The Saint-Fiacre Affair (9 page)

‘We are agreed, are we not? … No
complaint! And hence no legal action.

‘Which is not to say that I
don't understand the inquiry that you are pursuing on a personal, unofficial
basis …

‘My client will not tolerate being
hounded in this way. He must be cleared of all suspicion …

‘Listen to me carefully … What, in
the end, was his situation at the chateau? … That of an adopted child … The
countess, left on her own, separated from a son who had left her with nothing but
problems, was comforted by the devotion and uprightness of her secretary …

‘My client is no idler … He did
not, as he might easily have done, lead a carefree life at the chateau … He worked …
He looked for investments … He even looked into the latest inventions …

‘Would he have derived any benefit
from the death of his benefactress? … Need I say anything more? … No! Am I not
correct? …

‘And that, inspector, is what I
want to help you establish …

‘I should add that I will be
putting some necessary measures in place in tandem with the notary … Jean Métayer
is a trusting young man … Never in his
life would he have imagined such events taking place …

‘His belongings are at the
chateau, along with the belongings of the late countess …

‘And yet, as of now, other people
have turned up there, with the clear intention of getting their hands on
 …'

‘A few pairs of pyjamas and some
old slippers!' groaned Maigret as he got up from his chair.

‘Excuse me?'

Throughout the whole of the
conversation, Jean Métayer had been writing things down in a little notebook. And it
was he who calmed down his lawyer, who had in turn leaped to his feet.

‘Leave it! I knew straight away
that the inspector would be against me! And I have since learned that he belonged
indirectly to the chateau, where he was born in the days when his father was the
estate manager of the Saint-Fiacres. I warned you … You were the one who wanted
 …'

The clock struck ten. Maigret calculated
that Marie Vassiliev's train would have arrived at the Gare de Lyon half an
hour earlier.

‘You will excuse me!' he
said. ‘I will see you again in due course.'

‘But …'

He in turn stepped into the grocery
opposite, whose bell rang. He waited a quarter of an hour for a call to be connected
to Paris.

‘Is it true that you're the
son of the old estate manager?'

Maigret was exhausted, more than he
would have been
after ten normal
investigations. He ached, both emotionally and physically.

‘Paris speaking …'

‘Hello! … The Comptoir
d'Escompte? … This is the Police Judiciaire … A piece of information please …
Has a cheque signed Saint-Fiacre been presented this morning? … You say it was
presented at nine o'clock? … So, insufficient funds … Hello! … Please
don't hang up, madam … You asked the bearer to present it a second time? …
Excellent! … Ah! That's what I wanted to know … A young woman, is that right?
 … A quarter of an hour ago? … And she paid in the forty thousand francs? … Thank you
 … Of course you can pay! … No! No! Nothing in particular … Given that the deposit
has been made …'

And Maigret left the cabin with a weary
sigh.

Maurice de Saint-Fiacre, during the
night, had found the forty thousand francs and sent his mistress to Paris to deposit
them at the bank!

Just as the inspector was leaving the
grocer's shop, he saw the priest leaving his house, clutching his breviary and
heading towards the chateau.

Then he speeded up and almost ran to get
to the door at the same time as the priest.

He missed him by less than a minute. By
the time he reached the main courtyard the door was closing behind the priest. And
when he rang the doorbell there were footsteps at the end of the corridor, near the
library.

‘Let me go and see if the count can
 …'

But the inspector didn't give the
butler time to finish his sentence. He stepped into the corridor and headed for the
library. The butler heaved a sigh of resignation. There wasn't even a way of
keeping up appearances any more! People were treating the place like a hotel! It was
chaos!

Maigret paused before opening the
library door, but to no end, because he didn't hear a sound. It was, in fact,
what gave his entrance an impressive quality.

He knocked, thinking that the priest
might be somewhere else. But a voice immediately rang out, clearly and firmly, in
the absolute silence of the room:

‘Come in!'

Maigret pushed the door, which happened
to catch on an air vent. The Count of Saint-Fiacre, who stood leaning against the
gothic table, was looking at him.

Beside him, the priest was staring at
the carpet, frozen, as if a single movement would have given him away.

What were they doing there, the two of
them, not talking, not moving? It would have been less embarrassing to interrupt an
emotional scene than to plunge into that silence, so deep that his voice seemed to
trace concentric circles in it like a pebble in water.

Once again Maigret sensed
Saint-Fiacre's weariness.
The priest
looked ill at ease, and his fingers drummed against his breviary.

‘Forgive me for disturbing you
 …'

It sounded ironic, but it wasn't
deliberate. Does one disturb people when they are as inert as inanimate objects?

‘I have some news from the bank
 …'

The count's eyes settled on the
priest, and his gaze was harsh, almost furious.

The whole scene would play out in that
rhythm. They were like chess-players thinking, foreheads resting on their hands,
sitting in silence for a few minutes before moving a pawn and then relapsing into
stillness.

But it wasn't concentration that
held them frozen like that. Maigret was certain that it was the fear of making a
false move, or some kind of clumsy manoeuvre. The situation between them was
ambiguous. And each of them advanced his pawn regretfully, always ready to move it
back again.

‘I've come for the funeral
instructions!' the priest felt the need to say.

It wasn't true! A bad move. So bad
that the Count of Saint-Fiacre smiled.

‘I knew you would call the
bank!' he said. ‘And I will confess to you why I decided to take that
course of action: it was to get rid of Marie Vassiliev, who didn't want to
leave the chateau … I let her believe that it was of vital importance …'

And in the eyes of the priest Maigret
now read anxiety and reproach.

‘Poor wretch!' he was
doubtless thinking. ‘He's tying
himself up in knots! He's falling into the trap.
He's lost …'

Silence. The scrape of a match and puffs
of tobacco smoke that the inspector exhaled one by one as he questioned the
count:

‘Did Gautier find the
money?'

A brief moment's hesitation.

‘No, inspector … I'm going
to tell you that …'

The drama was being played out not on
Saint-Fiacre's face, but on the priest's. The man was pale, his lips
taut. He opted not to intervene.

‘Inspector, I …'

He couldn't help it.

‘I would like you to suspend this
conversation until we have had a private discussion on the matter …'

Maurice smiled as he had done a few
moments before. It was cold in the room, too vast now that the fine books of the
library had been removed from it. A fire had been prepared in the hearth. All that
was needed was a match to be thrown on it.

‘Do you have a lighter or
 …'

And as he bent over the fireplace the
priest gave Maigret a desolate, pleading look.

‘Now,' the count said as he
turned back towards the two men, ‘I'm going to explain the situation in
a few words. For a reason that I do not know, the parish priest, with the best of
intentions, is sure that it was I who … why mince words? … who killed my mother! …
Because it is a crime, isn't it? Even if it isn't one that falls within
the scope of the law …'

The priest didn't move, but stood
quivering and still as an animal that is aware of an imminent danger, a danger for
which it is no match.

‘He must have been very devoted to
my mother … He probably wanted to ensure that the chateau didn't find itself
at the centre of any kind of scandal … Yesterday evening, via the sacristan, he sent
me forty thousand francs and a little note …'

And the priest's expression said,
beyond any possible doubt:

‘Wretch! You are destroying
yourself with your own hands!'

‘Here is the note!'
Saint-Fiacre continued.

Maigret read under his breath: ‘Be
careful. I am praying for you …'

At last! It was like a breath of fresh
air. All of a sudden Maurice de Saint-Fiacre no longer felt rooted to the ground,
condemned to stillness. And he also stripped away the mask of seriousness, which
didn't match his character.

He started pacing back and forth, a
sense of relief apparent in his voice.

‘So, inspector, now you know why
you saw me roaming around the church and the presbytery this morning … I accepted
the forty thousand francs, which must obviously be considered a loan, first of all,
as I have told you, to get rid of my mistress – forgive me, Father! … – and also
because it would have been particularly disagreeable to be arrested at that moment …
But we are all still standing as if … Please, do sit down …'

He went and opened the door and heard a
noise on the floor above.

‘The procession is starting up
again!' he murmured. ‘I think I'll have to call Moulins and ask
them to set up a chapel of rest …'

Then, abruptly:

‘I suppose you understand now!
Once I had accepted the money, I had to swear to the priest that I wasn't
guilty. It was hard to do that in front of you, inspector, without increasing your
suspicions … That's all! … As if you'd guessed my thoughts, you
haven't left me alone for a moment this morning, near the church … The priest
turned up here, I still don't know why, because as soon as you came in he was
reluctant to speak …'

His gaze darkened. To dispel the rancour
that assailed him he laughed, an awkward laugh.

‘It's simple, isn't
it? A man who has lived a riotous life, and who has signed bad cheques … Old Gautier
avoids me! … He too must be sure that—'

He suddenly looked in amazement at the
priest.

‘Well, Father … What did you?
 …'

The priest had in fact assumed a
funereal appearance. His gaze avoided the young man's, and tried to avoid
Maigret's as well.

Maurice de Saint-Fiacre understood and
exclaimed more bitterly:

‘There we are! People still
don't believe me … And the one who wants to save me is the very one convinced
of my guilt …'

He went and opened the door again and
called
out, forgetting the presence of the
dead woman in the house:

‘Albert! … Albert! … Faster than
that, damn it all! … Bring us something to drink …'

And the butler came in and walked to a
cupboard from which he took whisky and glasses. They watched him in silence. Then
Maurice de Saint-Fiacre said with a strange smile:

‘In my day there was no whisky in
the chateau.'

‘It was Monsieur Jean …'

‘Ah!'

He took a great swig and locked the door
behind the manservant.

‘Many such things have changed
 …' he murmured to himself.

But he didn't take his eyes off
the priest, who stammered, with mounting unease:

‘You will forgive me … I have to
go and do the catechism …'

‘Just one moment … You are still
convinced of my guilt, Father … No, don't deny it … Priests don't know
how to lie … But there are a few points I'd like to explain to you … Because
you don't know me … You weren't at Saint-Fiacre in my day … You've
just heard people talking about me … There are no material clues … The inspector,
who witnessed the events, knows something about that …'

‘Please …' stammered the
priest.

‘No! … You're not drinking?
 … To your health, inspector …'

And his face was grim. He was furiously
following the train of his thoughts.

‘There are lots of people who
might fall under suspicion … And yet your suspicions rest entirely on me … And I
wonder why that is … It kept me awake last night … I thought about all the possible
reasons, and in the end I think I've found … What did my mother say to
you?'