A Man's Head by Georges Simenon

police.
    â€˜Are you going to march him off?’ he asked bad-temperedly.
    â€˜I don’t know. What state is he in?’
    â€˜He was cut down just in time. But it’ll take him a few days yet to get over it. Was it at the Santé that he was allowed to get so weak? You’d think he had no blood left in his veins.’
    â€˜I must ask you not to discuss this with anyone.’
    â€˜There’s no need to ask. There’s such a thing as professional duty of confidentiality.’
    The old man had also come downstairs. His eyes were fixed on the inspector. But he asked no questions. Out of habit he picked up the two empty glasses which stood on the counter and dipped them in the sink.
    It was a moment charged with repressed anguish. The sobbing of the girl reached the three men. In the end, Maigret gave a sigh.
    â€˜Would you like to keep him here for a time?’ he asked as he watched the old man.
    There was no answer.
    â€˜I’ll have to leave one of my officers here in the house.’
    The old innkeeper’s eyes dwelled on Lucas and then he lowered them again and stared at the counter. A tear rolled down one cheek.
    â€˜He swore to his mother …’ he began.
    But he looked away. He could not speak. To hide his discomfiture he poured himself a glass of rum but as he put it to his lips he retched.
    Maigret turned to Lucas but merely said:
    â€˜Stay here.’
    He did not leave straight away. He walked along the corridor and found a door which opened on to the inner courtyard. Through the kitchen windows he saw the figure of a woman leaning against a wall, her head in her folded arms.
    On the further side of the dung-heap, the outhouse door was wide open, and a length of rope was still dangling from an iron nail.
    He gave a shrug, walked back the way he had come and found Lucas, who was now the only occupant of the bar.
    â€˜Where is he?’
    â€˜Upstairs.’
    â€˜Did he say anything? Look, I’ll send someone to relieve you … I want you to ring me twice a day …’
    â€˜It was you! It was all your fault, you’re the one who killed him!’ sobbed the old woman on the floor above. ‘Get out! … You killed him! … My boy … My lovely boy! …’
    The bell jangled at the end of its bracket. Maigret himself answered the door and then left to get back into the taxi, which was waiting at the edge of the village.

8. A Man in the House
    When Maigret emerged from the taxi outside the Henderson villa at Saint-Cloud, it was just after three in the afternoon. On the way back from Nandy it had struck him that he had forgotten to return to Mrs Henderson’s American heirs the key
which he had been given in the previous July to enable him to carry out his inquiries.
    He went back now with no particular object in mind, with half a hope that chance might lead him to something he had overlooked, or even more, with the idea that the atmosphere might give him inspiration.
    The main building, which was surrounded by a garden too small to be called grounds, was enormous, but without style, and ornamented with a turret in appalling taste.
    All the shutters were closed. The paths were covered with dead leaves.
    The gate in the railings swung open. Maigret felt slightly uneasy in these surroundings, which were so forbidding that they put him in mind more of a cemetery than a home.
    He climbed heavily up the four front steps, which were flanked by pretentious plaster figures each topped with a branched electric lamp, opened the main door and was obliged to wait a moment until his eyes got used to the gloom.
    There was a disturbing feel to the place, for it was both luxurious and run down. The ground floor had not been in use for four years, that is, since the death of Mr Henderson.
    But most of the furniture and furnishings were just as they had been. When Maigret entered the drawing room, for example, the