All language subtitles for Maigret.and.the.St.Fiacre.Case.1959.1080p.BluRay.x264-USURY

MAIGRET AND THE ST. FIACRE CASE

BASED ON THE NOVEL BY GEORGES SIMENON

JUDGMENT DAY IS HERE

YOU SHALL DIE BEFORE
THE ASH WEDNESDAY MASS

Good of you to come, Monsieur Maigret.

My pleasure.

You weren't sure.

About coming? Not in the slightest.

That it was me.

Not at all.

I've changed. So have you.

To think you were a schoolboy
when you left.

It must have been... Let's see...

- Forty-one years ago.
- Good grief.

Late summer 1919, when my father died.

We never replaced him.

We never found a steward as good as him.

Whenever something went wrong,

my husband would say,
"In Maigret's day"...

- But the count...
- He died ten years ago.

- Didn't you know?
- No.

What can I get you, sir?

A half-pint.

Beer makes you fat
but I'd rather forego stylishness.

So tell me, when did you receive this?

Four days ago.

"Judgment day is here.

You shall die before
the Ash Wednesday mass."

- Probably a joke.
- Very probably.

- Do you have any enemies?
- I have so few friends left.

Has anyone ever threatened you?

No.

You don't usually come out
for nonsense like this.

- No, never.
- Thank you.

We get thousands of letters like this
at police HQ. The world is full of nuts.

But some of them are dangerous.

I'll stay until after tomorrow's service.

Would anyone want to frighten you?

I'm not afraid. Well... not really.

Or harass you.

No.

What about your son?

My son?

Sorry, I thought you had a son.

I do. Maurice.

- But you don't suppose...
- I didn't mean that!

- I just wondered if he knew about this.
- No.

He left the château a long time ago.
He lives in Paris.

I haven't seen him for four months.

You live alone at St. Fiacre?

Yes, more or less.

Maurice is coming tomorrow.
Perhaps you'll see him.

Any children, Maigret?

No, to my regret.

Strange that your son
didn't carry on the family tradition.

Didn't he want to?

You don't want your beer?

It gets dark at 6:00
and Albert hates to drive at night.

Penny for your thoughts.

I was thinking of the château,
Mathias Sandorf,

and Génial-Lucifer bikes.

The count gave me my first book,
Mathias Sandorf,

and my first bike:
red with racing handlebars.

I'd excelled in my exams.

That was the year you came
to the château as a bride,

with tables out on the grass
for your wedding.

April 1917. I was 18.

A man with a mustache welcomed me —
your father.

With a little blue-eyed boy.

I could smell your cologne a mile away!

I'd doused myself!

You were wearing
a white gown with flowers.

After that,
you only ever wore pastel dresses.

I used to hide in the bushes
to spy on you going by.

I'll make a confession too.
I used to go that way on purpose.

You weren't very good at hiding.

Always a tuft of blond hair sticking out.

When you left the château
after your father's death,

in October or November 1919...

September 18, to be precise.

My memory's not so good, but I have this.

SEPTEMBER 18, 1919

It's me.

You gave it to me yourself.

You kissed me on both cheeks
and told me to work hard.

I was probably still reeking of cologne!

I regarded it as a tribute.

As was that.

Nothing much has changed.
The steeple is still standing.

- Is Guillaume still the bell ringer?
- His grandson.

- Care to take a look around?
- Sure.

Albert, take the scenic route.

We'll be late for dinner, ma'am.

I wasn't thinking. You're right.

We'll stroll over there tomorrow.

By the way,
I'd rather nobody knows who I am.

My name might be Maigret,
but I'm still a policeman.

And it gets in the way.

Albert.

Tell Rolande to prepare the blue room.

The fireplace works in the green room.

You're right. Use the green room.

Take this, would you?

Pay no attention to Albert.

He's rough around the edges,
but he's a good fellow.

You're here, Father.

- Didn't you know?
- Yes, but...

This is an antique dealer from Paris.

Father Jodet, St. Fiacre's priest.

I have a lot of calls to make.

I simply have to talk to you.
Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday.

That's true.

If you wouldn't mind waiting
in the library for a few minutes...

Leave the car out.
I'm leaving for Moulins.

- You'll need gas.
- Didn't you fill her up?

Not much left.

All the first editions are gone,
the nice bindings too.

I guess you're here for the dresser.

I'm the countess's secretary.
I usually handle negotiations.

- Lucien Sabatier.
- How do you do.

About the dresser,

as it's still here.

A beautiful piece, fully authenticated.

It was mentioned in Issue 71
of French Furniture.

- Do you know Blachmann?
- Of course.

He offered 500,000 francs.

You're in a hurry.
I don't want to keep you.

A Charles Houssaye, very beautiful.

The count de St. Fiacre?

The late count, yes.

Most handsome.

A classical style, but real talent.

There's still a market for Houssaye.

If it's paintings you're after,
we have much better.

Very collectable. A museum piece, I'd say.

This used to be the salon.

What do you think?

A Girard.

Yes, sir.

We turned down 3.2 million for it.

The countess is very attached to it.

Memories of youth,
the scent of faded flowers...

Thus far
the countess has refused to part with it,

but a good offer might persuade her.

- I have a certain...
- Influence.

Yes.

The countess wants to see you.

Why didn't you say I'd left?

- What about him?
- He's leaving.

Well, I'll leave you.

Take a look around, make up your mind.

Oh, I already have.

Care for anything, sir?

We have grenache or Malaga.

- No, thanks. I'll go to my room.
- As you please.

You should try the Malaga.
It's pretty good.

Excuse me.

The countess is unwell. Nothing serious.

- Are you a doctor?
- No, but I'm used to doing it.

I'm going to Moulins
to turn in an article.

- So you're also...
- An art critic.

Well, good for you.

Come in, Maigret.

Sorry, are you sick?

Nothing serious, don't worry.

But I'm afraid
I won't be coming downstairs.

I was looking forward
to having dinner with you.

- Get some rest. Good night.
- Good night.

If you need anything, I'm right here.

You'll see, I'll be fine by tomorrow.

- We'll go for a walk.
- I hope so. Good night.

- How's madame?
- Fine. She's at mass.

How's that?

- It's only 7:20.
- Mass is at 7:00. It isn't a Sunday.

Good Lord!

Shall I fetch your coffee?

Perfectly natural. A heart attack.

You regard that as natural?

Predictable, even, with a heart like that.

- Did you know her?
- Yes.

I thought I'd seen you before somewhere.

You didn't know she had a heart condition?

She's been living on borrowed time.

Any strain or a chill
could have brought it on.

Try heating the church
instead of burning sinners.

- Is your examination complete?
- Are you in a hurry?

I have a mass at 8:30, in Boissy.

I'll come by the château
before the 11:00 service.

I have to go to Boissy too. A duck shoot.

Go get the chauffeur.

Any idea where he is?

Where else?
Having a drink at Marie Tatin's.

Do you need a ride to Boissy?

What about the death certificate?

I'll drop by the château later.

I thought you were the countess's doctor.

Well?

Don't you think
that a more thorough exam is called for?

- Or can't your ducks wait?
- That's not the point.

Now where is that Albert?

Poor old woman. Were you a friend?

Yes, I knew the countess long ago.

She was a good woman. But a born fool.

She was helpless
after her husband's death.

Did you know the château
when the count was alive?

To see what it's become.

The secretaries,
the vanishing furniture...

Gone to pieces in ten years.

As for that other bastard...

- Who's that?
- Her son, the count. Darling Maurice!

He's meant to be here today.

To hit her up for money?
That's all he ever comes for!

I've seen you before.

Either you're from around here
or you've been here.

Not really, people tend to come to me.

Gautier. Gautier, quick!

- Who's that?
- The steward. This'll be a shock.

Come on, hurry!

- What happened?
- Bad news.

The countess.

- Is she —
- Her heart.

Well, don't leave her there. Hurry up.

What's happened?

Madame de St. Fiacre is dead.

She can't be.

She can't be!

She died without seeing her son again.

Him! He killed her 20 times over!

Now what's all this then?
The count adores his mother.

Sure he does. He ought to!

- You saw the salon and library?
- You showed me.

Well, that's all his doing.

Not a month would go by
without a call or a telegram.

An SOS!

Every time, something else would go.

The Proust first editions, the Steinway,
the Fragonards...

We had to keep selling something off.

It was you who did the selling.

She didn't trust anyone but me.

You could have used your influence
to warn her.

You don't know Maurice.

I'll take the dresser
and make an offer for the pictures.

You don't know him.

He'll demand every last thing.

You'd better leave.

We'll all have to leave.

Well, you can't go in your pajamas.
Go get dressed.

- Yes, of course.
- My handkerchief.

You're the antique dealer?

There's nothing left to take.
Only the 12:30 train.

Drop him at the station.

Come in, come in. Make yourself at home.

- You examined her?
- Yes.

A pointless exercise.

Obviously a sudden heart attack.

- Caused by what?
- As I told you, probably the cold.

Hard to know for sure with hearts.

Heavy exertion, fatigue, excitement...

- Excitement?
- Excitement in church?

Chance would be a fine thing!

Sure.

The fact is, her heart was worn out.

She almost went last year.

DIGOXIN

I pulled her through,
but told her to take it easy.

What about poison?

Suicide? A churchy old woman like her?

Impossible.

Anyway, it would leave traces.
Almost all poisons do.

Really?

I was only musing.

You must like detective novels.

Did you know
that her secretary gave her injections?

I showed him how to.

Solucamphor.

I couldn't always be here.

She had frequent attacks and needed shots.

See the marks, here.

She was still a beautiful woman.

Are we disturbing you?

The count!

- Where's my mother?
- Sir —

- Has she seen this?
- You must keep calm, sir.

What are you doing here? Is my mother ill?

- Tell me!
- Sir —

What!

The countess is dead.

Then she read it.

- She read it.
- Read what?

Poor old girl.

My poor old girl.

Still here, you creep?

Be good and save me the trouble
of kicking you out.

COUNT DE ST. FIACRE COMMITS SUICIDE

Doctor.

Most unfortunate. A sad loss.

So she read it?

She died this morning, at mass.

I promise you, she didn't suffer.

Didn't suffer?

A terrible misfortune.

Not a misfortune. Murder.

A murder I should have prevented.

What are you saying? You're crazy!

Who are you?

Inspector Maigret,
your old estate manager's son.

Jules Maigret. Old boots Juju!

Of course! You're a police inspector?

Yes, indeed.

This appeared in today's Petit Moulinois.

"Dramatic suicide this morning
in a Paris apartment

occupied by the count de St. Fiacre.

The count shot himself in the head,
dying shortly afterwards.

He had told a friend of his shame
at the scandal surrounding his mother."

Four days ago, she received the message:
"Judgment day is here."

This false report appeared
on Ash Wednesday.

The message said
she would die that very day.

Chance? Coincidence?

- If I knew —
- Who wrote this or this?

- Is it the same person?
- Both lies were written by the same hand.

But she had a heart attack.

A heart attack predicted
five days in advance.

- Who gave you this letter?
- Your mother.

That's why I'm here.

Holy water.

I didn't think we'd meet again
under such circumstances.

Nor did I.

My sympathies, but your mother died
in the peace of the Lord.

The peace of the Lord?

Have you read this piece of filth?

Father is here on urgent business.

We should leave him. Come.

Look at me. Forget my fat belly.

Bouchardon. "Boubouche." Old Gély's class!

That was quite a story.

You think it's murder?
That newspaper thing doesn't hold up.

Really? Why not?

She couldn't have read it.
Deliveries arrive at 11:00.

It's not even that late now.

When did you get it?

The hotel gave it to me at 8:00,
with my breakfast.

Let's say the paper left the printer
at around 2:00 a.m.

and went on sale in Moulins at 6:00.

Plenty of time for your mother to hear.

- A bad joke?
- There are many motives for murder.

Nine times out of ten, it's money,
sometimes hatred, maybe love.

A joke? Never.

What do you plan to do?

First I'm going to freshen up.

Excuse me, I have an emergency in Boissy.

Who could have written
such a horrid thing?

Well, if you have any ideas...

Who's asking,
the policeman or the antique dealer?

My sacristan recognized you.

He said he was at school with you.

He even seems a little proud of it.

Forgive me, it's time for mass.

I'll come with you.
I have to buy some shaving cream.

Do you mind?

She might not have read it in the paper.

No one saw her read it
and there was no phone call.

But... someone could have
told her in person.

You were one of the last to see her.

Did she say anything particular?

Not this morning, last night.

We did have a meeting.

But saving souls
is hardly a police matter.

When people don't know, they get ideas.

I would have thought that saving souls
is something to be discussed quietly.

You're like a bull in a china shop.

Yes, I overheard you,

speaking holy words and stomping around.

You can have the Christian spirit,
a nervous tic,

and you can knock furniture over
while you pray.

But when a lady has a weak heart...

Oh, please!

It was you
who smashed Lucien Sabatier's picture.

One problem leads to another.

It seems regrettable,
but it was the right thing to do.

My only fault
is to have been too passive until now.

Excuse me, my parishioners are waiting.

Father.

You know who the killer is, don't you?

God knows.

Tell your wife
we'll have the soap in by Sunday.

I'll let her know.

May I help you, sir?

Bag o' candy, Madame Tatin.

Jules! Jules Maigret!

- Is it really you?
- Sure it's me!

- What brings you here after all this time?
- I'm here to see you.

Don't look too hard.

I was never a beauty,
but the years have gone by.

- How about a drink?
- A glass of white wine.

You haven't changed much. Same blue eyes.

That's yesterday's Petit Moulinois.

- Today's edition —
- Won't be here till 11:00.

- Do you have a phone?
- Yes, in back.

Hi. Get me 54, Moulins, please.

I sneak around to use the phone too.

Marie, put a bar of shaving soap
aside for me.

I knew him in short pants.
Now he has a beard!

The Petit Moulinois?

The news desk, please.

Have you left the château?

Hello. Inspector Maigret here.

Hello, monsieur.

Who tipped you off about the death
of the count de St. Fiacre?

Your Paris correspondent.
Can you check that?

- I was in Moulins.
- Congratulations.

Yes? At 11:45 p.m.?

Put the editor on.

He's asleep?

Tell him
that the count is very much alive.

You can also cite Article 27
of the 1881 law

concerning the spreading of false reports.

I strongly advise him
to print a retraction.

That's right.

Thanks.

At 11:45, you were at the paper?

I told you, I'm an art critic.
I submitted my article and left.

Naturally, you suspect me.

I'm not the count.

I'm poor, a commoner, and thus a suspect.

- I know what the police are like.
- Oh?

And you have no right
to be investigating this.

You have no jurisdiction here!

Secretary, artist, lawyer.
An impressive range of abilities.

Go ahead.

Who?

Maître Mauléon, attorney-at-law?
Hold the line.

It's for you.

Versatile and clairvoyant.
Very impressive indeed.

Maître?
I wish to see you as soon as possible.

It's very important.

You read about it?

Yes.
It's precisely what I wish to discuss.

Of course not.

But there's some police harassment
I want to put a stop to.

And the sooner the better!

Thank you, maître.

- Morning, all.
- Good morning.

- A drink?
- No time, thanks.

- How much is it?
- 1.50.

Add in the phone call, wine and soap.

The Petit Moulinois didn't come,
understand?

No, but if you say so...

A pack of High Lifes, please.

- Sure you were in Moulins last night?
- Yes, quite sure.

Thank you. Good-bye, Marie.

- I hope we'll see you again.
- Sure.

Oh, Monsieur Sabatier, I forgot.

That tip-off didn't come from Paris.
It came from Moulins.

Calls to Moulins cost one unit.

- Am I disturbing you?
- I was on my way to see you.

About this morning — I shouldn't
have shot off my mouth like that.

- Don't worry about it.
- Come in.

Thanks.

I thought you were one
of those antique dealers.

The way those vultures
come traipsing through...

- What would your father have done?
- Same as you, probably.

Sit down. May I take your coat?

No, I'm just passing by.

When I started this job,

it was like in your day.

- Will you take a drop?
- Indeed.

Mama, the plum brandy.

Made from the little ones.
Tangy, but tasty.

- Have you met my wife?
- Yes.

- Maybe you'd prefer beer?
- No, brandy's fine.

- You don't mind the smell of cabbage?
- No.

I've no appetite now,
but it was already cooking.

Didn't the stove used to be there?

We moved it because on windy days —

The chimney smoked.

Did the count talk to you
about the funeral?

He came by. But not for that.

He wanted money.

Already? How much?

800,000 francs.

800,000.

- It's three years old.
- Hits the spot.

800,000 should be easy to find.

There's the property at P'tit Mesnil.

What?

Hear that, Adèle?
He was talking about P'tit Mesnil.

It was sold off ages ago.

Along with all the land
around White Cross.

Not to mention the farm.

- So what's left?
- Nothing.

Langorme is swampland, worthless.

A mortgaged château, that's all.

It was a shame to see it all go.

For whom? What?

To Paris, for apartments, cars...

And here, secretaries.
You saw the last one.

He was probably the worst.

The others were just pimps.

He regarded himself as a manager.

The others just nibbled away.

He wanted to make investments.

Imitation leather. Ever heard of it?

No. Sounds great.

And the poor old lady believed him.

She'd believe anything.

And then with perfect timing,

Maurice bought his yacht
on the Mediterranean,

The Rose of Tahiti.

Boy, do I remember that!

I chipped in as best I could.

Roof, taxes. Even the grocery bills.

It was the château.
We didn't want people to talk.

Your father would have done the same.

Poor old Dad!

What with imitation leather,
The Rose of Tahiti and grocery bills,

how much are you out?

I'd rather not add it up.

Will you stay for cabbage soup?
Just waiting for our son.

No, thanks.

- Is that him?
- Yes, Émile.

He's a clerk at the bank in Moulins.

A registered clerk.

I called to give him the bad news.

She was like a fairy godmother to him.

- When we moved here he was...
- Thirteen and a half.

The age I was when I left.

Well, Gautier.

I'd love to stay for soup, but I'm busy.

See a notary about getting back
the money you advanced.

What's done is done.

Thanks anyway for the suggestion.

Thanks for the brandy.

- Is the count upstairs?
- No, in there.

We heard the news.

You can go up. There's already a crowd.

Forgive me.

I trust I'm not bothering you.

You're too early.

Our nervous Father here
was just about to —

Discuss the funeral.

All the lying in this parish!
It's outrageous.

Father wanted me to give my word.

About what?

He was just getting started,
but I can guess.

I can very well guess!

"Can you swear to me" —

What? That I didn't kill my mother?

Madame is lying in repose.
I order you to be quiet!

Five minutes ago,
you were ordering me to speak.

Embarrassing to admit,
but he thought I was guilty.

You too, right?

You're a tricky one.

Let's look on the bright side.

If anyone could profit from it,
it's certainly me.

I knew my mother had a weak heart.

When I announced I was coming,
I threatened her then,

made demands,

brought up the name of Lucien Sabatier.

All in all, to knowingly terrify her.

Doesn't it make me a plausible killer?

- You're making a fool of yourself.
- A fool is what I am.

You have no idea how big a fool.

Do you know why I came so quickly?

Because I wrote a bad check.

- Know how much for?
- 800,000 francs.

Everyone knows everything.
The charms of country life.

But this was first-rate foolishness.

What would I do with 800,000 francs?
Buy stocks? Property?

Too conventional!

No, I invested in a racehorse.
One hoof, as they say.

"The suicide of the count de St. Fiacre."

Maybe it will come to that in the end.

- You disapprove.
- You've drunk enough.

Yesterday you were in Moulins,
but the paper said

the information came from Paris.

Why were you in Moulins?

- Here comes the inspector.
- It happens.

Well?

I went by the bank to see
if I could rustle up the money.

But the cupboard was bare.

You know who told me?

- Émile, the steward's son.
- Yes, how delightful.

Stop drinking!

Does alcoholism shock you?

It fits perfectly.

Did my mother never mention
this bad habit?

What did you two talk about anyway?

She spent all her time
in the confessional.

Aside from hell, what was she afraid of?

Let me tell you. She was afraid of me!

Afraid of seeing me show up
because she was ashamed!

The poor old girl was ashamed.

Understandably.

No, you don't get it.

She wasn't ashamed of me, but of herself.

That money she gave her secretary
was my inheritance.

She was afraid I'd ask where it was
and criticize her misconduct.

And you'd come
and put the fear of God into her.

Condemn immorality,

dole out absolutions for mea culpas.

Go ahead, deny it.

Go on!

No, you're not leaving before hearing
what we both put her through.

Go, Father.

I'll pray for you.

For my mother's forgiveness
or for a bank loan?

I'm ashamed of you.

Perhaps your devil-may-care attitude
is a form of defense, but you're pathetic.

I'm tainting your memories.

Naturally,
my father would have had more...

- How can I put it?
- More class.

Yes, I know.

I should be in mourning, red-eyed,
wringing my hands.

It's true, he cut a fine figure.

The last of the St. Fiacres. A fine pair!

A bankrupt drunk
and a religious nut with her gigolos.

I'm sorry.

She didn't deserve that.

Who?

Mama.

And that little swine, Sabatier.

I'm one to talk.
If I hadn't left her alone...

Her secretaries —
It's not what the priest thinks.

Nothing unchaste happened. Poor old thing.

She just needed kindness.

A little affection.

Sir, the mayor's wife is asking for you.

- I didn't know —
- If I were dead or alive?

I'm coming.

They're not here to pay their respects,
but to gawk at the suicide.

I bet they've memorized the article.
I know what they're like.

So what are you waiting for?

Go put on a show for them.

Okay.

Since they came to see the count,

let's give them something to look at.

Not great... but still here.

- My sincere condolences.
- Thank you.

- And under such painful circumstances.
- You're very kind.

- My daughter.
- Mademoiselle.

I loved her so much!

I owed her everything. Everything!

Émile Gautier, the son of —

ON DUTY

Forty-six votes in favor,
socialist abstentions...

Don't call back.
We go to press in five minutes.

All right, that'll do.

- Were you on duty last night?
- Yes.

So you approved
the article about the count.

- Yes.
- My compliments!

Maybe your editor mentioned me. Maigret.

Indeed. What can I do for you?

Why did you approve this piece?

- It was called in.
- From where?

- From Paris.
- No.

Well, I thought it was from Paris.

The night operator passed it through,
saying the call was from Paris.

Anyone could say anything.

Unfortunately,
there's one annoying detail.

What's that?

- That you think I'm a fool.
- Let me explain.

Usually Braspart calls in the news items.

But he was covering the opera gala.

Or so the guy on the phone said.

And you believed him?

Put yourself in my shoes!

If the news was accurate and I ignored it,
I'd have been fired.

- Whereas a false report...
- Can always be retracted.

Where was Sabatier?

Sabatier?

They say journalism opens doors.
You're going straight to court!

You've never heard of Sabatier?

He's not on the staff.
He does a couple of articles a week.

He does the art column —

Was he here when the call came in?

No!

So you were alone?

What am I meant to have done?
A wrong article doesn't kill a man!

But it can kill a woman.
You spoke to the killer.

Complicity isn't murder either,
but it can complicate things.

Think about it.

- How's it going?
- Fine.

Half-pint.

What a surprise!

- I didn't know you were nocturnal.
- A regular night owl.

I'm going home, like a good boy.

- To the château?
- Yeah, need a ride?

Though we might run out of gas.

I wanted to fill it up,
but that's the way it goes.

Like sleeping without pajamas.

You forgot your suitcase?

Rather a preventive measure
taken by the hotel manager.

St. Flour accent, big mustache. Ghastly!

- Here.
- Certainly not!

I was merely presenting the facts.

No mercenary motive.

Sleeping without pajamas is one thing,
walking 15 kilometers quite another.

- Here.
- Okay.

But I'll pay you back.

By check.

Drawn on my St. Fiacre inheritance.

Our portraits.

Can I give you a lift?
Now that I've got plenty of gas.

No, thanks. I'll take a taxi.

- See you tomorrow.
- Right.

- Maybe you didn't want a head?
- It's fine.

Some beer-drinkers like a head,
others don't.

Everything in moderation, though.

Take me. Now I like just a finger on top.

As I always say,
you have to leave room for the liquid.

Especially as talking is thirsty work.

DEATH OF THE COUNTESS DE ST. FIACRE

Yesterday we erroneously reported
the death of the count de St. Fiacre

May I?

I'm a friend of Maurice's.
Have you known him long?

Since yesterday. I was sitting alone,
so he bought me a drink.

- Waiter!
- A Cointreau.

- Then?
- Maybe a brandy.

No, I mean with Maurice and you.

- Well, we talked till about 3:00 a.m.
- Here?

Well, I know there are booths,

but it's not exactly intimate!

No, we went to his place.
That is, the Lion d'Or Hotel.

- Why do you ask?
- No reason.

What about my sugar?

There you go.

Are you just passing through?

Better ask him.

I'm here for two days on business.

I had a meeting with a client
but he forgot me.

Is that good or bad?

You're from around here.
You might know him.

- Lucien Sabatier.
- Yes, I've heard that name.

- Small, dark-haired guy?
- Right.

- Works at a château?
- Yes.

It seems he's having it off
with the owner. Or so they say.

You're on the wrong floor.

He hangs out downstairs, at the Hula Hoop.

Take the stairs all the way down.

Here, thanks.

- What's your name?
- Arlette. You're going?

Yes, but maybe tomorrow night?

I'll be right here. I start at 6:00 p.m.

- Hello, Monsieur Maigret.
- Hello, Monsieur Gautier.

A three-cushion game. My compliments!

- You play?
- I did, in the old days.

It's our hobby.

Monsieur Maigret, Monsieur Buard,
assistant bank manager, BNCI.

- Delighted.
- Monsieur Flaubert, the clerk.

Enjoy your game.

You're up. Your ball, please.

- Now I'm being followed?
- Of course not. Still mad?

I acted awkwardly at Marie's.
Let's forget about it.

- We were both on edge.
- I was very calm.

Still, it wasn't enough to keep you
from changing your mind, like me.

- Anyway, here we are.
- A drink, monsieur?

- A half-pint.
- No beer here.

Whiskey? Champagne?

Quarter bottle of champagne.

You're thinking I don't belong here.

Same at the château.
I don't belong anywhere.

Why do you think
everyone is out to get you?

Lulu, you're all grumpy!

- What's wrong?
- Nothing.

Monsieur Maigret.

- He's —
- An antique dealer, from Paris.

- Mademoiselle Myriam.
- How do you do.

Your friend's an antique dealer. Cool!

He can dig up what we're looking for.

- You know a lot about Louis XVI?
- Sure.

I love it.

I'd fill the hall, the living room
and the bedroom with it.

Better than a modern love seat.
What do you think?

- What does he think?
- He's hunting for an apartment.

We don't have one yet,
but we'll find one, with his connections.

There's still time before June 15.

June 15?

Didn't he tell you we're getting married?

No, but he's very bashful.

He didn't even tell me
he sometimes comes here.

Sometimes? Every night!

Well, it's lovely to meet you,
but tomorrow is a busy day.

Don't go, you'll miss my grand finale.
The bubble bath!

- Some other time.
- It's on me.

I can afford a glass.

He is grumpy tonight!

What's all this? Don't I get a smile?

Come on, hurry up, you naughty boy!

Naughty Lulu!

I'm going to Moulins. The count —

He's already gone out. To mass, he said.

So you've found an apartment?

I was told that leaving was
the only decent thing to do.

Good for you.
But don't confuse decency with flight.

Don't stray far.
I may have some questions.

Ask Maître Mauléon, my lawyer.
He arrives tonight.

Good timing. Have him come at 7:00 p.m.
You might need him.

I have no reason to come.
No reason to do as you say.

Why should I anyway?

I don't like your type, but a judge might.

So I advise you to cool the lawyer talk
and be there on time.

I'm reconciled with the church.

With the clergy, in any case.

I expected to see you.
The mass was dedicated to my mother.

I didn't know.

I hadn't sat in the family pew
since my father died.

The eulogy was done in style.

Marie Tatin shed a tear. As did I.

It's been a while
since I saw such an edifying scene.

I don't get out enough in Paris.

- Need a ride to Moulins?
- Not right now.

Hello, Father.

I didn't know the mass was
for the countess. I would have come.

I announced it yesterday.

I'm not blaming you.

In fact I came to ask for your help.

I have catechism class in five minutes.

Plenty of time.

I've been thinking.

I don't know if the countess read
about her son's death,

but if she was killed,

- it definitely happened here.
- Impossible!

Yes, I thought so too,
but I've thought it over.

Father.

Heart attacks happen in public
all the time

and they all share one characteristic.

The victim retains the expression
she had at the moment of death.

You have thoughtful corpses, amused ones

and frightened ones.

You remember how she looked?

Come with me to the church.

We'll try to... Well, come on.

- What are we going to do?
- Reconstruct the crime.

But this is a holy place.

I hadn't forgotten where we are

or that a woman was killed here.

What should I do?

Return to the spot you were in yesterday

when you imposed the ashes.

Madame de St. Fiacre was here,
the sacristan was there, and the boy —

Next to me.

Good. Now repeat
all your movements and words.

And I mean all your movements
and all your words.

It's the ritual: Memento, homo,
quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris.

What expression did she have on her face?

Peaceful, serene.

She didn't know yet. Thirty seconds to go.

Barely 30 seconds.

The missal!

Excuse me,
I have to go back to the château.

- But the missal —
- What?

I picked it up and left it
in the cupboard in the sacristy.

Well?

I don't understand.
I put all the missals here.

I put it here, I'm sure of it.

- You didn't see the countess's?
- No, I didn't see anything.

- You didn't take it home by mistake?
- Certainly not.

- Would you check?
- I'd have remembered.

If it puts your mind at rest...

- Go and check.
- Check what?

The presbytery.

Hey, kid.

- What's your name?
- Ernest.

- Ernest what?
- Bouffard.

Bouffard, Bouffard. Now let's see...

The blacksmith.

- My grandpa.
- I was a choirboy too.

Right here. And I served
on Ash Wednesday, just like you.

Hey, I remember after low mass,
it was breakfast at the priest's house.

Do you still do that?

And I bet I know what you had.

An egg, coffee and Gruyère cheese.
Am I right?

- Not Gruyère, Brie.
- Things have changed.

I remember that down here,

we'd glug the sacramental wine.

We'd take the priest's missal from here
and sneak a look.

It had red letters and all the music.

Did the countess's missal
have colored letters too?

Let's make a deal.

I'll buy you a brand new missal,
with French and Latin in gold letters

if you give me the other one.

- It wasn't me who took it.
- Of course not.

But you were taking a peek at it
and you got scared and hid it.

Don't tell me, let me guess.

Just tell me when I'm getting warm.

Getting warmer?

No? Cold.

I might not be hot,
but I think I'm getting warmer.

How about this?

Let's see now.

So... warmer?

Warmer? Boiling?

Boiling?

Red hot.

Look, I found it, thanks to Ernest.

You know the page.

My God!

CUSTODY ACCOUNTS

NATIONAL BANK
FOR TRADE AND INDUSTRY

SECURITIES

Excuse me.

- Ah, Monsieur Maigret.
- Monsieur Gautier.

- Is the count here? I saw his car.
- In the manager's office.

- Any idea why?
- No, sir.

Come with me a moment.

I wouldn't ask you
to divulge a professional secret, but...

Well, your father told you why I'm here.

- Yes. It's terrible.
- Terrible.

- Do you know something?
- Maybe. That's why I'd like your help.

- Monsieur de St. Fiacre came to see you.
- Yes.

- The day before it happened.
- Yes.

- What did he want?
- An update on the financial situation.

- I told him there was nothing left.
- A quick meeting. Nothing at all?

Some assets that couldn't be sold.
As for the current balance...

Fortunately,
he dealt with the most urgent matter.

- Didn't you know?
- The bounced check?

He came up with the money.

The boss is calling head office
to clear the check.

You said you didn't know why he was here.

Sorry.

As long as it's all settled.

But would you be able
to rustle up 800,000 francs?

Me neither. So...

Sorry to have bothered you.

- Could I ask a favor?
- What?

The balance sheet
for the St. Fiacre account.

- I could get it —
- No, come by the château at 7:00.

It's incredible! The countess was broke.

And yet money matters
were behind her death.

Sorry to bother you at this hour.

I eat early.

I'm afraid tonight you'll be eating late.

- There's news?
- Soon.

We'll reveal the guilty person tonight.

- We?
- Yes. I need your help.

By that I mean the guilty party,
no matter who it is.

Agreed?

Yes.

- Good evening, Monsieur Maigret.
- Madame Gautier.

What's going on?

The count has invited
some guests to dinner.

Oh?

It won't kill you, but still...

Ah, we were waiting for you.

What's this about a dinner?

No mystery.
I can invite people to my house.

Madame Gautier is making dinner.

- I didn't summon you here for that.
- Summon?

Allow me to inform you, Inspector,
that the term is inappropriate.

We're here of our own free will.
We weren't forced to come.

- Who's this?
- Maître Mauléon.

Attorney-at-law.

Delighted to meet you.
My client has told me all about you.

And I have a thing or two
to tell you about him.

- Your glass is empty.
- So it is.

- A glass for Monsieur Maigret.
- No need, thanks.

It's an entertaining situation.

A famous policeman, a well-known lawyer.

We could have a sparring match.

- Pity there's nothing to argue about.
- Really?

The count and I have come
to a complete understanding.

Very well bred.

Men of the world understand one another.

Exactly.

The feelings we had for the deceased
preclude any unpleasant dispute.

You were a friend of the deceased?

That explains everything.

As I was saying,
the inspector is in a delicate position.

No official power to question,
no authority to investigate.

And to investigate what?

I summoned you here to answer that.

Summoned? I protest, once again.

Anyway,
the death certificate wasn't refused...

Boubouche, they're talking about you.

- You issued the death certificate?
- Of course.

Well, there you go!
So the term "summoned"...

Oh, I'm being completely arbitrary,
I know.

Who?

Hold the line.

Monsieur Maigret, it's for you.
The chief commissioner.

Monsieur Gautron?

Not at all, thanks for calling.

Yes.

Much quicker than I expected.

No, two officers will be enough.

As soon as possible. Thank you.

Your glass is empty.

Another guest.

Good evening, Father.

Gentlemen.

- Good evening.
- Good evening.

As I was passing by,
I've come to return the countess's missal.

I should have brought it back sooner,
but I was too upset.

It should go upstairs. Gautier.

May I take it? I'd like to pray a moment.

As you please.

Not drinking, Doctor?

Good evening, Father.

What are you doing here?
Sleeping in the house?

I asked him to come.

Dinner is served.

Set another place for Émile.

You must have your reasons,
but frankly I don't like it.

What does it look like,
the count inviting Sabatier here?

And inviting us for dinner,
how does that look?

What's wrong with you? You look so glum.

What are we doing here?

We're taking care of business.

- Why did you ask me here?
- You'll see.

Aren't you eating with us?

Yes,
I just have to excuse myself a moment.

Is that forbidden?

Absolutely not.

Sit wherever you like, gentlemen.

Gautier, we'll pass the dishes ourselves.

Please excuse me, I must go.

No, you're a guest! A chair for Father.

That's very kind, but I have things to do.
And this is not my place.

You can't desert us.

I'm carrying on the family tradition:

the priest and the doctor
at the same table.

Pike poached by Gautier,
white sauce made by madame.

Set another place
and bring a bottle of Pouilly.

Lord, bless this food.
Give bread to those who are without.

In the name of the Father, the Son
and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

That looks lovely! Good job, Gautier.

Should be good, though I've seen bigger.

I caught a 12-pounder once. Good sport!

What about the partridge season?
Why, back in 1937 —

Coffee?

Six guns and we got 110.

I do my hunting at Deauville,
in the theater!

The count would like to know
if the killer would like some coffee.

You've been conditioned by your job.

- I find it upsetting —
- The presence of a killer at the table?

Me too.

Since both of us are ruled out,
that only leaves these six.

Excuse me, Father.

Six, and one will be in prison tonight.

I know the case is out of my jurisdiction

and the death certificate has been issued,
albeit a little hastily,

but the murderer will still have
to answer to a court

for a premeditated crime,
of that I am sure.

For this is murder.

A murder without a gun, a knife or poison.

A cowardly murder, but a murder.

I was wrong, there are seven of you.

The guilt of one
does not exonerate everyone else.

- You go too far!
- Quiet.

But I have the right —

Be quiet!

How long did you know your patient
was living on borrowed time?

About 12 months.

Following what?

Say it, since he's asking.

After my telegram from Megève.

"Please send me a money order
for 1.5 million francs.

I had to write a bad check.
The police are after me.

Love, Maurice."

The check was a lie. So was the police.

But it sounded better.

I'd bought a chalet
to go skiing with a girl.

- You almost killed her for that.
- I didn't mean to.

It goes to show,
skiing is dangerous, even by mail.

Sir!

Black humor, Gautier.
The count is a modern spirit.

For the moment,
we're only discussing incompetence.

Did you call in a specialist?

No. Her condition was serious.

But not hopeless.

So blackouts and injections
from her secretary were perfectly natural.

Likewise that she died
with a doctor like you!

Who knew she was sick?

Everyone.

I told her to take care of herself.
But that didn't stop them.

They kept pestering her for money,

or promising her heaven in the next world.

And both because of him!

- He means your client.
- The insinuations of a quack.

- A quack!
- Sit down.

Bouchardon, calm down.

Control yourselves, gentlemen.
This is the château.

Excuse me. I must make a phone call.

Sure, people talked about my client,
the way they do in families.

Squabbles, misunderstandings...

But we come to the motive for the murder.

Motive?
Why would he kill his benefactress?

Except to inherit.
He's mentioned in the will.

She loved Lucien like a son.

He cost her just as much.

Inheriting just means
the property he's selling is his.

Which, for a delicate nature,
is nice, right?

Now he can buy some Louis XVI.
Paid for how exactly?

I don't know.

With your inheritance, it's a progression.

You start off as secretary to an old lady,

then become her confidant,
then her heir when she dies!

Where's your evidence?

You were at the newspaper
the night the suicide notice went in.

- Yes, but —
- You brought the paper here.

- Pure speculation.
- Why would I do that?

To prevent the count getting wind
of your scheme

and persuading his mother
to cut you out of her will!

You knew you had a fellow heir?

I'd heard the detail.

- A mere detail, the very word.
- Yet another.

They can be annoying.

Not just an art expert,
he knew the score too. Right, Lulu?

- 3.2 million.
- I called her Granny.

Sure,
and Lulu dragged Granny to the notary.

- So what if you slept with her?
- Be quiet!

It's enough you cheated her,
but loving her...

You prefer the loyal retainer?
Gautier, for example?

- What?
- Indeed!

Why should I be upset?
It's always me who gets it!

What am I meant to do? Starve to death?

We can't all be managers,
or take the collection!

Yes, I'm getting married.
Yes, Myriam likes Louis XVI.

Screw you all!

- Come now...
- Leave me alone!

Why not question him?
Because he has an honest face?

It didn't stop him selling properties,
buying mortgages —

- What are you saying?
- Yes, you did!

Le P'tit Mesnil. Madame knew it too.

Yes, she did know.

But Gautier was lending money,
not siphoning it off.

With you two, he needed to.

- How much for the fake leather venture?
- 5.9 million.

That's why Le P'tit Mesnil was sold.

Naturally for about 20 percent
below its actual value.

- Twenty percent pocketed by your dad!
- Why, you rat!

How much money did Monsieur Sabatier lose?

With outstanding drafts,
around eight million.

How will you pay it back?

Hear that?

She has risen.

She's coming down
to confront her murderer.

A scene out of Edgar Allan Poe.

So, what about the repayment?

You have your revenge. You're happy.
You've been waiting for this.

Before I arrived,
he was the one she trusted.

- And not just trusted!
- Awful.

- Make them shut up!
- Calm down, you say too much.

- They'll cut your head off, Lucien.
- Don't answer, ignore them.

In that case he'd never have sent
an anonymous letter.

Oh, but you would. And I'll tell you why.

To deflect attention onto Monsieur
de St. Fiacre and prevent him inheriting.

Why Sabatier
and not Monsieur de St. Fiacre?

By incriminating my client,
he'd inherit everything.

Hear that, Monsieur de St. Fiacre?

At last! I thought you'd forgotten me.

I keep telling you I'm guilty.

I finally ended up believing it.

You are guilty.
You killed your mother many times over.

But justice isn't interested
in those times.

What matters is the last one,
the one that killed her.

The telegram from Megève was a dry run.

You kept that weapon
in case you needed it.

By signing the bad check, you were
only replaying the Megève episode.

Go see what's happening.

This morning, 24 hours after the murder,

you deposited the amount,
but not by check.

- Émile?
- It was in cash.

Where did you get it?
Rummaging through Mommy's purse?

Ask Father.

- I can't take this.
- Stay where you are.

It's time to speak up.

I got a loan from Madame Ruinard,
the widow of an old lawyer.

Were you afraid they'd arrest the count
at his mother's funeral?

When and how were you going to repay it?

See, it all comes down to money
in the end.

Move over.

Why did you stay over in Moulins
instead of coming straight to St. Fiacre?

The night the news of your suicide
was phoned in from Moulins?

Well, I'm waiting.

Where's all your bluster
and theatricality now?

This is a good time for it.

The funeral director has finished.

- Well, Maurice?
- Call me Count again.

No, I knew a count de St. Fiacre.

Nothing like you.

You're what they call a dilettante.

From the start,
I knew the killer was one of those.

That's why I suspected Sabatier.

But he's an idiot,

and the method of this murder
called for someone smart,

someone capable of thinking up this.

The murder weapon.

The killer slipped the article inside.

It all started at the Grand Café.

The paper, published at 2:15,
was stolen from an overcoat pocket,

brought here, cut out
and slipped into the missal.

Who was at the Grand Café?
You and Sabatier.

But I came home before 2:00!
I'm sure of it!

I heard you come in at half past midnight.

But the count was still there at 2:15.

As it was his first time there,
he didn't know about the paper.

Well then?

There was a third person
at the Grand Café.

Charming Émile, the billiard champ!

A woman there saw him take the paper.

And his accomplice left this table
to remove the cutting from this missal.

My father left,
but so did Sabatier and the count.

And him too!

After Monsieur Sabatier
and the count came back,

the cutting was still there.

We didn't do anything!

Haven't you been buying up the land
on the cheap?

- No!
- And who mortgaged the château?

The notary told me so!

You couldn't let the old lady
see her son again

because he would have put a stop to it.

- It's a lie!
- You're not only greedy, you're conceited.

You wanted to become the Gautiers
de St. Fiacre, with him the dauphin.

The model steward,
both loyal and faithful.

I'll make you pay for this!

Ten years in jail for you
and worse for this scum.

Come with me, you!

- Émile!
- Stay where you are.

You were in cahoots with Jules.

He's in there. I'll be right back.

Now beg for forgiveness.
You knew it would kill her.

Down on your knees and beg!

Forgive me.

She had this on her when she died.
Recognize it?

She treated you like a son.
You owe her everything.

- Beg her forgiveness!
- Forgive me.

- Louder!
- Forgive me!

How do I look, wearing my father's suit?

Where you belong, for the first time.

BUS STOP

Penny for your thoughts, Maigret.