The Saint-Fiacre Affair

by Georges Simenon; Translated by Shaun Whiteside

  It was as he walked slowly towards the chateau that he opened the bound book with the Saint-Fiacre coat of arms. Or rather he didn’t open it. The missal opened all by itself, at a page where a piece of paper had been slipped between two pages.

  Page 221: ‘Prayer after communion.’

  The piece of paper was a roughly cut scrap of newspaper which, at first glance, looked odd, as if it had been badly printed.

  Paris, 1 November. A dramatic suicide occurred this morning in a flat on Rue de Miromesnil occupied for several years by the Count of Saint-Fiacre and his Russian girlfriend, a certain Marie V …

  After informing his girlfriend that he was ashamed of the scandal provoked by a member of the family, the count fired a bullet into his head from a Browning and died a few minutes later without regaining consciousness.

  We have reason to believe that this was a particularly painful family drama, and that the person in question is none other than the mother of the unfortunate man.

  A goose that had wandered into the path furiously stretched its gaping beak towards Maigret. Bells rang, and the crowd shuffled slowly out of the little church accompanied by the smells of incense and snuffed candles.

  Maigret had shoved the missal into his pocket, making it bulge, and had stopped to examine the terrible piece of paper.

  The crime weapon! A newspaper cutting, seven centimetres by five!

  The Countess of Saint-Fiacre went to first mass, knelt down in the pew reserved for the members of her family for two centuries.

  She took communion. It was planned. She opened her missal to read the ‘prayer after communion’.

  There was the weapon! And Maigret turned the bit of paper in all directions. He found something not quite right about it. He looked among other things at the alignment of the letters, and was convinced that it had not been produced by a rotary press as a real newspaper would have been.

  It was a simple galley, hand-printed. And in fact the sheet bore exactly the same text on the other side.

  The murderer hadn’t taken the trouble to refine it, or perhaps he hadn’t had time. Would it have occurred to the countess to turn the page over? Would she not have died first, from shock, indignation, shame or anguish?

  There was a frightening expression on Maigret’s face: because he had never before seen a crime at once so cowardly and so skilful.

  And whoever had committed the crime had also called the police!

  Assuming that the missal wouldn’t have been found …

  Yes! That was it! No one was supposed to find the missal! In which case it would have been impossible to speak of a crime, to accuse anyone at all! The countess had died of a sudden heart attack!

  He suddenly turned on his heel. He reached Marie Tatin’s while everyone was talking about him and the missal.

  ‘Do you know where little Ernest lives?’

  ‘Three houses past the grocer’s, on the main street …’

  He ran off in that direction. A single-storey cottage. Enlarged photographs of the father and mother hung on either side of the dresser. The woman, already in her house clothes, was in the kitchen, which smelled of roast beef.

  ‘Is your son here?’

  ‘He’s changing. There’s no point in him dirtying his Sunday clothes … You saw how I shook him! … And to think that he’s only ever had good examples in front of his eyes and who …’

  She opened a door and shouted, ‘Come here, you scoundrel!’

  And the boy could be seen in his underpants, trying to hide himself.

  ‘Let him get dressed,’ said Maigret. ‘I’ll talk to him later …’

  The woman went on preparing lunch. Her husband was probably at Marie Tatin’s, having an early drink.

  At last the door opened, and Ernest came shiftily in, wearing his weekday suit, the trousers of which were too long.

  ‘Come for a walk with me …’

  ‘Really?’ the woman exclaimed. ‘In that case, Ernest … Hurry up and put on your good suit …’

  ‘There’s no need! … Come on then, my little man …’

  The street was deserted. The life of the village was concentrated on the square, the cemetery and Marie Tatin’s.

  ‘Tomorrow I’ll give you an even bigger missal, with the first letters of each verse in red …’

  The little boy was amazed. So the inspector knew that there was such a thing as missals with red letters, like the one on the altar?

  ‘Only, you’re going to tell me quite honestly where you got this one! I’m not going to tell you off …’

  It was odd to see the old peasant suspicion appearing on the boy’s face. His mouth was shut. He was already on the defensive.

  ‘Did you find it on the prie-dieu?’

  Silence! His cheeks and the top of his nose were scattered with freckles. His fleshy lips were tight as he tried not to show any emotion.

  ‘Don’t you realize that I’m your great friend?’

  ‘Yes … You gave my mum twenty francs.’

  ‘So?’

  The boy savoured his revenge.

  ‘On the way back my mum said she’d only slapped me for show, and gave me fifty centimes.’

  Bull’s-eye! The boy knew his stuff! What thoughts was he rolling about in that head, too big for his thin body?

  ‘And the sacristan?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything to me …’

  ‘Who took the missal from the prie-dieu?’

  ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘And where did you find it?’

  ‘Under my surplice, in the sacristy … I was supposed to go and eat in the presbytery. I’d forgotten my handkerchief … When I moved my surplice I felt something hard …’

  ‘Was the sacristan there too?’

  ‘He was in church, putting the candles out … You know the ones with the red letters are very expensive …’

  So someone had taken the missal from the prie-dieu and hidden it momentarily in the sacristy, under the altar boy’s surplice, with the clear intention of coming to get it later!

  ‘Did you open it?’

  ‘I didn’t have time … I wanted my boiled egg … Because on Sunday …’

  ‘I know.’

  And Ernest wondered how this man from the city could know that there was an egg and bread and jam at the priest’s house on Sunday.

  ‘You can go.’

  ‘Is it true that I’ll have …?’

  ‘A missal, yes … Tomorrow … Goodbye, son.’

  Maigret held out his hand, and the boy hesitated for a moment before holding out his own.

  ‘I know it’s just a joke!’ he said none the less as he walked away.

  A crime in three stages, then: someone had set the article, or had it set, using a linotype machine, the kind that you only find in a newspaper office or a very big printworks.

  Someone had slipped the piece of paper into the missal, carefully choosing the page.

  And someone had taken the missal back, had hidden it momentarily under the surplice, in the sacristy.

  Had the same man done everything? Had each action been performed by a different person? Had two of the actions been performed by the same person?

  As he was passing in front of the church, Maigret saw the priest coming out and heading towards him. He waited for him under the poplar trees, beside the woman selling oranges and chocolate.

  ‘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.

  4. Marie Vassiliev

  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 repli
ed 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.