The Saint-Fiacre Affair (15 page)

‘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 the 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 …'

He consulted his watch.

‘Ten past eleven … I have been
talking so much that I didn't hear the bells of your church, Father
 …'

And, as the butler nudged the revolver
slightly as he put the whisky bottles down on the table, the count intervened.

‘Careful, Albert! … It must be an
equal distance from each of them …'

He waited for the door to close
again.

‘And there we are!' he
concluded. ‘That leaves only me! I won't be telling you anything you
don't know if I say that I have never done anything good! Except perhaps while
my father was alive … But since I was only seventeen when he died …

‘I'm broke! Everyone knows
that! The little weekly newspapers mention it in barely concealed terms …

‘Dud cheques … I scrounge money
from my mother as often as I possibly can … I invented that illness in Berlin to get
hold of a few thousand francs …

‘Bear in mind that that is the
same as the missal trick, although on a smaller scale …

‘And yet, what happens? The money
that is my due is spent by little bastards like Métayer … I'm sorry, old man …
We're still doing transcendental psychology …

‘Soon there will be nothing left …
I call my mother, when a dud cheque could mean jail for me … She refuses to pay …
There are witnesses to back that one up …

‘So, if it goes on, in a few weeks
there will be nothing left of my inheritance …

‘Two hypotheses, as for Émile
Gautier. The first …'

Never in his career had Maigret felt so
uneasy. And it was probably the first time that he had a very clear sense that he
was not a match for the situation. Events were out of his control. Sometimes he
thought he was starting to understand, and a moment later a phrase from Saint-Fiacre
called everything into question again!

And there was still that insistent foot
pressing against his own.

‘Why don't we talk about
something else!' the intoxicated lawyer exclaimed.

‘Gentlemen …' the priest
began.

‘Excuse me! You owe me your time
until midnight at least! I was saying that the first hypothesis …

‘Oh, marvellous! You've made
me lose my thread …'

And as if to find it again, he poured
himself a full glass of whisky.

‘I know that my mother is very
sensitive. I slip the piece of paper into her missal, to frighten her and, in the
process, move her to pity, planning to come back the next day to ask her for the
necessary funds, and hope to find her more accommodating …

‘But then you have the second
hypothesis! Why wouldn't I want to kill too?

‘Not all the money of the
Saint-Fiacre family has been used up. There's a bit left. And, in my
situation, a bit of money, however little, could be my salvation!

‘I am vaguely aware that Métayer
is mentioned in the will. But a murderer cannot inherit …

‘Wouldn't he be suspected of
the crime? He who spends part of his time in a printing works in Moulins! He who,
living in the chateau, could slip the piece of paper in the missal as and when he
wanted to?

‘Did I not arrive in Moulins in
the afternoon? And didn't I wait down there, with my mistress, to see the
result of this manoeuvre? …'

He got to his feet, with his glass in
his hand.

‘Your health, gentlemen … You are
gloomy … I am sorry to see that … My mother's whole life was gloomy
during those last years … Isn't
that so, Father? … It's only right that her last night should be accompanied
by a little gaiety …'

He looked the inspector in the eye:

‘Your health, Monsieur
Maigret!'

Who was he making fun of? Of him? Of
everyone?

Maigret felt he was in the presence of
an irresistible force. Some individuals, at a given point in their lives, experience
a moment of plenitude, a moment in which they are somehow elevated above the rest of
humanity and themselves.

Sometimes, like a gambler in Monte
Carlo, who one evening keeps winning, whatever he does. It is true of the opposition
MP, unknown until that moment, whose speech shakes and topples the government, and
who is more surprised than anyone, because all he wanted was a few lines in the
parliamentary gazette.

Maurice de Saint-Fiacre was experiencing
his moment. He was filled with a strength that he hadn't suspected himself of
having, and the others could only lower their heads.

But wasn't it drunkenness that was
sweeping him along like that?

‘Let's return to the start
of our discussion, gentlemen, since it isn't yet midnight … I said that my
mother's murderer was among us … I have proved that it could be me or one of
you, except perhaps the inspector and the doctor!

‘I'm still not sure …

‘And I prophesied his death …

‘Will you let me continue with my
hypothetical game? He knows that the law can do nothing about him. But he also knows
that there are several of us, or rather that there will be several people left, six
at least, who know his crime …

‘There again, we are confronted
with several solutions …

‘The first is the most Romantic,
the most in tune with Walter Scott …

‘But I have to introduce a new
parenthesis … What characterizes this crime? … It's the fact that there are at
least five individuals who gravitated around the countess … Five individuals who
stood to gain from her death and who might, each in his own way, have thought of how
to bring it about …

‘Only one of them dared to do it …
Only one committed the crime! …

‘And yet I wouldn't be
surprised if he took advantage of this evening to avenge himself on the others … He
is lost! … Why not blow up the lot of us? …'

And Maurice de Saint-Fiacre, with a
disarming smile, looked at each of them in turn.

‘Is it exciting enough? The old
dining room in the old chateau, the candles, the table covered with bottles … Then,
at midnight, death … You will note that the scandal will be suppressed at the same
time … Tomorrow people will come running, and won't understand a thing … They
will put it down to accident, or an anarchist attack …'

The lawyer fidgeted in his chair and
glanced anxiously
around, towards the
gloom that had fallen less than a metre from the table.

‘If I might remind you that I am a
doctor,' murmured Bouchardon, ‘I would advise each of you to have a good
strong cup of black coffee …'

‘And I,' the priest said
slowly, ‘would remind you that there is a dead person in the house
 …'

Saint-Fiacre hesitated for a second. A
foot brushed Maigret's ankle, and he quickly bent down, too late once
again.

‘I asked you to wait until
midnight … I have examined only the first hypothesis … There is a second … The
murderer, crazed and cornered, fires a bullet into his head … 
But I don't
believe he'll do it …
'

‘I request that we move to the
smoking room!' the lawyer squealed, getting to his feet and clinging to the
back of his chair to keep from falling.

‘And last of all there is a third
hypothesis … Someone who cares about the honour of the family comes to the
murderer's assistance … Wait … The question is more complex … Shouldn't
scandal be avoided? … Shouldn't the guilty man be
helped
to kill
himself? …

‘The revolver is there, gentlemen,
an equal distance from all our hands … It is ten to midnight … I say again that at
midnight the murderer will die …'

And this time his voice was so firm that
everyone remained silent. No one breathed.

‘The victim is up there, with a
servant sitting vigil … The murderer is here, surrounded by seven people
 …'

Saint-Fiacre drained his glass in one go.
And the anonymous foot was still brushing Maigret's.

‘Six minutes to midnight … Is that
enough, Walter Scott? … Tremble, murderer …'

He was drunk! And he was still
drinking!

‘At least five people to steal
from an old woman deprived of her husband, of affection … Only one who dared … It
will be bomb or revolver, gentlemen … The bomb, which will blow all of us up, or the
revolver, which will hit only the guilty man … Four minutes to midnight …'