The Saint-Fiacre Affair by Simenon Georges

Author:Simenon, Georges [Simenon, Georges]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Crime, thriller, Classics
ISBN: 9780698193826
Goodreads: 210056782
Publisher: Publishing Group
Published: 1932-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

7. Appointments in Moulins

Maigret had phoned Moulins to order a taxi. At first he was surprised to see one arriving about ten minutes after his call, but, as he was heading for the door, the lawyer, who had been finishing his coffee, cut in.

‘Sorry! That’s ours … But if you want to join us …’

‘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.

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