by Louise Penny
“Energie Stat is down three points, to 134.9. Produits Cassini is up half a point, to 87.6.”
He was reading the report from the Bourse de Paris to Stephen, as though it was a fairy tale for his grandchildren. Giving each an inflection, a drama.
The young gendarme stopped just inside the door, and stared. It was a tableau so intimate he felt as though he’d violated these people by his presence.
“Armand?” Reine-Marie approached the bed.
He looked up, clearly surprised to see her.
“I’ve found something,” she said quietly.
Getting up, Armand kissed Stephen on the forehead and said quietly, “I’ll be back soon. Don’t go anywhere. I love you.”
* * *
The box with Stephen’s belongings was placed on the table by the window in the hospital room.
Armand went through the contents as Reine-Marie watched. Interested to see if the same thing struck her husband.
Armand went first to Stephen’s suit jacket, stiff with blood, and did something unexpected. Turning it inside out, he searched and, with a smile, withdrew a Canadian passport.
“Stephen had his passport stolen many years ago,” Armand explained, holding it up. “Since then he’s had his tailor put in the hidden pocket. He keeps his important things in there.”
Armand brought out one more thing. A slender agenda.
He then went through the things in the box. All predictable.
Except. His brow furrowed.
There, lying amid the other items, was a key. Not an apartment key, but a room key.
“Hotel George V,” he read.
“Yes,” said Reine-Marie. “That’s what I wanted to show you. It was on the pavement. I picked it up last night along with his glasses and put them into my purse. I forgot they were there until just now. Why would he have that? He’s staying in his apartment, isn’t he?”
“Yes. I walked him there yesterday afternoon. And here’s the key to his apartment.”
Armand held it up, then went back to the hotel key.
“Do you think someone else is staying at the hotel?” she suggested. “Could it be…”
“A lover?” asked Armand.
“Ruth?” said Reine-Marie.
Armand felt a frisson. That might explain the “here, here.” The devil was in the George V.
He smiled at the thought. Ruth Zardo, Stephen’s friend, was also their close friend and neighbor in their Québec village of Three Pines.
An elderly poet, she was embittered, often drunk. Definitely nuts. And brilliant.
You were a moth
brushing against my cheek
in the dark
I killed you
not knowing you were only a moth,
with no sting.
She and Stephen had proven a good match and fast friends. And while often angry, she was no devil. Perhaps, he’d often thought, just the opposite.
Armand could still see her, waving goodbye with one raised finger.
So who was in room 815 at the George V?
“I guess it’s possible the key was already there,” said Reine-Marie. “That someone dropped it and I picked it up by mistake.”
“Possible.” Armand pocketed the key and put the rest back in the box. With the exception of Stephen’s agenda, which he also slipped into his pocket. “Let’s find out.”
* * *
The taxi pulled into the entrance to the luxury hotel.
A man in livery opened the door and escorted them in. Armand gave him a twenty-euro note, and the man bowed and backed away.
The marble lobby was chock-full of fresh flowers, in banks and sprays, reaching almost to the twenty-foot ceiling. It was like stepping into a forest of blooms.
“Keep walking,” Armand whispered to Reine-Marie, their feet echoing on the marble floor. “Look like we belong.”
She smiled at him, then caught the eye of a uniformed bellhop, and, nodding, she swept right by her, with a casual “Bonjour,” as though she was a habituée.
Armand still carried the cardboard box from the hospital, but walked with such authority no one challenged them.
Mercifully, they had the elevator to themselves and could relax.
But Reine-Marie suddenly turned to Armand. “Have you told Mrs. McGillicuddy?”
“Not yet. I’ve emailed and asked her to call me when she can.”
“She’s going to be devastated.”
Agnes McGillicuddy had been Stephen’s private secretary for fifty-six years. Now in her mid-eighties, she’d refused to be rebranded an assistant, and lorded it over the outer office like a Hound of Hell.
She was married to Mr. McGillicuddy, he of no fixed first name. Sometimes Stephen called him Jeremiah. Sometimes Josephat. Sometimes Brian.
Armand was never sure if he did it because he really didn’t know Mr. McGillicuddy’s name, or to annoy Mrs. McGillicuddy. Though she refused to rise to it.
They had no children, and despite the fact Stephen was actually older than she, she treated him like a son.
The Gamaches knew her well, though neither had ever actually seen her away from her desk.
When they got to room 815, Reine-Marie knocked once. Then again.
A chambermaid came down the hall, looked at them, then walked right by.
Armand quickly unlocked the door, saying, “Hurry. She’s going to call security. We don’t have much time.”
“Allô?” Reine-Marie called once the door closed behind them. Silence.
This was no normal hotel room. It wasn’t even a normal suite. It was practically a castle within a castle.
“You take down here,” he said. “I’ll go upstairs. Hurry. They’ll be here soon.”
“There’s an upstairs?”
But Armand was already halfway up the curving stairway.
While vast, the main floor didn’t take long to explore. It was essentially one palatial room, with a sitting area in front of a fireplace and a long, polished dining table under a Murano glass chandelier. A powder room was just off the entrance, and a kitchenette tucked away at the back.
In case the billionaire wanted to make his own dinner, she thought. The only “cooking” she’d seen Stephen do was open a tin of cashews. And even that was a struggle.
Though she did notice a paper bag on the counter. Opening it, she saw one croissant.
Newspapers sat by one of the armchairs, with a book called The Investment Zoo on top of them.
There were signs not just of occupation, but of someone having settled in.
Reine-Marie found Armand in a small upstairs study, rifling through the desk.
“Stephen’s definitely staying here,” he said, looking up briefly. “His things are in the bedroom. But I think someone else is, too. There’s another bedroom with an unopened suitcase. Can you see what you can find?”
The second bedroom was larger than most Paris apartments. She went straight to the bag, really more a carry-on than a suitcase, and quickly went through the contents. Toiletry kit. A suit, silk tie, two clean white shirts, underwear, and black socks. Fine handmade leather shoes. Pajamas, and a book.
She searched for something to identify the owner. Clearly a man. Probably older, judging by the style of suit. Not planning to stay long.
Whoever this belonged to hadn’t had time yet to unpack.
There was an ensuite with hotel toiletries, but nothing else.
She froze as she heard a chime. The doorbell. They’d run out of time.
Armand appeared at the door to the bedroom. “They’re here. Can you stall them?”
“You keep going,” she said, heading down the stairs as the chime sounded again. It was cheerful and discreet, but to her it sounded like a shriek.
She was halfway down when the door opened.
“Bonjour,” a man’s voice called out. “Monsieur Horowitz? It’s the duty manager. Is there anyone here? Is everything all right?”
A middle-aged man stepped into the suite a
nd stopped when he saw her.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Two large men in beautifully tailored suits and wearing earpieces stood behind him.
They looked out of place in the almost effete surroundings. Like street fighters at a tea party.
George V was home to many wealthy and powerful people. Clearly there was need of a security presence. And not a very discreet one.
“My name is Reine-Marie Gamache,” she said, slowly walking down the last few steps. “I’m a friend of Stephen Horowitz. I’m afraid he’s been in an accident.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is he all right?”
“He’s in the hospital.”
“There was a man with you. Where is he?” the manager asked, trying to get around her.
Reine-Marie stood her ground, blocking their way. “I’ve told you who I am. Who are you?”
The man, a little taken aback, said, “I’m the duty manager.”
“Yes, but what’s your name? I’m going to have to see your ID before I let you in.”
He seemed reluctant to give it, then relented. “Auguste Pannier.” He showed her his hotel identity card. Which she studied. At some length.
“I don’t want to be rude,” she eventually said, handing it back. “But what are you doing here?”
Now the manager was really stumped. This woman was clearly a trespasser, yet she acted like she not only belonged but owned the place.
He was, perforce, a judge if not of character, then clothing. He quickly took in her bearing, her good-quality slacks, silk scarf, elegant autumn coat. Her style was classic. Her eyes intelligent.
And yet she was hiding something, he knew. Someone, to be more precise.
He was about to repeat his question when they heard footsteps on the stairs and a man appeared.
Middle-aged. Distinguished. In a good suit, tie. Shoes polished. Well-groomed. He, too, looked like he belonged here.
The only things out of place were the cardboard box he carried and the worn leather satchel over his shoulder.
“Bonjour,” said Armand. “We’re sorry to have just let ourselves in, but as my wife said, Monsieur Horowitz has been in an accident and we wanted to collect some things for him.”
Armand did not offer his hand, preferring to appear cordial but aloof. An attitude he’d observed in his godfather more than once.
But he did offer his name. “My name is Armand Gamache.”
“And who are you to Monsieur Horowitz?”
“A close friend.”
“I see. Shall we continue this conversation in my office?”
“If you wish,” said Armand.
“I hope you understand,” said Monsieur Pannier, once in his large mahogany-paneled office behind reception. “But I would like to see what you’ve taken from the suite.”
Armand placed the satchel on the desk and unzipped it.
Inside were pajamas, a dressing gown. Toiletries.
Satisfied, the manager then nodded to the box.
“Unfortunately, I can’t show you this,” said Armand. “It’s from the hospital and contains Monsieur Horowitz’s belongings. As you see, it’s sealed, and we need to keep it like that so that when he recovers he knows nothing has been tampered with. It’s for his protection, and ours.”
Armand made it clear the “ours” now included the duty manager.
There was a moment’s awkward silence.
In fact, as well as Stephen’s things from the hospital, Armand had swept the contents of the desk, including the laptop, into the box. As Reine-Marie stalled them down below, he’d resealed it, then quickly gone into the bedroom and thrown clothes into the satchel.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist,” said Monsieur Pannier.
“And I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Is there a problem?” a new voice came from the door.
Pannier practically shot to his feet. “Non. Not at all.”
A woman stood partway into his office, and Gamache knew he was now looking at the real boss.
She stepped forward, her hand out. “Jacqueline Béland. I’m the General Manager.”
They introduced themselves, and Monsieur Pannier briefly explained the situation.
Madame Béland listened quietly, waiting until he’d finished, then turned to the Gamaches.
“I’m so sorry to hear about Monsieur Horowitz. I expect Monsieur Pannier here has extended the sympathies of the hotel.”
The Gamaches looked at him. Then Reine-Marie turned back to the General Manager. “Yes, thank you. He’s been most gracious.”
They could hear Monsieur Pannier exhale.
There was a slight arch of surprise, and appreciation, to Madame Béland’s brow, but that was all. “You’re a relation of Monsieur Horowitz’s?”
“His godson,” said Armand.
Her eyes dropped to the box. “I’m afraid Monsieur Pannier is right. We’ll need to see what’s inside there, too. I hope you understand.”
And, to be fair, Armand did. Thieves took all shapes and sizes. At luxury hotels they were more likely to look like the Gamaches than a street thug.
“It’s sealed by the hospital,” Armand said. “And I want to keep it that way. But if you’d feel better calling the Préfecture, you might try”—Armand handed her a card—“him.”
Madame Béland’s eyes widened. “You know Monsieur Dussault?”
“I do. Clearly you do, too.”
“He was here just yesterday. A friend of yours?”
“And a colleague, oui. I’m the head of homicide.”
Gamache decided there was no need to specify his territory.
“Armand,” said Reine-Marie. “We should get his things over to him.”
“I’m afraid there is,” the General Manager said, “a small issue of his bill.”
Armand almost smiled. It was a brilliant move on Madame Béland’s part. If they were thieves, they would not be at all happy about handing over a credit card.
“Of course.” Armand placed a credit card on the duty manager’s desk. “I believe he checked in two nights ago.”
“Non, monsieur,” said the manager, consulting his computer to confirm. “Monsieur Horowitz arrived ten days ago. He was supposed to leave this coming Wednesday.”
“Are you sure?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Positive. Should we hold the room for him?”
“If you don’t mind,” said Armand.
“The suite,” said the manager, “is three thousand five hundred euros.”
Reine-Marie and Armand exchanged a glance. They could certainly cover that.
“A night.”
Reine-Marie’s face remained composed, though she could feel her blood, and her children’s inheritance, draining away.
Two weeks … that would come to …
“It comes to forty-nine thousand euros,” said Monsieur Pannier. “So far. That is, of course, before tax and any other charges. Monsieur Horowitz often had meals in his room.”
Reine-Marie did a rough conversion in her mind. About seventy-five thousand Canadian dollars.
So far.
“Given the circumstances,” said Madame Béland, “all we’d need is a ten percent deposit.”
“Avec plaisir,” said Armand, as though they’d expected it to be more. “I understand someone else is staying there. Can you tell us who that is?”
The manager frowned. “Non. Monsieur Horowitz was alone in the suite.”
“Are you sure?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Quite sure.”
“I’d like you to cancel the old keys,” said Armand, handing back the key he had. “And have new ones issued, please.”
They did.
As they left, Reine-Marie whispered to Armand, “You’re going to have to get a paper route.”
“You’re going to have to sell a kidney.”
She smiled. “Should we at least stay here, if we’re paying?”
“Would you like to?”
&nb
sp; She thought about it. “Non. I prefer our apartment.”
“Moi aussi.”
“Where to now?” she asked and got the answer as Armand gave the taxi driver the address.
“Cinq rue Récamier, s’il vous plaît. It’s in the Seventh Arrondissement. Across from the Hôtel Lutetia.”
Stephen’s apartment.
Armand sat back, the box on his knees, the satchel sitting on the seat between them.
The magnificent Haussmann buildings glided past, but he was lost in thought.
While he definitely liked the finer things, Stephen was notoriously careful with his money. Some might even say stingy.
There was no way he would have paid for a suite at the George V when he had a perfectly good, even luxurious apartment in Paris.
And yet it appeared that’s exactly what Stephen had done.
Now why was that?
CHAPTER 8
Armand put his arm out and stopped Reine-Marie from going any farther.
They’d let themselves into the apartment and were standing in the wide foyer. The archway into the living room was off to their left.
Reine-Marie, slightly behind her husband, couldn’t yet see the room, or the problem. But Armand could.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. She saw his body tense.
He lowered the cardboard box and shoulder bag to the floor. Leaning forward, Reine-Marie saw what he saw.
The living room was a shambles.
“Armand—” she began but stopped when he raised his hand. A clear signal for silence.
He moved slowly into the room, Reine-Marie behind him. They stepped over and around overturned chairs and side tables, lamps and paintings.
She bumped into his back when he suddenly stopped.
Armand remained completely still for a few heartbeats. He was staring behind an overturned sofa. His face grim.
When he crouched down, she saw.
There was a man on the floor. Facedown.
Dead.
She took a step back, blanching.
Armand stood and looked around quickly. What he’d seen, which Reine-Marie had not, was that the man had been shot twice, once in the back. Once in the head.
The man was cold to the touch. It must have happened a number of hours earlier. But …
