The Saint-Fiacre Affair (17 page)

‘Better than that! … Come on,
then! … Tell her you're a wretched insect … Repeat …'

‘I am …'

‘On your knees, I said! … Do you
need a rug?'

‘Ow! … I …'

‘Plead for forgiveness
 …'

And suddenly these replies, separated by
long silences, were followed by a series of loud noises. Saint-Fiacre could contain
himself no longer. There were a number of thuds against the parquet floor.

Maigret opened the door a chink. Maurice
de Saint-Fiacre was holding the back of Gautier's neck and banging his head
against the floor.

At the sight of the inspector he let go,
dabbed his forehead and stood up to his full height.

‘It's done! …' he
panted.

He noticed the estate manager and
frowned.

‘Don't you feel the need to
plead for forgiveness as well?'

And the old man was so frightened that
he fell to his knees.

In the faint light from the two candles,
all that could be seen of the dead woman was her nose, which looked larger than
usual, and her joined hands, clutching a rosary.

‘Get out!'

The count pushed Émile Gautier outside
and closed the door. And the group went back downstairs.

Émile Gautier was bleeding. He
couldn't find his handkerchief. The doctor passed him his own.

For it was a horrible sight: a
tormented, bloodstained face; a nose that was little more than a tumour, the upper
lip split.

And yet the ugliest, the most odious
thing about it was the eyes, with their evasive gaze.

Maurice de Saint-Fiacre, standing very
straight like a master of the house who knows what he has to do, strode across the
long ground-floor corridor and opened the door, receiving a gust of icy air.

‘Clear off! …' he growled,
turning towards the father and the son.

But just as Émile was leaving, he
instinctively grabbed him.

Maigret was sure that he heard a sob
issuing from the count's throat. He struck out again, convulsively, and
shouted:

‘Scoundrel! … Scoundrel!
 …'

The inspector had only to touch his
shoulder. Saint-Fiacre regained control of himself, literally threw the body down
the steps and closed the door.

Not so fast that they couldn't
hear the old man's voice:

‘Émile … Where are you?
 …'

The priest was praying, elbows on the
sideboard. In a corner, Métayer and his lawyer stood motionless, their eyes fixed on
the door.

Maurice de Saint-Fiacre came in, head
held high.

‘Gentlemen …' he began.

But he couldn't speak, choked as
he was by emotion. He was utterly exhausted.

He shook the doctor's hand, and
Maigret's, as if to indicate that it was time for them to leave. Then, turning
towards Métayer and his companion, he waited.

The two men seemed not to understand. Or
else they were paralysed by terror.

To show them the way he nodded his head
and snapped his fingers.

Nothing else!

But in fact there was something! The
lawyer looked for his hat, and Saint-Fiacre groaned:

‘Faster! …'

Behind a door, Maigret heard a murmur,
and he guessed that it must be the servants, trying to guess what was happening in
the chateau.

He put on his heavy overcoat. He felt
the need to shake Saint-Fiacre's hand once more.

The door was open. Outside, the night
was clear, cold and cloudless. The poplars stood out against a sky bathed in
moonlight. Footsteps echoed somewhere far away, and there was light in the windows
of the estate manager's house.

‘No, Father, you can stay
 …'

And Maurice de Saint-Fiacre's
voice continued in the echoing corridor:

‘Now, if you aren't too
tired, let us go and sit vigil for my mother …'

‘Please don't think ill of me
for paying you so little attention, Monsieur Maigret … But with the funeral and
everything …'

And poor Marie Tatin busied herself,
getting whole cases of bottles of beer and lemonade ready.

‘Especially when people who have
come a long way are going to want their lunch …'

All the fields were white with frost,
and the blades of grass broke under their feet. Every quarter of an hour the bells
of the little church sounded the death knell.

The hearse had arrived at dawn, and the
undertakers had settled themselves at the inn, in a semi-circle around the
fireplace.

‘I'm surprised the estate
manager isn't at home!' Marie Tatin had said to them. ‘He must be
at the chateau, with Monsieur Maurice …'

And already the first villagers were
arriving in their Sunday best.

Maigret was finishing his breakfast when
he looked out the window and saw the altar boy arriving, his mother holding him by
the hand. But his mother didn't walk him all the way to the inn. She stopped
on the corner, where she thought no one could see her, and pushed her son on
ahead, as if to give him the necessary
propulsion to reach Marie Tatin's inn.

When Ernest stepped inside, he looked
very confident. As confident as a child at a prize-giving ceremony, reciting a poem
he has been rehearsing for three months.

‘Is the inspector here?'

Just as he was asking Marie Tatin that
question, he spotted Maigret and walked towards him, both hands in his pockets, one
of them fiddling with something.

‘I came to …'

‘Show me your whistle.'

Ernest immediately stepped back, looked
away and muttered, ‘What whistle?'

‘The one you've got in your
pocket … Have you wanted a boy-scout whistle for a long time? …'

The boy took it mechanically from his
pocket and set it down on the table.

‘And now tell me your little
story.'

A suspicious glance, then a faint shrug.
Because Ernest was already crafty. His eyes clearly said: ‘Too bad! I've
got the whistle! I'm going to tell you what I was ordered to say …'

And he recited:

‘It's about the missal … I
didn't tell you everything the other day because you scared me … But Mum wants
me to tell the truth … They came and asked me for the missal just before high mass
 …'

But he was red in the face and suddenly
picked the
whistle up as if he was
afraid of seeing it confiscated because of his lie.

‘And who came to find
you?'

‘Monsieur Métayer … The secretary
at the chateau …'

‘Come and sit next to me … Would
you like some grenadine?'

‘Yes … With fizzy water
 …'

‘A grenadine with sparkling
mineral water, please, Marie … And are you happy with your whistle? … Make it work
 …'

The undertakers turned round at the
sound of the whistle.

‘Your mother bought it for you,
yesterday afternoon, isn't that right?'

‘How do you know?'

‘How much did they give your
mother at the bank yesterday?'

The little boy looked him in the eye. He
wasn't blushing any more, he was quite pale now. He glanced at the door to
measure how far away from it he was.

‘Drink your grenadine … So it was
Émile Gautier who saw you … He made you repeat your lesson …'

‘Yes!'

‘He told you to accuse Jean
Métayer?'

‘Yes.'

And, after a moment's
reflection:

‘What are you going to do to
me?'

Maigret forgot to reply. He was
thinking. He was thinking that his role in this matter had consisted solely in
supplying the last link, a tiny link
that perfectly completed the circle.

It was Jean Métayer that Gautier had
wanted to incriminate. But the previous evening's events had scuppered his
plans. He had worked out that the dangerous man was not the secretary, but the Count
of Saint-Fiacre.

If everything had gone according to
plan, he would have had to visit the little boy early in the morning to teach him a
new lesson.

You will say that it was the count who asked you for the missal …

And now the boy repeated again:

‘What are you going to do to
me?'

Maigret didn't have time to reply.
The lawyer came downstairs and into the dining room, approached Maigret with his
hand outstretched, with a hint of hesitation.

‘Did you sleep well, inspector? …
Excuse me … I want to ask your advice, on behalf of my client … I have the most
appalling headache …'

He sat down, or rather slumped, on the
bench.

‘The funeral's fixed for ten
o'clock …'

He looked at the undertakers, then at
the people passing in the road, waiting for the funeral to begin.

‘Between ourselves, do you believe
that it's Métayer's duty to … Don't get me wrong … We understand
the situation, and it's purely out of delicacy that …'

‘Please can I go now?'

Maigret didn't hear the boy. He
was addressing the lawyer.

‘Haven't you worked it out
yet?'

‘Meaning that if we examine
 …'

‘A piece of advice: don't
examine anything at all!'

‘So in your view we'd be
better off leaving without? …'

Too late! Ernest, who had grabbed his
whistle, was opening the door and making off as fast as his legs would carry
him.

‘Legally we're all in an
excel—'

‘An excellent situation,
yes!'

‘Isn't that so? … It's
what I was just saying to …'

‘Did he sleep well?'

‘He didn't even take his
clothes off … He's a very nervous boy, very sensitive, like lots of people of
good family and …'

But the undertakers pricked up their
ears, got to their feet and paid for their drinks. Maigret got up too, unhooked his
overcoat with the velvet collar and wiped his bowler hat with his sleeve.

‘You both have a chance to slip
away during …'

‘During the funeral? … In that
case, I'll have to phone for a taxi.'

‘That's right.'

The priest in his surplice. Ernest and
two other altar boys in their black robes. The cross carried by a priest from a
neighbouring village, walking quickly because of the cold. And the liturgical chants
that they delivered as they ran along the road.

The villagers were grouped at the foot
of the steps. It
was impossible to see
inside. At last the door opened, and the coffin appeared, carried by four men.

Behind them, a tall silhouette. Maurice
de Saint-Fiacre, standing very straight, his eyes red.

He wasn't wearing black. He was
the only one not in mourning.

And yet, when his eye drifted across the
crowd from the top of the steps, there was a moment's awkwardness.

As he came out of the chateau there was
no one beside him. And he followed the coffin all by himself …

From his vantage point, Maigret noticed
the estate manager's house, which had been his, its doors and windows
closed.

The shutters of the chateau were closed
as well. It was only in the kitchen that servants pressed their faces to the
windows.

A murmur of sacred chants, almost
drowned by the sound of footsteps on the gravel.

Bells pealing out.

Two pairs of eyes met: the count's
and Maigret's.

Was the inspector mistaken? It seemed to
him that the shadow of a smile hovered on Maurice de Saint-Fiacre's lips. Not
the smile of a sceptical Parisian, or the smile of a ruined family.

A serene, confident smile …

During mass, everyone could hear the
blaring horn of a taxi: a little scoundrel fleeing with a lawyer whose brain was
dulled by a hangover.