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a double cuff that had slipped down over a hand covered with the same reddish hairs as the chest of the dead man in Sancerre. There was not so much as a twitch on his bony and rather horsy face, with
its strong features and gloomy expression. He was leaning his elbow on the piano, which had been moved sideways, showing its green baize back.
    â€˜I’d like to ask you for some information about both your father and the whole family.’
    Henry did not open his mouth or move a muscle but stood in the same place, icy and funereal.
    â€˜Please would you tell me where you were on Saturday 25 June, around four in the afternoon?’
    â€˜Before that I’d like to ask
you
a question. Am I obliged to see you and reply to you at a time like this?’ He spoke in the same neutral voice suggesting boredom, as if every syllable tired him.
    â€˜You’re at liberty not to answer. However, let me point out that …’
    â€˜At what point in your inquiries did you find out who I was?’
    Maigret did not reply to that, and to tell the truth he was stunned by this unexpected turning of the tables. It was all the more unexpected because it was impossible to detect the least subtlety on the young man’s features. Henry let
several seconds pass, and the maid could be heard downstairs replying to a summons from the first floor. ‘Just coming, madame!’
    â€˜Well?’
    â€˜Since you know it already, I was there.’
    â€˜In Sancerre?’
    Henry still did not move a muscle.
    â€˜And you were having a discussion with your father on the lane leading to the old chateau.’ Maigret was the more nervous of the two of them, since he felt that his remarks were getting nowhere. His voice sounded flat, there was no
echo of response to his suspicions. But the most unnerving thing about it was Henry Gallet’s silence; he was not trying to explain himself, just waiting.
    â€˜Can you tell me what you were doing in Sancerre?’
    â€˜Going to visit my mistress, Éléonore Boursang, who is on holiday and staying at the Pension Germain on the road from Sancerre to Saint-Thibaut.’ He almost imperceptibly raised his eyebrows, which were as thick as Émile
Gallet’s.
    â€˜You didn’t know your father was in Sancerre?’
    â€˜If I’d known I’d have avoided meeting him.’ Still the minimum of explanation, forcing the inspector to repeat his questions.
    â€˜Did your parents know you were having an affair?’
    â€˜My father suspected. He was against it.’
    â€˜What was the subject of your conversation?’
    â€˜Are you making inquiries about the murderer or his victim?’ asked the young man deliberately slowly.
    â€˜I’ll know who the murderer was when I know enough about the victim. Was your father angry with you?’
    â€˜Sorry … I was the angry one – I was angry with him for spying on me.’
    â€˜And then?’
    â€˜Then nothing! He treated me like a disrespectful son. How kind of you to remind me of that today.’
    To his relief, Maigret heard footsteps on the stairs. Madame Gallet appeared, as dignified as ever, her neck adorned by a triple necklace of heavy dark stones.
    â€˜What is going on?’ she asked, looking at Maigret and her son in turn. ‘Why didn’t you call me, Henry?’
    There was a knock, and the maid came in. ‘The upholsterers have come to take the draperies away.’
    â€˜Keep an eye on them,’ said Madame Gallet.
    â€˜I came in search of information which I consider indispensable for finding out who the murderer is,’ said Maigret,
in a voice that was becoming rather too dry. ‘I recognize that this
is not the ideal moment, as your son has pointed out. But every hour that passes will make it more difficult to arrest the man who killed your husband.’ His eyes moved to Henry, who was still looking gloomy.
    â€˜When you married Émile