The Saint-Fiacre Affair (8 page)

Maigret had one slight worry. In his
half-sleep, half an hour before, he had thought he heard a car passing. And yet
Saint-Fiacre isn't on the main road, and there was hardly any traffic apart
from the bus that passed through once a day.

‘Has the bus left, Marie?'

‘Never before half past eight! And
more often nine o'clock …'

‘Is that the bell ringing for mass
already?'

‘Yes! In winter, it's at
seven o'clock, six in the summer … If you want to warm yourself up, sir
 …'

She showed him the fire, which was
blazing at last.

‘Can't you bring yourself to
call me by my first name?'

Maigret was cross with himself as he
caught a flirtatious smile on the poor spinster's face.

‘The coffee will be ready in five
minutes …'

It wouldn't be light before eight
o'clock. The cold was even keener than on the previous day. Maigret, coat
collar turned up and hat down over his eyes, walked slowly towards the patch of
light emanating from the church.

It wasn't a feast day any more.
There were only three women in the nave. And there was something slapdash, something
furtive about the mass. The priest walked too quickly from one corner of the altar
to the other. He turned round too quickly, arms outspread, to murmur, swallowing
syllables: ‘
Dominus vobiscum!
'

The altar boy, who was struggling to
follow him, said ‘
Amen
' out of time, and hurried to ring his
bell.

Was the panic going to begin again? The
murmur of the liturgical prayers could be heard, and sometimes the sound of the
priest taking a breath between two words.

‘
Ite missa est
 …'

Had this mass lasted twelve minutes? The
three women got to their feet. The priest recited the last passage from the Gospel.
A car stopped in front of the
church, and
a moment later hesitant footsteps were heard in the square.

Maigret had stayed at the end of the
nave, standing right next to the door. So when it opened, the new arrival was
literally face to face with him.

It was Maurice de Saint-Fiacre. He was
so surprised that he nearly beat a retreat, murmuring, ‘Sorry … I …'

But he stepped forwards and made an
effort to regain his composure.

‘Is mass over?'

He was clearly in a state of nerves.
There were circles under his eyes as if he hadn't slept that night. And when
he opened the door he had brought the cold in with him.

‘Have you come from
Moulins?'

The two men whispered to one another as
the priest recited the prayer after the Gospel, and the women closed their
mass-books and picked up their umbrellas and handbags.

‘How did you know? … Yes … I
 …'

‘Shall we go outside?'

The priest and the altar boy had gone
into the sacristy, and the sacristan was snuffing the two candles which were all
that had been required for the low mass.

Outside, the horizon was slightly
brighter. The white of the nearby houses stood out against the gloom. The yellow car
was there, between the trees in the square.

Saint-Fiacre's unease was obvious.
He looked at Maigret with some astonishment, perhaps surprised to see him unshaven,
and without a detachable collar under his coat.

‘You got up early! …'
murmured the inspector.

‘The first train, an express, leaves
Moulins at three minutes past seven …'

‘I don't understand! You
didn't take the train because …'

‘You're forgetting Marie
Vassiliev …'

It was perfectly simple! And natural!
The presence of Maurice's mistress could only be an embarrassment at the
chateau. So he drove her to Moulins by car, put her on the Paris train, came back
and, in passing, entered the illuminated church.

And yet Maigret wasn't satisfied.
He tried to follow the anxious glances of the count, who seemed to be waiting for
something, or to fear something.

‘She doesn't seem
easy!' the inspector said meaningfully.

‘She's known better days.
And she's very touchy … The idea that I might want to hide our relationship
 …'

‘Which has lasted for how
long?'

‘A little less than a year … Marie
isn't interested … There have been embarrassing moments …'

His eye fixed at last on a single point.
Maigret followed it and noticed, behind him, the priest, who had just come out of
the church. He had a sense that those two glances had met, that the priest was just
as embarrassed as the Count of Saint-Fiacre.

The inspector was about to call out to
him. But with awkward haste the priest had already addressed a brief word of
greeting to the two men and gone inside the presbytery, as if escaping.

‘He doesn't look like a
country priest …'

Maurice didn't reply. Through the
lit window the priest
could be seen
sitting over his breakfast, and the housekeeper bringing him a steaming pot of
coffee.

Some children, with bags on their backs,
were starting to make their way towards the school. The surface of the Notre-Dame
pond was assuming the colours of a looking-glass.

‘What arrangements have you made
for …' Maigret began.

And the other man replied, far too
quickly:

‘For what?'

‘For the funeral … Did someone sit
vigil in the room of the departed?'

‘No! It was briefly discussed …
Gautier said people didn't do that any more …'

The sound of a two-stroke engine was
heard coming from the chateau courtyard. A few moments later a motorbike passed
along the road, heading towards Moulins. Maigret recognized Gautier's son,
whom he had seen the previous day. He was wearing a beige mackintosh and a checked
cap.

Maurice de Saint-Fiacre didn't
know what attitude to assume. He didn't dare get back into his car. And he had
nothing to say to the inspector.

‘Did Gautier find the forty
thousand francs?'

‘No … Yes … that is …'

Maigret looked at him curiously,
surprised to see him so agitated.

‘Did he find them, yes or no? I
had a sense, yesterday, that he wasn't happy about the idea. Because in spite
of everything, in spite of the debts and mortgages, you'll be able to raise
much more money than that …'

But no! Maurice didn't reply! He
looked distraught, for no apparent reason. And the words he uttered bore no relation
to what had gone before.

‘Tell me honestly, inspector … Do
you suspect me?'

‘Of what?'

‘You know … I need to know
 …'

‘I have no more reason to suspect
you than anyone else …' Maigret replied evasively.

And his companion pounced on the
assertion.

‘Thank you! … Well, that's
what you have to tell people … You understand? … Otherwise my position isn't
tenable …'

‘Which bank does your cheque have
to be presented at?'

‘The Comptoir d'Escompte
 …'

A woman was walking towards the public
laundry, pushing a barrow that carried two baskets of linen. The priest, in his
house, paced back and forth, reading his breviary, but the inspector had a sense
that he was darting anxious glances at the two men.

‘I'll join you at the
chateau.'

‘Now?'

‘In a moment, yes.'

It was quite plain: Maurice de
Saint-Fiacre wasn't at all happy with that. He got into his car like a
condemned man. And behind the windows of the presbytery the priest could be seen
watching him leave.

At the very least Maigret wanted to go
and put on a collar. Just as he arrived outside the inn, Jean Métayer was coming out
of the grocer's shop. He had merely put a coat on over his pyjamas. He looked
triumphantly at the inspector.

‘Phone call?'

And the young man replied sharply,
‘My lawyer will be here at ten to nine.'

He was sure of himself. He sent back
some boiled eggs which hadn't been cooked for long enough and tapped out a
march on the table with his fingertips.

From the skylight of his room, where he
had gone to get dressed, Maigret could see the courtyard of the chateau, the racing
car and Maurice de Saint-Fiacre, who looked as if he didn't know what to do.
Was he preparing to walk towards the village?

The inspector got a move on. A few
minutes later he himself was on his way to the chateau. They met about a hundred
metres from the church.

‘Where were you going?'
Maigret asked.

‘Nowhere! I don't know
 …'

‘Maybe to pray at the
church?'

And those words were enough to turn his
companion pale, as if they had a terrible, mysterious significance.

Maurice de Saint-Fiacre was not built
for stress. Superficially, he was a tall, strong young man, athletic and perfectly
healthy.

But looking closer you saw that he was
soft. His muscles, beneath a layer of fat, seemed to have hardly any energy. He had
probably spent a sleepless night, and he looked thoroughly deflated.

‘I assume you've had the
announcements printed?'

‘No.'

‘But … the family … the local
aristocrats …'

The young man lost his temper.

‘They wouldn't come! You know
that very well! Once they would have done! When my father was still alive … During
the hunting season, there would be up to thirty guests at the chateau at once, for
weeks …'

Nobody knew that better than Maigret,
who, during the hunting season had, without his parents' knowledge, loved to
wear the white shirt of a beater!

‘Since …'

And Maurice waved a hand to suggest:
‘Insolvency … junk …'

The whole of Berry must have been
talking about the mad old woman who was frittering away the last years of her life
with so-called secretaries! And farms being sold one after the other! And sons
behaving like idiots in Paris!

‘Do you think the funeral might
happen tomorrow? … You understand? … It would be better to get this business over
and done with as soon as possible …'

A dung cart passed slowly along, and its
wide wheels seemed to crush the pebbles in the road. Day had broken, a day greyer
than the previous one, but not as windy. In the distance Maigret saw Gautier, who
was crossing the courtyard and about to head in his direction.

And it was then that a strange thing
happened.

‘Will you excuse me? …' the
inspector said to his companion, setting off in the direction of the chateau.

He had barely walked a hundred metres
when he turned round. Maurice de Saint-Fiacre was on the steps of the presbytery. He
must have rung the doorbell. And yet, when he saw he had been spotted, he walked
away quickly without waiting for a reply.

He didn't know where to go. His whole
bearing proved that he was terribly ill at ease. The inspector caught up with the
estate manager, whom he had seen coming towards him and who was waiting for him with
an arrogant look.

‘What can I do for you?'

‘I'd like a simple piece of
information. Have you found the forty thousand francs the count needs?'

‘No! And I defy anyone to find it
around here! Everyone knows what his signature is worth.'

‘And so? …'

‘He will manage as best he can! It
has nothing to do with me!'

Saint-Fiacre turned on his heels. It
looked as if he had a desperate urge to do something and that, for one reason or
another, he couldn't. Making up his mind, he strode towards the chateau and
stopped near the two men.

‘Gautier! Come to the library so
that I can issue you with instructions!'

He began to set off, then said,
evidently with some considerable effort:

‘See you shortly,
inspector.'

Passing in front of the presbytery,
Maigret had the distinct sensation of being watched through the curtains. But he
wasn't sure because, since it was day, the lights were turned out.

A taxi was parked outside Marie
Tatin's inn. In the dining room, a man of about fifty, dressed to the nines,
pinstriped trousers and a black
silk-lined jacket, was sitting at Jean Métayer's table.

When he saw the inspector come in, he
rose eagerly to his feet, extending a hand.

‘I am told that you are a member
of the Police Judiciaire … Allow me to introduce myself … Tallier, barrister-at-law,
from the court at Bourges … Will you join us? …'

Jean Métayer had got to his feet, but
his attitude demonstrated that he didn't approve of his lawyer's
conviviality.

‘Innkeeper! … We'd like to
order, please …'

And, in a conciliatory voice:

‘What would you like? Given how
cold it is, I'd suggest hot rum for everybody? … Three hot rums, my girl
 …'

The girl in question was poor Marie
Tatin, who wasn't used to such manners.

‘I hope, detective chief
inspector, that you will forgive my client. If I understand correctly, he has
treated you with a degree of suspicion … But don't forget that he is a boy
from a good family, who is of good character, and who is outraged by the suspicions
directed towards him … His bad mood yesterday, if I may say so, is the best proof of
his absolute innocence …'

With a man such as this, there was no
need to say a word. He answered his own questions, while performing suave hand
gestures.

‘Of course, I'm still not au
fait with all the details … If I understand correctly, the Countess of Saint-Fiacre
died yesterday, during first mass, of a heart attack … On
the other hand, a piece of paper has been found in her
missal which suggests that her death was caused by a violent shock … Did the son of
the victim – who happened to be nearby – register a complaint? … No! … And such a
complaint would, in my opinion, be rejected … The criminal act – if we may speak of
a criminal act – is not in fact sufficiently clear for legal proceedings to be
instigated …