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After handing his credit card to the young waiter and getting it back, Gamache said, “Merci. Monsieur Tardif.”

The young man stiffened, and for a moment Gamache thought he’d try to run away. But he didn’t.

“Might we have a word?”

Vincent Gilbert looked perplexed but relieved. It was someone else’s turn to be grilled.

And puréed. The waiter walked between Gamache and Lacoste, down into the basement of the Auberge, and took the seat indicated, at the long table.

“You are Simon Tardif?” asked Isabelle Lacoste.

“Oui.”

“Your father is Édouard Tardif?”

“Yes.”

Simon Tardif was small. Slender. His face pale, pasty. He looked like a baby bird balancing on the edge of the nest, and about to be pushed out too soon.

Too soon.

“Where were you on the afternoon of December thirtieth?” Lacoste asked.

“With friends. I can prove it.”

“Not with your father, at the University gym?”

“No.”

“Did you work the New Year’s Eve party last night, here at the Auberge?” Gamache asked.

The two locked eyes.

Gamache could see that Simon Tardif was tempted to lie. But he could also see there was intelligence there, though not, he thought, cunning.

“Yes,” said Simon. “But I didn’t do anything. I didn’t hurt that woman. I—”

The Chief Inspector stopped him there. “You need a lawyer. Do you have one?”

The boy looked like he was about to cry. “No. I’m sorry. I—”

Gamache leaned forward and said, “Say no more. It’ll be all right. Look at me. Look at me.” The third time he said it, Simon Tardif did. He looked into the deep brown eyes, and his shoulders slumped. In resignation. And relief.

It was over.

“Nothing,” said Reine-Marie, sitting back.

Beside her, Jean-Guy had taken off his glasses and was rubbing his eyes.

It was mid-afternoon and already getting dark outside. All the lamps in the huge library had been lit. It made the place feel more intimate. Though as the natural light faded, what had been aisles of books started to resemble tunnels. And it was possible for Jean-Guy’s vivid imagination to conjure all sorts of unnatural things awakening.

So far all they’d found was what they pretty much already knew. Dr. Vincent Gilbert was a gifted thoracic surgeon. The one you wanted with his hands in your chest. But not the one you wanted standing beside your bed.

And certainly not the one you wanted as a chief, if you were an intern or resident. The file was full of letters of complaint from young medical students about his manner.

Those were accompanied by other letters, from patients and their families, thanking him for saving their lives. And from other interns and residents, saying what a wonderful teacher he was. How much he had helped them. His innovations, his challenging them to think for themselves. Yes, he was harsh at times. But so was life in a critical care unit.

The Asshole Saint emergent.