‘Thank you, but …’
Jean Métayer and the lawyer left first, in a big car that still bore the family crest of its former owner. A quarter of an hour later Maigret left in turn and as he travelled along, chatting to the driver, he observed the landscape.
The setting was monotonous: two rows of poplars along the road, ploughed fields as far as the eye could see, with the occasional rectangle of copse, and the blue-green eye of a pond.
Most of the houses were little shacks. This made sense, because there were no small landowners.
Nothing but large estates, one of which, the one that belonged to the Duke of T— included three villages.
The Saint-Fiacre estate had covered two thousand hectares before the sequence of sales.
The sole means of transport was an old Paris bus bought by a farmer, which travelled between Moulins and Saint-Fiacre once a day.
‘We’re in the middle of the countryside here,’ said the driver. ‘You haven’t seen anything yet. But in the depths of winter …’
As they drove along the main Moulins road the clock on the church of Saint-Pierre struck half past two. Maigret stopped the cab outside the Comptoir d’Escompte and paid the fare. Just as he turned away from the taxi to head towards the bank, a woman came out of it, holding a little boy by the hand.
And the inspector quickly immersed himself in the contemplation of a shop window so as not to be noticed. She was a countrywoman in her Sunday best, her hat balanced on her hair, her waist constrained by a corset. She held herself upright, dragging the child along behind her, paying him no more heed than she would have done to a parcel.
It was the mother of Ernest, the Saint-Fiacre altar boy.
The street was busy. Ernest would have liked to stop and look at the window displays, but he was caught up in the wake of the black skirt. Nevertheless, his mother bent down to say something to him. And, as if it had been decided in advance, she stepped inside a toyshop with him.
Maigret didn’t dare to get too close. And yet he received the information he needed in the form of some whistle-blasts that emanated from the shop a moment later. They were trying out every imaginable whistle, and in the end the altar boy had to opt for a two-note boy-scout model.
When he came out he was wearing it around his neck, but his mother continued to drag him along and wouldn’t let him use the instrument in the street.
A bank branch like any other in the provinces. A long oak counter. Five clerks leaning on desks. Maigret made for the counter marked ‘Current Accounts’, and a clerk rose to his feet and waited to serve him.
Maigret wanted to find out about the exact state of the Saint-Fiacre fortune, and particularly about the transactions of the previous few weeks, or indeed the previous few days, which he thought might provide him with a clue.
But he paused in silence for a moment, studying the young man who stood there politely, without a hint of impatience.
‘Émile Gautier, I assume?’
He had seen him pass by twice on his motorbike, although hadn’t been able to make out his features. But it was the striking resemblance to the estate manager of the chateau that left no doubt.
Not so much a resemblance in terms of detail as a resemblance in terms of breeding. The same peasant origins: marked features, robust bones.
His degree of social advancement was more or less the same, his skin better groomed than that of the farmers, his expression intelligent, his assurance that of an ‘educated’ man.
But Émile wasn’t yet a city type. His hair, although brilliantined, was still rebellious and stood up in a tuft on the top of his head. His cheeks were pink, like those of village toughs, scrubbed clean on Sunday mornings.
‘That’s me.’
He wasn’t troubled. Maigret was sure that he must be a model employee, in whom his manager had every confidence and who would soon be due for promotion.
A black suit, made to measure but by a local tailor, in indestructible serge. His father wore celluloid collars. He, on the other hand, wore soft ones, but his tie was still elastic.
‘Do you recognize me?’
‘No! I assume you’re the policeman …’
‘And I would like some information about the state of the Saint-Fiacre account.
‘That’s easy! I’ve been put in charge of that account, as I have of many others.’
He was polite, well brought up. At school he must have been the teacher’s pet.
‘Let me have a look at the Saint-Fiacre account!’ he said to a clerk sitting behind him.
And his eye skimmed a big sheet of yellow paper.
‘Would you like a statement, the balance or general information?’
At least he was precise!
‘Would general information be all right?’
‘Would you mind coming over here? … People might hear us …’
And they reached the end of the room but were still separated by the oak counter.
‘My father must have told you the countess was very chaotic … I was constantly having to stop cheques that would otherwise have bounced … In fact she wasn’t aware of it … She drew cheques without worrying about the state of her account … And then, when I phoned her to let her know, she lost her head … Even this morning, three dud cheques were presented, and I was forced to turn them down … I’ve been given an order not to pay anything before …’
‘Is she completely ruined?’
‘Not exactly … Three farms out of five have been sold … The two others have been mortgaged, along with the chateau … The countess had a block of flats in Paris that brought her in a small income … But when all of a sudden she paid forty or fifty thousand francs into her son’s account, it threw everything out of kilter … I always tried to do what I could … I delayed payments two or three times … My father …’
‘Lent some money, I know.’
‘That’s all I can tell you … Right now, the balance is exactly seven hundred and seventy-five francs … Bear in mind that property tax hasn’t been paid for last year, and that the bailiff issued a first warning last week …’
‘Is Jean Métayer aware of this?’
‘He’s aware of everything! And perhaps more than aware.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing!’
‘Do you think he has his feet on the ground?’
But Émile Gautier, the soul of discretion, did not reply.
‘Is that all you want to know?’
‘Do any other residents of Saint-Fiacre have their accounts at your branch?’
‘No!’
‘No one came today to make a transaction? To cash a cheque, for example?’
‘No one.’
‘And you were at your counter all the time?’
‘I never left it!’
He wasn’t concerned. Ever the model employee, he replied as one must to an important person.
‘Would you like to see the manager? Although he won’t be able to tell you more than I can …’
The streetlights were coming on. The main street was so busy it was almost like a big city, and there were long queues of cars outside the cafés.
A procession was passing by: two camels and a baby elephant bearing advertising streamers for a circus set up in Place de la Victoire. In a grocer’s shop, Maigret noticed the altar boy’s mother, still holding him by the hand and buying tins of food.
A little further on he nearly bumped into Métayer and his lawyer, who were walking busily along, talking. The lawyer was saying:
‘… they’ll have to block it …’
They didn’t see the inspector and carried on towards the Comptoir d’Escompte.
You inevitably meet everyone ten times an afternoon, in a town that consists entirely of a street five hundred metres long.
Maigret was on his way to the printworks of the Journal de Moulins. The offices were at the front of the building: modern shop windows, with a large display of press photographs and the latest news,
handwritten in blue pencil, on long strips of paper.
Mondchourie. The Havas Press Agency informs us that …
But, to get to the printworks, one had first to turn down a dark alley, guided by the noise of the rotary press. In a desolate studio, men in overalls worked at tall marble tables. In a glazed cage at the end were the two linotypes, rattling away like machine guns.
‘The foreman, please …’
He literally had to shout, because of the thundering noise of the machines. The smell of ink caught his throat. A little man in blue overalls who was setting the type in a press form cupped a hand to his ear.
‘Are you the foreman?’
‘I’m the page setter!’
Maigret took from his wallet the piece of paper that had killed the Countess of Saint-Fiacre. The man put on steel-rimmed glasses, looked at it and wondered what it might mean.
‘Is this one of yours?’
‘What? …’
People ran past, carrying piles of newspapers.
‘I’m asking you if this was printed here.’
‘Come with me!’
It was easier in the courtyard. It was cold, but at least they could talk in an almost normal voice.
‘What did you ask me?’
‘Do you recognize the type?’
‘It’s 9-point Cheltenham.’
‘From here?’
‘Almost all linotypes use Cheltenham.’
‘Are there other linotypes in Moulins?’
‘Not in Moulins … But in Nevers, in Bourges, in Chateauroux, in Autun, in …’
‘Is there anything special about this particular document?’
‘It’s been printed using a planer … They wanted to make it look like a newspaper cutting, didn’t they? … I was once asked to do the same thing, for a joke …’
‘Aha!’
‘At least fifteen years ago … When we still set the newspaper by hand …’
‘And the paper doesn’t give you a clue?’
‘Almost all provincial newspapers use the same supplier. It’s German paper … Excuse me … I have to finish setting the type … It’s for the Nièvre edition …’
‘Do you know Jean Métayer?’
The man shrugged.
‘What do you think of him?’
‘To listen to him you’d think he knew the trade better than we do. He’s got a screw loose … We let him fiddle about in the workshop, because of the countess, who’s a friend of the boss …’
‘Can he use a linotype machine?’
‘Hmm! … Well, he says he can! …’
‘Well, could he have set this paragraph?’
‘If he had a good two hours to spare … Starting the same line ten times over again …’
‘Did he have access to a linotype machine any time recently?’
‘What do I know? He comes! He goes! He irritates us all with his photographic techniques … You’ll forgive me … The train won’t wait … And my form isn’t finished yet …’
There was no point pressing the matter. Maigret was about to go into the studio again, but the bustling activity in there put him off. These people didn’t have much time on their hands. Everyone was running. The porters jostled him as they hurried to the exit.
But he did manage to take aside an apprentice who was rolling a cigarette.
‘What do you do with the lines of lead type once they’ve been used?’
‘They’re melted down again.’
‘How often?’
‘Every two days … Look! The foundry’s over there, in the corner … Careful! It’s hot …’
Maigret went outside, a little weary, perhaps slightly discouraged. Night had fallen completely now. The pavement gleamed more brightly than usual because of the cold. Outside a draper’s shop, a salesman with a head cold was pacing back and forth, accosting passers-by.
‘A winter coat? … Lovely bit of English fabric from only two hundred francs … Come in! No obligation to buy …’
A little further along, outside the Café de Paris, where the click of billiard balls could be heard, Maigret spotted the Count of Saint-Fiacre’s yellow car.
He went inside, looked around for the man and, not finding him, sat down at a table. This was the town’s smartest café. On a raised platform, three musicians were tuning up and sorting out the sequence of their set with three cards, each one bearing a number.
A sound came from the phone cabin.
‘A beer!’ Maigret said to the waiter.
‘Light or dark?’
But the inspector was struggling to hear the voice in the cabin. He couldn’t quite make it out. Saint-Fiacre came out, and the cashier asked him:
‘How many calls?’
‘Three.’
‘To Paris, yes? … Three times eight eighty …’
The count spotted Maigret and came towards him quite casually and sat down beside him.
‘You didn’t tell me you were coming to Moulins! I would have given you a lift … Admittedly it’s a coupé, and in this weather …’
‘Were you calling Marie Vassiliev?’
‘No! I don’t know why I would hide the truth from you … I’ll have a beer too, waiter … No, in fact! Something hot … a hot rum … I was calling a certain Monsieur Wolf … If you don’t know him, others are bound to, Quai des Orfèvres … A money-lender, if you like … I’ve resorted to his services several times … I’ve just been trying to …’
Maigret gave him a quizzical look.
‘Were you asking him for money?’
‘On any terms! And he refused anyway. Don’t look at me like that! This afternoon I called in at the bank …’
‘At what time?’
‘Around three … The young man you know and his lawyer were coming out …’
‘Were you trying to withdraw money?’
‘I tried! Don’t think for a moment that I’m trying to make you feel sorry for me! Some people are embarrassed when it comes to money. Not me … So! Once the forty thousand francs had been sent to Paris and Marie Vassiliev’s train ticket bought, I’ve got about three hundred francs in my pocket. When I came here I hadn’t foreseen any of this … I’ve just got the suit on my back … In Paris I owe several thousand francs to the landlady of my flat, who won’t let me have my belongings …’
As he spoke, he watched the balls rolling on the green baize of the billiard table. The billiard-players were some young men from the town, of modest origins, who cast the occasional envious glance at the count’s elegant outfit.
‘That’s all! I would have liked at the very least to be in mourning for the funeral. There isn’t a tailor in the country who would give me two days of credit … At the bank, they told me my mother’s account was blocked, and also that the balance came to just over seven hundred francs … And do you know who gave me this pleasant information?’
‘The son of your estate manager!’
‘The very same!’
He took a swig of the steaming rum and fell silent, still watching the billiards. The band struck up a Viennese waltz which seemed to be oddly in time with the sound of the billiard balls.
It was hot. The café was plunged in greyish murk, in spite of the electric lights. It was an old-fashioned provincial café, with only one concession to modernity in the form of a poster which announced: ‘Cocktails 6 francs.’
Maigret smoked slowly. He too stared at the billiard table, lit harshly by lamps in green cardboard shades. From time to time the door opened, and after a few seconds a gust of frosty air caught them by surprise.
‘Let’s go and sit at the back …’
It was the voice of the lawyer from Bourges. He passed by the table at which the two men were sitting, followed by Jean Métayer, who was wearing white woollen gloves.
But they both looked straight ahead. They didn’t see the others until they had sat down.
The two tables were almost facing one another. Métayer blushed slightly and ordered firmly:
&n
bsp; ‘A hot chocolate!’
And Saint-Fiacre joked under his breath:
‘Poor love!’
A woman sat down an equal distance from the two tables and, giving the waiter a familiar smile, murmured:
‘The usual!’
He brought her a cherry brandy. She powdered her face and put on some lipstick. And she fluttered her eyelashes, unsure which table to focus her gaze upon.
Was Maigret, tall and comfortable, the one she should target? Was it the more elegant lawyer, already looking her up and down with a half-smile?
‘And there you have it! I’ll be attending the funeral in grey!’ murmured the Count of Saint-Fiacre. ‘I can hardly borrow a black suit from the butler! Or wear one of my late father’s morning coats!’
Apart from the lawyer, whose interest was focused on the woman, everyone was looking at the nearest billiard table.
There were three of them. Two were occupied. Cries of ‘bravo!’ erupted as the musicians concluded their piece. And all of a sudden, the sound of glasses and saucers could be heard again.
‘Three ports, three!’
The door opened and closed again. The cold came in and was gradually absorbed by the warmth of the room.
The lamps above the third billiard table came on when the cashier turned to flick the electric switches, which were behind her back.
‘Thirty points!’ said a voice.
And, to the waiter:
‘A glass of Vichy … No! A Vittel with strawberry syrup …’
It was Émile Gautier, who was carefully coating the tip of his cue with blue chalk. Then he set the marker to zero. His companion was the sub-manager of the bank, ten years his senior, with a pointed brown moustache.
It was only on his third stroke – which he missed – that he spotted Maigret. He greeted him slightly awkwardly. From that point on he was so engrossed in the game that he no longer had time to see anybody at all.
‘Of course, if you’re not scared of the cold there’s room in my car …’ said Maurice de Saint-Fiacre. ‘Can I get you something? I’m sure one drink isn’t going to finish me off …’
‘Waiter!’ said Jean Métayer loudly. ‘Put a call through to Bourges 17!’
His father’s number! A few moments later he closed himself in the cabin.
Maigret was still smoking. He had ordered a second beer. And the woman had finally focused her attention on him, perhaps because he was the largest person present. Every time he turned towards her she smiled at him as if they were old acquaintances.
The Saint-Fiacre Affair Page 8