Through the open doors two servants could be seen setting out the cutlery in the dining room.
‘Give Father something to drink …’
The count was addressing Métayer. Maigret noticed that he himself was not drinking. But the lawyer would soon be drunk. He was explaining to the doctor, who was looking with bafflement at the inspector:
‘A little diplomacy, that’s all! Or, if you prefer, knowledge of the human soul … They are about the same age, both of good family … Tell me why they should be glaring at each other like a pair of china dogs? … Don’t they have common interests? … The most curious thing …’
He laughed. He took a swig from his glass.
‘… And to think that it happened by chance, in a café … So those dear old provincial cafés, where you could be in your own home, have their good side …’
The sound of an engine had been heard outside. A little later the count went into the dining room, where the estate manager was sitting, and they caught the end of a sentence:
‘Both of them, yes! … If you like! … It’s an order! …’
The ringing of a telephone. The count had rejoined his guests. The butler came into the smoking room.
‘What is it?’
‘The undertaker … He’s asking what time they can bring the coffin …’
‘Whenever he likes.’
‘Certainly, Monsieur.’
And the count replied, almost gaily:
‘Would you like to take your seats? … I’ve had the last bottles brought up from the cellar … Pass me the first of them, Father … We’re a bit short of ladies, but …’
Maigret wanted to hold him back by his sleeve for a moment. The other man looked him in the eyes, with a hint of impatience, pulled abruptly away and went into the dining room.
‘I have invited Monsieur Gautier, our estate manager, and his son, who is a boy with a future ahead of him, to share our meal …’
Maigret looked at the bank clerk’s hair and, in spite of his unease, couldn’t help smiling. His hair was damp. Before coming into the chateau, the young man had straightened his parting, washed his face and hands and changed his tie.
‘Take your seats, gentlemen!’
And the inspector was certain that Saint-Fiacre’s throat was swollen with a sob. It went unnoticed, because the doctor involuntarily distracted everyone’s attention by picking up a dusty bottle and murmuring:
‘You’ve still got some 1896 Hospice de Beaune? … I thought the last bottles had been bought by the Larue Restaurant, and that …’
The rest was lost in the noise of scraping chairs. The priest, hands folded on the tablecloth, head lowered and lips moving, said grace.
Maigret noticed that Saint-Fiacre was staring at him intently.
9. In the Spirit of Walter Scott
The dining room was the room in the chateau that had lost least of its character, thanks to the carved wooden panels that covered the walls all the way up to the ceiling. The room was also higher than it was wide, which made it not only solemn but gloomy, because one felt as if one were eating at the bottom of a well.
On each panel there were two electric lamps, those elongated lamps that imitate candles, complete with fake wax drips.
In the middle of the table, a real seven-branched candelabra with seven real candles.
The Count of Saint-Fiacre and Maigret sat facing one another but could only see each other if they stiffened their backs to look above the flames.
On the right of the count, the priest. On his left, Dr Bouchardon. Chance had placed Jean Métayer at one end of the table, the lawyer at the other. And sitting next to the inspector were the estate manager on one side and Émile Gautier on the other.
From time to time the butler stepped forward into the light to serve the guests, but as soon as he stepped two metres back he was immersed in shadow, and his white-gloved hands were all that could be seen.
‘Don’t you think we could be in a novel by Walter Scott?’
It was the count who spoke, in an indifferent tone, and yet Maigret pricked up his ears, because he had heard an undercurrent, and had a sense that something was about to start.
They were only on their starters. On the table there was a random collection of bottles of white and red wine, claret and burgundy, and everyone was filling his glass as he felt like it.
‘There’s only one detail that doesn’t fit …’ Maurice de Saint-Fiacre continued. ‘In Walter Scott the poor old woman upstairs would suddenly start screaming …’
Within a few seconds, everyone stopped chewing, and they felt as if an icy draught has entered the room.
‘By the way, Gautier, has she been left all on her own?’
The estate manager swallowed hastily and stammered:
‘She … Yes … There is no one in the countess’s room …’
‘That can’t be very cheerful!’
At that moment a foot brushed insistently against Maigret’s, but the inspector couldn’t guess who it belonged to. The table was round. Anyone could have reached the middle. And Maigret’s uncertainty was destined to continue, because in the course of the evening the little kicks would become increasingly frequent.
‘Did she receive a lot of people today?’
It was embarrassing to hear him talking about his mother as if she were a living person, and the inspector noted that Jean Métayer was so struck by this that he stopped eating and looked straight ahead, his eyes becoming increasingly sunken.
‘Almost all the local farmers!’ the estate manager’s serious voice replied.
When the butler noticed a hand reaching out towards a bottle he approached in silence. His black arm, ending in a white glove, was seen suddenly emerging from the darkness. The liquid flowed. And it was done in such silence, with such skill, that the lawyer, by now more than tipsy, wonderingly repeated the experiment three or four times.
He delightedly followed this arm which didn’t even brush his shoulder. In the end he could restrain himself no longer.
‘Incredible! You are a marvel, sir, and if I could afford a chateau I would take you on straight away …’
‘Bah! The chateau will soon be for sale at a bargain price …’
This time even Maigret frowned as he watched Saint-Fiacre talking like that, in a voice that was curiously indifferent but also rather unnatural. In spite of everything, there was something strident about his words. Were his nerves on edge? Was it a grim sort of joke?
‘Chicken in half-mourning,’ he announced as the butler brought in some chickens with truffles.
And a moment later, in the same light tone:
‘The murderer will be eating chicken in half-mourning, like everyone else!’
The butler slipped his arm between the guests.
‘But your lordship! …’
‘Of course! What’s so strange about that? The murderer is among us, of that there is no doubt! But don’t let it take your appetite away, Father! The corpse is in the house too, and that hasn’t taken away your appetite. Albert, a drop of wine for Father!’
Once again the foot brushed Maigret’s ankle; he dropped his napkin and bent to look under the table, but it was too late. When he straightened up again, the count, still eating his chicken, was saying:
‘I mentioned Walter Scott just now, because of the atmosphere that reigns in this room, but also and particularly because of the murderer … After all, we are at a funeral wake, are we not? … The funeral will take place tomorrow morning, and in all likelihood we will not be parted before then … Monsieur Métayer can at least claim to have supplied the bar with excellent whisky …’
Maigret tried to remember how much Saint-Fiacre had drunk. Less, at any rate, than the doctor, who exclaimed:
‘Excellent! Yes indeed! But my client is also the grandson of wine-growers and …’
‘I was saying … What was I saying? … Oh, yes! … Fill the priest’s glass, Albert …
‘I was saying that since the murderer is here, t
he others are to some extent acting as upholders of the law … That’s why our gathering is like a chapter of Walter Scott …
‘Let’s be clear that our murderer is in no danger. Isn’t that so, inspector? … It isn’t a crime to slip a sheet of paper into a missal …
‘By the way, doctor … When did my mother suffer her last attack? …’
The doctor wiped his lips and looked gloomily around:
‘Three months ago, when you sent a telegram from Berlin to say that you were ill in a hotel room and that …’
‘I was after some cash! That was it!’
‘I said at the time that any further emotional turmoil would be fatal.’
‘So … Let’s see … Who knew? Jean Métayer, of course … And me, obviously! … Old Gautier, who’s practically family … And last of all you and Father here …’
He gulped down a glass of white wine and pulled a face:
‘So, logically speaking, almost all of us can be seen as potential suspects … If it amuses you …’
It was almost as if he were deliberately choosing the most shocking words he could find.
‘… If it amuses you, we will examine each of our individual cases, one at a time … Let’s start with Father … Would it have been in his interest to kill my mother? … You will see that the answer is not as simple as it seems … I shall leave aside the question of money …’
The priest was choking, but he didn’t get up from his chair.
‘Father had nothing to gain … But he is a mystic, an apostle, practically a saint … He has an eccentric parishioner whose behaviour is causing a scandal … One moment she’s hurrying to church like the most fervent of believers, the next she’s bringing scandal down upon Saint-Fiacre … No! Don’t pull that face, Métayer … We’re all men here … We are, if you wish, performing a psychological experiment.
‘Father has a faith so ardent that it might drive him to extremes. Remember the days when sinners were purified by being burned at the stake … So, my mother is at mass … She has just taken communion. She is in a state of grace. But soon she will succumb to sin once more, and again she will be the subject of a scandal … If she dies there, in her pew, in a state of holiness …’
‘But …’ began the priest, whose eyes were filled with fat tears and who was gripping the table to keep himself calm.
‘Please, Father … As I said, we are carrying out a psychological experiment … I just want to show you that even the most austere individuals can be suspected of the worst atrocities. Now, if we move on to the doctor, I find myself more perplexed. He isn’t a saint. And what saves him is that he isn’t a scientist either. Because if he were, he could have put the piece of paper in the missal to test the resilience of a sickly heart …’
The clatter of forks had faded away almost to nothing. And the faces were frozen, anxious, almost frantic. There was only the butler filling glasses in silence, with the regularity of a metronome.
‘You are gloomy, gentlemen … Are there really subjects that one cannot discuss, even among intelligent people?
‘The next course, please, Albert … So, let’s leave the doctor aside, since we cannot consider him as a scientist or a researcher. He is saved by his mediocrity.’
He chuckled and turned towards the estate manager.
‘Your turn! … A more complex case. We are still adopting the viewpoint of a Martian, aren’t we? Two possibilities … First, you are the model estate manager, the honest man who devotes his life to his masters, to the chateau where he was born … In fact he wasn’t born here, but no matter … In that case his position isn’t clear. The Saint-Fiacre family has only a single male heir … And there is the legacy melting away in front of his nose … The countess is behaving like a madwoman … And perhaps the moment has come to save what is left …
‘A noble gesture, worthy of Walter Scott, and not unlike that of the priest …
‘But there is also the opposite possibility! You are no longer the model estate manager born at the chateau … You are a rogue who has for years been taking advantage of and abusing the weakness of your masters … When we are forced to sell farms, you buy them up on the sly … And when we are forced to raise mortgages, you are the one who takes them. Don’t get angry, Gautier … Did the priest get angry? And besides, I haven’t quite finished …
‘You are almost the real owner of the chateau …’
‘Your lorship!’
‘Don’t you know how to play the game? We’re playing a game, I repeat! We’re playing, if you like, at being police inspectors like your neighbour. The time has come when the countess has reached the end, when everything will have to be sold, and it will be observed that you are the one who has profited from the situation … Wouldn’t it be better if the countess happened to die conveniently, thus at the same time sparing herself the need to acquaint herself with poverty? …’
And, turning towards the butler, a shadow in shadow, a demon with chalk-white hands:
‘Albert! Go and fetch my father’s revolver. If it’s still there …’
He poured a drink for himself and both his neighbours, then held out the bottle to Maigret.
‘Would you be so kind as to do the honours on your side of the table? Well! Here we are, about halfway through our game … But let’s wait for Albert. Monsieur Métayer, you’re not drinking …’
A strangled ‘No, thank you’ was heard.
‘And you, sir?’
And the lawyer, with his mouth full and his tongue coated:
‘No, thank you! No, thank you! I have all that I need. You know that you would make an excellent attorney general?’
He was the only one who laughed, and who ate with indecent appetite, who drank down one glass after another, of burgundy or claret, without even noticing the difference.
The shrill church bell struck ten. Albert handed the count a big revolver, and the count checked to see if it was loaded.
‘Perfect! … I’ll set it down here, in the middle of the table, which is round … You will notice, gentlemen, that it is an equal distance from each of you. We have looked at three cases. We will examine three more. Will you let me make a prediction first of all? Well, then! To stay in the tradition and the spirit of Scott, I must tell you that before midnight my mother’s murderer will be dead! …’
Maigret looked at him keenly across the table and saw that Saint-Fiacre’s eyes were too bright, as if he were drunk. At that very moment a foot again touched his.
‘And now I shall go on – but do eat your salads. I am moving on to your neighbour on your left, inspector, to Émile Gautier … A serious boy, a hard worker who, as one says at prize-giving, has advanced entirely by merit and by stubborn hard work …
‘Could he have killed?
‘One initial hypothesis: he worked for his father, and in agreement with him.
‘He goes to Moulins every day. He better than anyone else knows the family’s financial state … He has every opportunity to see a printer or a typographer …
‘Let us move on! Second hypothesis … You will forgive me, Métayer, for telling you, if you didn’t know it already, that you have a rival. Émile Gautier is certainly no beauty. But he still filled the position that you filled so tactfully, before you did …
‘Some years ago. Did he have certain hopes? Has he, since then, succeeded in stirring my mother’s over-sensitive heart?
‘Be that as it may, he was her official protégé and he was allowed to nurture all kinds of ambitions …
‘Then you came … You conquered …
‘Killing the countess while at the same time casting suspicion on yourself …’
Maigret’s toes were uncomfortable in his shoes. It was all hateful, sacrilegious! Saint-Fiacre was speaking with the elation of a drunkard. And the others were wondering whether they would make it to the end, whether they should stay and endure this scene or get up and leave.
‘You will realize that we are completely adrift on a sea of t
he imagination. Please note that even if the countess up there could speak, she could not give us the key to the mystery. The murderer alone knows how his crime was committed. Eat, Émile Gautier … Whatever you do, don’t get upset like your father, who looks as if he is about to be sick …
‘Albert! … There must be some bottles of wine left in a rack somewhere …
‘Your turn, young man!’
And he turned with a smile towards Métayer, who leaped to his feet.
‘My lawyer will be—’
‘Sit down, for heaven’s sake! And don’t try to tell us that you can’t take a joke at your age …’
Maigret looked at him as he uttered those words and he noted that the count’s forehead was covered with big droplets of sweat.
‘None of us is trying to look better than we are, isn’t that so? Well, then! I see that you are trying to understand. Take a fruit! They’re excellent for the digestion …’
The heat was unbearable, and Maigret wondered who had turned the electric lights out, leaving only the candles on the table lit.
‘Your case is so simple as to be entirely without interest … You were playing a disagreeable part, and one that you would not play for long … In the end you were mentioned in the will … A will, however, that could be changed at any moment … A sudden death and it would all be over! … You would pick the fruit of your … of your sacrifice … And, no doubt, you would marry a local girl whom you had had your eye on …’
‘I beg your pardon!’ the lawyer broke in, so comically that Maigret couldn’t suppress a smile.
‘Shut your mouth, you! Drink!’
Saint-Fiacre was adamant! He was drunk, there was no longer any doubt about it! He had that eloquence that drunks so often have, a mixture of roughness and refinement, of clear diction and slyly evasive words.
‘Which leaves only me!’
He called for Albert.
‘Listen, old man, go upstairs … It must be gloomy for my mother, being left all on her own …’
Maigret saw the servant’s quizzical eye settling on the estate manager, who blinked assent.
‘One moment! First put some bottles on the table … Whisky too … I shouldn’t imagine anyone is concerned with protocol …’
The Saint-Fiacre Affair Page 10