Sitting in the corner by the window,
Jean Métayer was eating mechanically as he gazed out on the empty road. Maigret was
sitting at the far end of the dining room of the inn. Between them was a family from
a nearby village that had arrived in a van, bringing groceries from home, and Marie
Tatin was serving them drinks.

Poor Marie Tatin was in a state. She no
longer had any idea what was going on. Usually she only let out an attic room from
time to time, to a workman who had come to do some repairs at the chateau or one of
the farms.

And here she had not only Maigret, but
another lodger too: the countess's secretary.

She didn't dare to ask any
questions. All morning she had heard her customers saying terrible things. She had
heard them talking, among other things, about the police!

‘I'm worried that the
chicken may be overcooked …' she said as she served Maigret.