Free The Saint-Fiacre Affair by Georges Simenon; Translated by Shaun Whiteside Page B

away.
    What were they doing there, the two of
     them, not talking, not moving? It would have been less embarrassing to interrupt an
     emotional scene than to plunge into that silence, so deep that his voice seemed to
     trace concentric circles in it like a pebble in water.
    Once again Maigret sensed
     Saint-Fiacre’s weariness.
The priest
     looked ill at ease, and his fingers drummed against his breviary.
    â€˜Forgive me for disturbing you
      …’
    It sounded ironic, but it wasn’t
     deliberate. Does one disturb people when they are as inert as inanimate objects?
    â€˜I have some news from the bank
      …’
    The count’s eyes settled on the
     priest, and his gaze was harsh, almost furious.
    The whole scene would play out in that
     rhythm. They were like chess-players thinking, foreheads resting on their hands,
     sitting in silence for a few minutes before moving a pawn and then relapsing into
     stillness.
    But it wasn’t concentration that
     held them frozen like that. Maigret was certain that it was the fear of making a
     false move, or some kind of clumsy manoeuvre. The situation between them was
     ambiguous. And each of them advanced his pawn regretfully, always ready to move it
     back again.
    â€˜I’ve come for the funeral
     instructions!’ the priest felt the need to say.
    It wasn’t true! A bad move. So bad
     that the Count of Saint-Fiacre smiled.
    â€˜I knew you would call the
     bank!’ he said. ‘And I will confess to you why I decided to take that
     course of action: it was to get rid of Marie Vassiliev, who didn’t want to
     leave the chateau … I let her believe that it was of vital importance …’
    And in the eyes of the priest Maigret
     now read anxiety and reproach.
    â€˜Poor wretch!’ he was
     doubtless thinking. ‘He’s tying
himself up in knots! He’s falling into the trap.
     He’s lost …’
    Silence. The scrape of a match and puffs
     of tobacco smoke that the inspector exhaled one by one as he questioned the
     count:
    â€˜Did Gautier find the
     money?’
    A brief moment’s hesitation.
    â€˜No, inspector … I’m going
     to tell you that …’
    The drama was being played out not on
     Saint-Fiacre’s face, but on the priest’s. The man was pale, his lips
     taut. He opted not to intervene.
    â€˜Inspector, I …’
    He couldn’t help it.
    â€˜I would like you to suspend this
     conversation until we have had a private discussion on the matter …’
    Maurice smiled as he had done a few
     moments before. It was cold in the room, too vast now that the fine books of the
     library had been removed from it. A fire had been prepared in the hearth. All that
     was needed was a match to be thrown on it.
    â€˜Do you have a lighter or
      …’
    And as he bent over the fireplace the
     priest gave Maigret a desolate, pleading look.
    â€˜Now,’ the count said as he
     turned back towards the two men, ‘I’m going to explain the situation in
     a few words. For a reason that I do not know, the parish priest, with the best of
     intentions, is sure that it was I who … why mince words? … who killed my mother! …
     Because it is a crime, isn’t it? Even if it isn’t one that falls within
     the scope of the law …’
    The priest didn’t move, but stood
     quivering and still as an animal that is aware of an imminent danger, a danger for
     which it is no match.
    â€˜He must have been very devoted to
     my mother … He probably wanted to ensure that the chateau didn’t find itself
     at the centre of any kind of scandal … Yesterday evening, via the sacristan, he sent
     me forty thousand francs and a little note …’
    And the priest’s expression said,
     beyond any possible doubt:
    â€˜Wretch! You are destroying
     yourself with your