The Saint-Fiacre Affair

by Georges Simenon; Translated by Shaun Whiteside

  ‘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?’

  This time the priest’s face drained of blood.

  ‘I don’t know anything …’ he stammered.

  ‘Please, Father … You’ve helped me, certainly! … You let me have those forty thousand francs that give me time to breathe and bury my mother in a decent way … I thank you with all my heart … Except at the same time, you are letting all your suspicions weigh upon me … You pray for me … It’s too much, or not enough …’

  And a hint of anger, or menace, began to appear in his voice.

  ‘At first I thought I might be able to have an explanation from you, without Detective Chief Inspector Maigret being present … Well, I won’t conceal the fact that I’m glad he’s here too! … The more I think about it, the more I have a sense that there’s something murky …’

  ‘Monsieur, please don’t torture me any more …’

  ‘And for my part, Father, I warn you that you will not leave here before you have told me the truth!’

  He was a different man. He had reached his limit. And like all weak, meek people, his ferocity was excessive.

  His voice was now so loud that it must have been audible in the mortuary chamber, just above the library.

  ‘You saw my mother often … And I imagine that Jean Métayer attended your church as well … Which of the two told you something? … It was my mother, wasn’t it? …’

  Maigret remembered what he had heard the day before:

  The secret of the confessional …

  It was then that he understood the priest’s torment, his anxiety, his martyred expression as Saint-Fiacre’s torrent of words crashed down on him.

  ‘What could she have told you? … I know her, after all … You might say that I was present when things began to slip … We are among people who know all about life …’

  He looked around, with silent rage:

  ‘There was a time when people only came into this room holding their breath, because my father, the boss, was working there … There was no whisky in the cupboards … But the shelves were full of books as the combs of a beehive are saturated with honey …’

  And Maigret remembered too!

  The count is working …

  And those words were enough to keep the tenant farmers waiting in the hall for two hours!

  The count let me into the library …

  And Maigret’s father was worried, because it was beginning to sound like an important event.

  ‘He didn’t like to waste logs, but instead settled for a paraffin heater that he put right next to him, to supplement the boiler …’ said Maurice de Saint-Fiacre.

  And, to the distraught priest:

  ‘You never knew that … You only ever knew the chateau in a state of chaos … My mother after she lost her husband … My mother whose only son got up to all sorts of nonsense in Paris and only ever came home to ask for money … And then, the secretaries …’

  His eyes were so glistening that Maigret expected to see a tear fall from them at any moment.

  ‘What did she say to you? … She was afraid to see me turning up, wasn’t she? … She knew there would be yet another hole to fill, something she’d have to sell to put me back on my feet once again …’

  ‘You should calm down!’ the priest said in a flat voice.

  ‘Not before knowing … whether you’ve suspected me without knowing me from the very first moment …’

  Maigret broke in.

  ‘The priest made the missal disappear …’ he said slowly.

  He had already worked it out! He was coming to the aid of Saint-Fiacre. He imagined the countess, torn between sin and remorse … Didn’t she fear punishment? … Didn’t she feel a little ashamed before her son? …

  She was a sick and troubled soul! And why, in the secret of the confessional, might she not one day have said, ‘I’m afraid of my son …’

  Because she must have been afraid of him. The money that passed to people like Jean Métayer was Saint-Fiacre money, meant for Maurice. Was he not bound to come sooner or later and ask for an explanation? Wou
ld he not …

  And Maigret felt that these ideas were dawning, still confused, in the young man’s brain. He helped him to set them out more clearly.

  ‘The priest can’t say anything if the countess’s words were spoken under the secret of the confessional …’

  It was quite clear. Maurice de Saint-Fiacre broke off the conversation.

  ‘You will forgive me, Father … I forgot your catechism … Please don’t be angry with me for …’

  He turned the key in the lock and opened the door.

  ‘Thank you … As soon as … as soon as possible I’ll give you back the forty thousand francs … Because I assume they don’t belong to you …’

  ‘I approached Madame Ruinard, the widow of the old notary …’

  ‘Thank you … Goodbye …’

  He nearly slammed the door but restrained himself and looked Maigret in the eyes, snapping:

  ‘What rubbish!’

  ‘He wanted …’

  ‘He wanted to save me, I know! … He was trying to avoid a scandal, somehow to glue the pieces of the Château de Saint-Fiacre back together … That’s not the point! …’

  He poured himself some whisky.

  ‘It’s that poor woman I’m thinking about! … Take Marie Vassiliev, for example … And all the others, in Paris … They have no pangs of conscience … While she, on the other hand! … And bear in mind that what she wanted above all from that fellow Métayer was affection … Then she hurried to the confessional … She must have seen herself as a monster … And from there to fearing my revenge … Ha! Ha! …’

  His laugh was terrifying.

  ‘You see me raging furiously at my mother because … And the priest hasn’t understood a thing! … He sees life purely in terms of the scriptures! … In my mother’s lifetime, he must have tried to save her from herself … Now that my mother is dead, he thought it was his duty to save me … But right now, I’m willing to bet, he’s convinced that I was the one who …’

  And he looked the inspector straight in the eye and said:

  ‘And what about you?’

  And when Maigret didn’t reply:

  ‘Because there has been a crime … A crime that only the worst kind of wretch could commit … A revolting coward! … Is the law really powerless to deal with him? … That’s what you said … But there’s something I want to tell you, inspector, and I grant you permission to use it against me … When I get hold of that little scoundrel, I’m the one he’ll have to deal with … And I won’t need a gun! No, no weapons … These hands will be quite enough! …’

  He was clearly fired up by alcohol. He must have been aware of it, because he ran his hand over his brow, looked at his reflection in the mirror and addressed a mocking grimace to himself.

  ‘However it’s also true that without the priest I would have been arrested even before the funeral! I haven’t been very nice to him … The old notary’s wife who’s paying my debts … Who is she? … I don’t even remember her …’

  ‘The lady who always dresses in white … The house with the gate with gold arrows, on the Matignon road …’

  Maurice de Saint-Fiacre calmed down. His fever had only been a flash in the pan. He began to pour himself a drink, hesitated, drained the contents of his glass in one go, with a pout of revulsion.

  ‘Do you hear that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The locals filing past upstairs! I should be up there, in mourning, red-eyed, shaking hands and looking grief-stricken! Once they’re outside they’ll start talking …’

  And, in a suspicious voice:

  ‘But in fact if, as you say, the law can do nothing about the affair, why are you staying in Saint-Fiacre?’

  ‘Something else might happen …’

  ‘And if I discovered the guilty party, would you stop me from …’

  His clenched fingers were more eloquent than any speech.

  ‘I will leave you now,’ Maigret said abruptly. ‘I must go and keep an eye on the other front …’

  ‘The other front?’

  ‘The one at the inn! Jean Métayer and his lawyer, who arrived this morning …’

  ‘He’s got a lawyer?’

  ‘He’s a far-sighted young man … This morning, people were organized like this: at the chateau, you and the priest; at the inn, the young man and his counsel …’

  ‘Do you think he was capable of …’

  ‘Please excuse me if I serve myself?’

  And Maigret drank a glass, wiped his lips and stuffed one last pipe before leaving.

  ‘I assume you don’t know how to use a linotype machine?’

  A shrug.

  ‘I don’t know how to use anything at all … That’s precisely the problem! …’

  ‘And you’re not going to leave the village without telling me under any circumstances, are you?’

  A serious, deep expression. And a serious, deep voice:

  ‘I promise you!’

  Maigret went outside. He was about to walk down the steps when suddenly, out of nowhere, there was a man standing next to him.

  ‘Excuse me, inspector … I wonder if you might give me a few moments of your time … I’ve heard …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you were almost part of the household … Your father was in the trade … Please do me the honour of coming to my house and joining me for a drink …’

  And the grey-bearded estate manager led his companion across the courtyards. Everything was ready at his house. A bottle of brandy whose label announced its venerable age. Some biscuits. A smell of cabbage and bacon came from the kitchen.

  ‘From what I’ve heard, you knew the chateau in different circumstances … When I arrived there, the chaos was just beginning … There was a young man from Paris who … This brandy is from the days of the old count … No sugar, I assume?’

  Maigret stared at the table with the carved lions holding brass rings in their mouths. And once again he felt his physical and emotional exhaustion. In the old days, he had only been allowed to come into this room in his slippers, because of the waxed parquet.

  ‘I’m very embarrassed … And you’re the one whose advice I want to ask … We are poor people. You are familiar with the estate manager’s trade, which doesn’t make a man rich …

  ‘Some Saturdays when there was no money in the cash box, I paid the farm workers myself …

  ‘And sometimes I even paid for the livestock that the tenant farmers said they needed …’

  ‘In other words, to cut a long story short, the countess owed you money!’

  ‘The countess didn’t know anything about business … The money disappeared in all directions … It was only for indispensable matters that none could be found.’

  ‘And it was you who …’

  ‘Your father would have done the same, wouldn’t he? There are times when you mustn’t let the local people know that the coffers are empty … I took money from my savings …’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Another little glass? … I didn’t do the sums. At least seventy thousand … And now once again, for the funeral, I’m the one who …’

  Maigret saw it vividly: his father’s little office, near the stables, at five o’clock on Saturday. All the people who worked at the chateau, from linen maids to day labourers, waited outside. And old Maigret, sitting in the office lined with green baize, made little piles of silver coins. They all passed by in turn and wrote their signature or a cross in the accounts book.

  ‘Now I wonder how I’m going to recover the … For people like us it’s …’

  ‘Yes, I understand! You’ve had the fireplace changed!’

  ‘Well, it was made of wood … The marble looks better …’

  ‘A lot better!’ muttered Maigret.

  ‘You understand! All the creditors will pounce on us! We’ll have to sell up! And with all these mortgages …’

  The armchair Maigret was sitting in was new, like the mantelpiece, and must have
come from a shop on Boulevard Barbès. There was a phonograph on the sideboard.

  ‘If I had no sons I wouldn’t mind, but Émile has his career to think of … I don’t want to rush things …’

  A girl crossed the corridor.

  ‘Do you have a daughter as well?’

  ‘No! She’s a local girl who comes and helps out.’

  ‘Well! We’ll talk again, Monsieur Gautier. Excuse me, but I’ve still got lots of things to do …’

  ‘One last little glass?’

  ‘No, thank you … You said around seventy-five thousand, didn’t you?’And he left, hands in his pockets, passed through the flock of geese, walked along the Notre-Dame pond, which was no longer lapping at the shore. The church clock rang on the stroke of noon.

  At Marie Tatin’s, Jean Métayer and the lawyer were having lunch. Sardines, herring fillets and garlic sausage for starters. On the nearby table were the glasses that had held the aperitifs.

  The two men were in a cheerful mood. They welcomed Maigret with ironic glances. They winked at each other. The lawyer’s briefcase was closed.

  ‘Did you find any truffles for the chicken, at least?’ he asked.

  Poor Marie Tatin! She had found a very small tin in the grocer’s, but she couldn’t get it open. She didn’t dare admit it.

  ‘I found some, monsieur!’

  ‘Then hurry up! This country air gives you a terrific appetite!’

  It was Maigret who went to the kitchen and who used his knife to cut into the metal of the tin while the cross-eyed woman stammered in a low voice:

  ‘I’m confused … I …’

  ‘Shut up, Marie!’ he muttered.

  One camp … Two camps … Three camps?

  He felt a need to joke to escape reality.

  ‘By the way! The priest asked me to bring you three hundred indulgences! To make up for your sins!’

  And Marie Tatin, who didn’t get the joke, looked up at her companion with a mixture of fear and respectful affection.

  7. Appointments in Moulins

  Maigret had phoned Moulins to order a taxi. At first he was surprised to see one arriving about ten minutes after his call, but, as he was heading for the door, the lawyer, who had been finishing his coffee, cut in.

  ‘Sorry! That’s ours … But if you want to join us …’