The Saint-Fiacre Affair (16 page)

And, brusquely:

‘Don't forget that no one
knows! …'

He grabbed the bottle of whisky and
served everyone, starting with Maigret's glass and finishing with Émile
Gautier's.

He didn't fill his own.
Hadn't he drunk enough? A candle went out. The others would follow.

‘I said midnight … Three minutes
to midnight …'

He was affecting the airs of an
auctioneer.

‘Three minutes to midnight … two
minutes … The murderer is about to die … You can begin a prayer, Father … And you,
doctor, do you at least have your medical bag? … Two minutes … One and a half
 …'

And still that insistent foot against
Maigret's. He didn't dare to bend down, for fear of missing another
spectacle.

‘I'm off!' shouted the
lawyer, rising to his feet.

All eyes turned towards him. He was
standing up. He gripped the back of his chair. He hesitated to take the three
dangerous steps that would lead him to
the door. He hiccupped.

And at that moment there was a great
bang. Everyone was motionless for a second, maybe two.

A second candle went out, and at the
same time Maurice de Saint-Fiacre toppled over, his shoulders struck the back of the
gothic chair, he tilted to the left, lurched back to the right, but then fell back
inertly, his head resting on the priest's arm.

What followed was mayhem. Things were
happening all over the place, and afterwards each of them could only have related a
small part of the events that they had witnessed in person.

The dining room was now lit by only five
candles. Huge areas were still in darkness, and agitated people came and went as if
from the wings of a stage.

The gun had been fired by one of
Maigret's neighbours: Émile Gautier. And as soon as the shot had gone off, he
held out both wrists to the inspector in a slightly theatrical gesture.

Maigret was on his feet. Gautier stood
up. So did his father, and all three formed a group on one side of the table, while
another group gathered around the victim.

The Count of Saint-Fiacre's
forehead still rested against the priest's arm. The doctor, leaning forwards,
looked grimly around.

‘Dead? …' asked the podgy
lawyer.

No reply. The scene on that side of the
table was sluggish, as if being played out by bad actors.

Only Jean Métayer belonged to neither
one group nor the other. He had stayed beside his chair, anxious, shivering, not
knowing where to look.

In the minutes leading up to his action,
Émile Gautier
had plainly prepared his
demeanour, because as soon as he had set the gun back down on the table he literally
made a declaration, looking Maigret in the eyes.

‘He was the one who said it was
going to happen, wasn't he? … The murderer had to die … And, because he was
too much of a coward to take the law into his own hands …'

His self-confidence was
extraordinary.

‘I did what I saw as my duty
 …'

Could the others hear him from the other
side of the table? There were footsteps in the corridor. It was the servants. The
doctor went to the door to stop them from coming in. Maigret didn't hear what
he said to get rid of them.

‘I saw Saint-Fiacre prowling
around the chateau on the night of the crime … That was how I worked out
 …'

The whole scene was badly directed. And
Gautier was hamming it up to the rafters when he announced:

‘The judges will decide whether
 …'

The doctor spoke.

‘Are you sure it was Saint-Fiacre
who killed his mother?'

‘Absolutely certain! Would I have
acted as I did if …'

‘So you saw him prowling around
the chateau the night before the crime?'

‘I saw him as I see you now. He
had left his car on the edge of the village …'

‘You have no other
proof?'

‘I do, in fact! This afternoon,
the altar boy came to see me at the bank, with his mother … It was his mother who
made him speak … Shortly after the crime, the count
asked the child to give him the missal and promised him
a sum of money …'

Maigret was running out of patience and
felt as if he had been left out of the play.

And yes, it was a play! Why else was the
doctor smirking into his beard? And why was the priest gently pushing
Saint-Fiacre's head away?

A play, moreover, that was being
performed simultaneously as farce and drama.

For the Count of Saint-Fiacre rose to
his feet like a man who had just been enjoying a snooze. His face was hard, with an
ironic but threatening wrinkle in the corners of his lips.

‘Come over here and say that
again! …' he said.

And an unearthly cry rang out, as Émile
Gautier screamed in fear and gripped Maigret's arm for protection. But the
inspector stepped back, leaving the field open to the two men.

There was someone who didn't
understand: Jean Métayer. And he was almost as frightened as the bank clerk. To top
it all, one of the candlesticks was knocked over, and the tablecloth caught fire,
spreading a smell of burning.

It was the lawyer who doused the
incipient flames with the contents of a bottle of wine.

‘Come here!'

It was an order! And the tone was such
that disobedience was clearly out of the question.

Maigret had picked up the revolver. A
glance was enough to show him that it was loaded with blanks.

He guessed the rest. Maurice de
Saint-Fiacre letting his head rest on the priest's arm … A few whispered words
to make his death seem believable for a moment …

Now he wasn't the same man. He
looked bigger, more solid. He didn't take his eyes off young Gautier, and it
was the estate manager who suddenly ran towards a window, opened it and shouted to
his son:

‘Over here …'

It was a good idea. Emotions were so
heightened, and there was such confusion, that Gautier had a chance to get away at
that moment.

Did the little lawyer do it on purpose?
Probably not! Or else his drunkenness filled him with a kind of heroism. As the
fleeing man made for the window, he stuck out his leg, and Gautier fell head
first.

He didn't get to his feet unaided.
A hand had grabbed him by the neck, lifted him up and set him on his feet, and he
yelled again as he realized that it was Saint-Fiacre who was forcing him to stand
upright.

‘Don't move! … Someone shut
the window …'

Saint-Fiacre started with a punch in the
face of the young bank clerk, which turned purple. He did it quite coldly.

‘Speak, now! Tell me …'

No one intervened. It didn't even
occur to anyone, since they all felt that only one man had the right to raise his
voice.

Only the boy's father murmured in
Maigret's ear: ‘Are you going to let him get away with that?'

He certainly was! Maurice de
Saint-Fiacre was master of the situation, and he was up to the task.

‘You saw me on the night in
question, it's true!'

Then, to the others:

‘You know where? … On the lawn … I
was about to go in … He was coming out … I wanted to pick up some family jewels to
sell them on … We found ourselves face to face, in the night … He was shivering …
And this scoundrel told me he was coming from … Can you guess? From my
mother's bedroom, that's right! …'

Then in a low voice, casually:

‘I abandoned my plan. I went back
to Moulins.'

Jean Métayer's eyes widened. The
lawyer stroked his chin to maintain his composure and peered at his glass, which he
didn't dare to pick up.

‘It wasn't proof enough …
Because there were two of them in the house, and Gautier might have been telling the
truth … As I told you a moment ago, he was the first to take advantage of an old
woman's confusion … Métayer only turned up later … Had Métayer, feeling that
his position was under threat, not tried to take revenge? … I wanted to know … They
were both suspicious of each other … It was almost as if they were challenging me
 …

‘Isn't that right, Gautier?
 … The gentleman with the dud cheques who prowls around the chateau at night and
wouldn't dare accuse anyone for fear of being arrested himself …'

And, in another voice: ‘You will
excuse me, Father, and you too, doctor, for making you witness such a foul spectacle
 … But we've said it already: true justice, the justice of the courts, has no
business here … Isn't that so, Monsieur
Maigret? … Did you at least work out that I was the one
kicking you a few moments ago? …'

He paced back and forth, leaving the
light for the shadow and then the shadow for the light. He gave the impression of a
man containing himself, who can remain calm only at the cost of a terrible
effort.

Sometimes he came so close to Gautier
that he could have touched him.

‘How tempting it was to pick up
the revolver and fire! Yes! I had said it myself: the guilty man would die at
midnight! And you became the defender of the honour of the Saint-Fiacre
family.'

This time his fist struck the young man
so hard, right in the middle of the face, that blood spurted from his nose.

Émile Gautier had the eyes of a dying
animal. He staggered under the blow and was on the point of bursting into tears of
pain, of fear, of confusion.

The lawyer tried to intervene, but
Saint-Fiacre pushed him away.

‘I beg your pardon,
monsieur!'

And his formality marked the distance
that lay between them. Maurice de Saint-Fiacre was firmly in charge.

‘You will forgive me, gentlemen,
but I have only one small formality to carry out.'

He opened the door wide and turned
towards Gautier.

‘Come with me! …'

The young man's feet were riveted
to the ground. The corridor was unlit. He didn't want to be alone there with
his adversary.

It didn't take long. Saint-Fiacre
walked over to him and hit him again, sending Gautier tumbling into the hall.

‘Up you go!'

And he pointed to the stairs leading to
the first floor.

‘Inspector! I should warn you that
 …' the estate manager panted.

The priest had averted his head. He was
suffering, but didn't have the strength to intervene. Everyone was exhausted,
and Métayer poured himself a drink, anything at all, his throat was so dry.

‘Where are they going?' the
lawyer asked.

They could be heard walking along the
corridor, whose tiles rang out under their footsteps. And Gautier's heavy
breathing could be heard as well.

‘You knew everything!'
Maigret said to the estate manager slowly, in a very low voice. ‘You agreed,
you and your son! You already had the farms, the mortgages … But Jean Métayer was
still dangerous … Getting the countess out of the way … And at the same time getting
rid of the gigolo who was under suspicion …'

A cry of pain. The doctor went into the
corridor to see what was happening.

‘Nothing!' he said.
‘That rogue doesn't want to go upstairs, so he's being helped
along …'

‘It's revolting! …
It's a crime! … What's he going to do? …' cried the young
man's father, dashing to the door.

Maigret followed him, along with the
doctor. They reached the bottom of the stairs just as the two others got to the door
of the room where the body was laid out.

And Saint-Fiacre's voice was
heard:

‘Go in!'

‘I can't … I …'

‘Go in!'

A dull thud. Another punch.

Old Gautier ran up the stairs, followed
by Maigret and Bouchardon. All three of them reached the top just as the door closed
again, and no one moved.

At first not a sound came from behind
the heavy oak door. Gautier held his breath and pulled a face in the darkness.

A simple ray of light, under the
door.

‘On your knees!'

A pause. Hoarse breathing.

‘Faster! … On your knees! … And
now, ask forgiveness! …'

Another very long silence. A cry of
pain. This time it was not a punch that the murderer was dealt, but a kick right in
the face.

‘Sor … sorry …'

‘Is that all? … Is that all you
can find to say? … Remember that she was the one who paid for your studies
 …'

‘Sorry!'

‘Remember that she was still alive
three days ago.'

‘Sorry!'

‘Remember, you utter little
scoundrel, that you used to climb into her bed …'

‘Sorry! … Sorry! …'