She probably had little idea that he was thinking about the old woman, as the son himself called her, who was laid out on the first floor of the chateau, with the locals processing past her and nudging one another.
But that was not how he saw her. He imagined her at a time when there had not yet been any cars outside the Café de Paris, and when no one drank cocktails.
In the grounds of the chateau, tall and lithe, elegant as the heroine of a popular novel, beside the pram being pushed by the nanny …
Maigret was only a little boy whose hair, like the hair of Émile Gautier and the altar boy, insisted on standing up in a tuft on the top of his head.
Was he not jealous of the count on the morning when the couple had left for Aix-les-Bains, in a car (one of the first in the area) full of furs and perfume? Her face was hidden behind her veil. The count was wearing big goggles. It looked like a heroic abduction. And the nanny was holding the baby’s hand, waving goodbye …
Now, the old woman was being sprinkled with holy water, and the bedroom smelled of candle-wax.
Preoccupied, Émile walked around the billiard table, playing like a dream, counting under his breath, importantly:
‘Seven …’
He lined up his shot again. He was winning. His boss with the pointed moustache said in a thin voice:
‘Terrific!’
Two men studied each other across the green baize: Jean Métayer, to whom the lawyer was speaking incessantly with a smile on his face, and the Count of Saint-Fiacre, who stopped the waiter with a languid gesture.
‘Same again!’
As to Maigret, he was now thinking about a boy-scout whistle. A two-note whistle, in bronze, of the kind he himself had never owned.
8. An Invitation to Dinner
‘Another phone call!’ sighed Maigret as he saw Métayer getting up yet again.
He watched after him and noted that he didn’t go into either the cabin or the lavatory. The podgy lawyer, meanwhile, was no longer perched on the edge of his chair like someone hesitating to get up. He was looking at the Count of Saint-Fiacre. He looked almost as if he was about to smile.
Was it Maigret who was superfluous? The scene, at any rate, reminded the inspector of certain situations from his youth: three or four friends, in a bar like this; two women at the other end of the room. Discussions, hesitation, calling the waiter, to pass him a note …
The lawyer was in the same state of nerves. And the woman sitting two tables away from Maigret mistakenly thought that she was the source of the agitation. She smiled, opened her handbag and put a little powder on her face.
‘I’ll be back in a moment!’ said the inspector to his companion.
He crossed the bar in the direction that Métayer had taken and saw a door that he hadn’t noticed, which opened on to a wide corridor with a red carpet. At the end of the corridor was a counter with a big book and a telephone switchboard, a receptionist. Métayer was there, finishing a conversation with the girl. He left her just as Maigret stepped forwards.
‘Thank you, mademoiselle … The first on the left, you say?’
He didn’t hide from the inspector. He didn’t seem bothered by his presence. On the contrary! And a little flame of joy flickered in his eyes.
‘I didn’t know it was a hotel …’ Maigret said to the girl.
‘Are you staying somewhere else? … You’ve made a mistake … This is the best hotel in Moulins …’
‘Didn’t you have the Count of Saint-Fiacre staying here?’
She nearly laughed. Then all of a sudden she turned serious.
‘What has he done?’ she asked with some concern. ‘This is the second time in five minutes that …’
‘Where did you send my predecessor?’
‘He wants to know if the Count of Saint-Fiacre went out during the night from Saturday to Sunday … I can’t answer now, because the night watchman hasn’t turned up … So this gentleman asked me if we had a garage and he went there …’
Good heavens! Maigret had only to follow Métayer!
‘And the garage is in the first street on the left!’ he said, slightly irritated.
‘Exactly! It’s open all night.’
Jean Métayer had obviously been quick, because when Maigret stepped into the street in question, he emerged from it, whistling. The watchman was having a snack in a corner.
‘I want to know the same thing as the gentleman who just left … The yellow car … Did someone come and get it during the night between Saturday and Sunday? …’
There was already a ten-franc note on the table. Maigret set down a second one.
‘At about midnight, yes!’
‘And they brought it back?’
‘Perhaps at three o’clock in the morning …’
‘Was it dirty?’
‘A little bit, perhaps … You know, the weather’s dry at the moment …’
‘There were two of them, weren’t there? A man and a woman …’
‘No! Just a man on his own.’
‘Small and thin?’
‘No! On the contrary, very tall and athletic.’
The Count of Saint-Fiacre, of course!
When Maigret entered the café, the band was in full swing once more, and the first thing he noticed was that the corner where Métayer and his companion had been sitting was empty.
But a few seconds later he found the lawyer sitting in his own seat, beside the Count of Saint-Fiacre.
When Maigret appeared, he rose to his feet.
‘Please excuse me … No, really! Sit where you were, please …’
He had no intention of leaving. He sat down on the chair facing him. He was very animated, his cheeks flushed, like someone in a hurry to finish a delicate job. He seemed to be looking around for Jean Métayer, but there was no sign of him.
‘You will understand, inspector … I wouldn’t have dared to go to the chateau. That’s normal … But since chance will have it that we meet on neutral terrain, if I might put it that way …’
And he forced a smile. After each phrase he looked as if he was greeting the two others, thanking them for their approval.
‘In a situation as awkward as this there’s no point, as I have told my client, in complicating things further by being overly touchy … Jean Métayer has understood very clearly … And, when you turned up, inspector, I was just telling the Count of Saint-Fiacre that we asked only to reach an agreement …’
Maigret murmured:
‘Good heavens!’
And he thought very precisely: You, young fellow, will be lucky if the fist of the man you’re talking to so smoothly doesn’t make contact with your face …
The billiard-players went on walking around the green baize. The woman got up, left her handbag on the table and went to the end of the room.
Someone else who’s making a big mistake. She’s just had a bright idea. Didn’t Métayer go outside to talk to her without a witness? … So, she’s going off to find him …
And Maigret wasn’t mistaken. Hand on hip, the woman was pacing back and forth, looking for the young man.
The lawyer was still talking.
‘There are very complex interests involved, and we for our part are willing …’
‘To do what?’ Saint-Fiacre cut in.
‘Well … to …’
He forgot that the glass within reach wasn’t his and drank from Maigret’s in order to maintain his composure.
‘I realize it may not have been the best choice of place … Or of time … But we do know better than anyone else about the financial situation of …’
‘Of my mother! So?’
‘My client, with a delicacy that does him credit, preferred to stay at the inn …’
That poor lawyer! The words, now that Maurice de Saint-Fiacre was staring at him, issued from his throat one by one as if he’d had to tear them out.
‘You understand me, don’t you, inspector? We know there is a will deposited with the notary … Don’t wo
rry! The rights of the count will be respected … But Jean Métayer is mentioned none the less. The financial affairs are confused. My client is the only one who knows them …’
Maigret admired Saint-Fiacre, who managed to remain almost angelically calm. There was even a faint smile playing on his lips!
‘Yes! He was a model secretary!’ he said without a hint of irony.
‘Bear in mind that he is a boy from an excellent family, who has had a solid upbringing. I know his parents … his father …’
‘Can we get back to the fortune?’
It was too good to be true. The lawyer could hardly believe his ears.
‘Will you let me buy a round? Waiter! The same again, gentlemen? I’ll have a St Raphaël and lemon …’
Two tables away the woman came back with a gloomy expression because she hadn’t been able to find anything, and was resigning herself to launching an assault on the billiard-players.
‘I was saying that my client is willing to help you. There are people he doesn’t trust. He’ll tell you himself that some shady operations have been carried out by people not over-burdened with scruples … So …’
Now came the hard part! In spite of everything, the lawyer had to swallow his saliva before he was able to continue:
‘You found the chateau coffers empty … And yet it is indispensable that your mother, her ladyship …’
‘Your mother, her ladyship!’ Maigret repeated admiringly.
‘Your mother, her ladyship …’ the lawyer continued without blinking. ‘Where was I? Yes! That the funeral should be worthy of Saint-Fiacre … As we wait for everything to be sorted out in everyone’s best interests, my client will set about …’
‘In other words, he will advance the funds necessary for the funeral … Is that it?’
Maigret didn’t dare to look at the count. He stared at Émile Gautier, who had just played another long break, and waited, nerves on edge, for a row to break out next to him.
Not a bit of it! Saint-Fiacre had risen to his feet and was talking to someone who had approached their table.
‘Please, come and join us!’
It was Métayer. Seeing him come in, the lawyer must have waved to him to tell him everything was going well.
‘A St Raphaël and lemon for you too? Waiter!’
A round of applause rang out in the hall, because the band had finished its piece. And once the background noise had stopped it was more awkward, because the voices rang out more clearly. Now the silence was broken only by the click of the ivory billiard balls.
‘I told his lordship, who understood very well …’
‘Who’s having the Raphaël?’
‘Did you come from Saint-Fiacre by taxi, gentlemen? In that case I will put my car at your disposal to drive you back … You’ll be a bit cramped. I’m already bringing the inspector … How much was that? No, I insist, it’s my round …’
But the lawyer had got to his feet and was putting a hundred-franc note into the hand of the waiter, who asked him, ‘All together?’
‘Of course! Of course!’
And the count said with his most gracious smile, ‘Too charming of you, too charming.’
Émile Gautier watched the four men leaving and politely standing aside to let one another pass in the doorway and forgot to get on with his game.
The lawyer sat in the front, beside Saint-Fiacre, who was driving. Behind him, Maigret made just enough room for Jean Métayer.
It was cold. The headlights weren’t bright enough. The car had no silencer, which made it impossible to talk.
Was Maurice de Saint-Fiacre used to driving at such speed? Was he taking a little revenge? Either way, he covered the twenty-five kilometres from Moulins to the chateau in less than a quarter of an hour, braking through the corners, hurtling through the dark, once only just avoiding a cart that was taking up the middle of the road, which forced him to climb up the slope.
Their faces were whipped by the breeze. Maigret had to clutch the collar of his overcoat with both hands. They passed through the village without slowing down. They could just make out the light of the inn, then the pointed spire of the church.
The car stopped abruptly, throwing the passengers against one another. They were at the bottom of the steps. Servants could be seen eating in the basement kitchen. Someone laughed loudly.
‘You’ll allow me, gentlemen, to invite you to dinner …’
Métayer and the lawyer looked hesitantly at one another. The count pushed them inside with a friendly pat on the shoulder.
‘Please … It’s my turn, isn’t it?’
And, in the hall:
‘I’m afraid it won’t be very cheerful …’
Maigret would have liked to say a few words in particular, but the count wouldn’t give him time and opened the door to the smoking room.
‘Will you wait for me for a few moments and have an aperitif? I need to give some instructions. Do you know where the bottles are, Monsieur Métayer? Do we have anything drinkable? …’
He pressed an electric switch. The butler was a long time coming and arrived with his mouth full and a napkin in his hand.
Saint-Fiacre briskly took it from him.
‘Call the estate manager … Then please call the presbytery for me, then the doctor’s house …’
And to the others:
‘Will you excuse me?’
The telephone was in the hall, which, like the rest of the chateau, was badly lit. In fact, since there was no electricity supply in Saint-Fiacre, the chateau had to make its own power, and the generator wasn’t powerful enough. The lightbulbs, rather than giving off a white light, revealed reddish filaments, as some trams do when they stop.
There were lots of deep shadows, in which it was barely possible to make out objects.
‘Hello … Yes, I’d love to … Thank you, doctor …’
Maigret and the lawyer were worried, but they didn’t yet dare admit their concern. It was Métayer who broke the silence by asking the inspector:
‘What can I offer you? I don’t think there’s any port left. But there are some spirits …’
All the ground-floor rooms were in a row, separated by big open doors. First the dining room. Then the drawing room. Then the smoking room, where the three men were sitting. And then the library, where the young man went to get some bottles.
‘Hello! … Yes … Can I count on it? … Straight away …’
The count spoke on the phone a little longer, then walked down the corridor that ran alongside all the rooms, climbed the stairs, and his footsteps stopped in the dead woman’s bedroom.
Other, heavier footsteps in the hall. There was a knock at the door, which opened immediately. It was the estate manager.
‘You asked to see me?’
But he realized that the count wasn’t there, looked in bafflement at the three people sitting together, retreated and asked the butler what was going on.
‘Some mineral water?’ Jean Métayer asked, concerned.
And the lawyer, full of goodwill, cleared his throat:
‘We both have very strange professions, inspector … Have you been with the police for a long time? … I have been at the bar for nearly fifteen years … That is to say that I have been involved in the most troubling events you can imagine … Cheers! … Your good health, Monsieur Métayer. I’m happy for you about the turn things are taking …’
The count’s voice, in the corridor:
‘Well! You’ll find some! Call your son, who’s playing billiards at the Café de Paris, in Moulins … He’ll bring whatever you need …’
The door opened. The count came in.
‘Do you all have something to drink? … Are there no cigars here?’
And he gave Métayer an inquisitorial look.
‘Cigarettes … I only smoke …’
The young man didn’t finish his sentence, but turned his head away, embarrassed.
‘I’ll bring you some.’
‘Gent
lemen, please forgive me for the very basic meal that you are about to have … We’re a long way from the town and …’
‘Come! Come!’ interrupted the lawyer, who was beginning to show the effects of alcohol. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine … Is that a portrait of one of your relatives? …’
He pointed to the wall of the big drawing room, at the portrait of a man in a stiff frock coat, his neck trapped in a heavy false collar.
‘That’s my father.’
‘So it is! You look like him.’
The maid ushered in Dr Bouchardon, who looked suspiciously around, as if he expected trouble. But Saint-Fiacre welcomed him cheerfully.
‘Come in, doctor … I expect you know Jean Métayer … His lawyer … A charming man, as you will see … As for the inspector …’
The two men shook hands, and a few moments later the doctor murmured in Maigret’s ear: ‘What have you been up to here?’
‘Not me … Him!’
The lawyer, affecting composure, kept walking towards the little round table on which his glass was standing and didn’t notice that he was drinking more than was sensible.
‘How wonderful it is, this old chateau! … And what a setting it would be for a film! … That was what I said recently to the state prosecutor in Bourges, who can’t stand the cinema … People film in all sorts of …’
He was growing animated and trying to draw someone into conversation.
The count, meanwhile, had approached Métayer and was being unnervingly friendly towards him.
‘What’s saddest about this place is the long winter evenings, isn’t that so? … In my day, I remember that my father too used to invite the doctor and priest … They weren’t the same as the ones we have today … But even then the doctor was a non-believer, and discussions always turned to philosophical issues … And sure enough, here is the …’
It was the priest, with circles around his eyes, his posture stiff, who didn’t know what to say and hesitated in the doorway.
‘I’m sorry I’m late but …’
The Saint-Fiacre Affair Page 9