by Louise Penny
“Non. I’ve trained recruits,” said Armand, his voice steady. “But that’s all.”
“In counterterrorism and hostage situations,” said Dussault.
“Correct.”
“And how to kill effectively.”
“Mostly how not to have to kill.”
“Far more interesting,” conceded the Prefect. “And challenging.”
With some surprise, Gamache realized that while he harbored suspicions of Claude Dussault, it was actually a fairly crowded harbor.
It seemed Dussault might have some suspicions, too.
And Gamache could see why. He’d been essentially on the scene of both attacks. While not there for the murder of Alexander Plessner, he had discovered the body. And come away unharmed from a confrontation with an intruder no one else saw.
It would have been amusing, these two men in late middle age suspecting each other of commando-style murders. If one of them wasn’t, possibly, right.
At the door Dussault spoke quietly and gravely. Holding Armand’s eyes.
“I’m happy for your insights into Monsieur Horowitz, but please, Armand, after your talk with Commander Fontaine, it’s time for you to leave this investigation to us. Step away. You’re too close.”
“Close to what?”
The truth?
“Leave it.”
“Would you, Claude? If you were in Montréal and a man who was pretty much your father was attacked. Would you just step back?”
“If you were in charge of the investigation? Yes.”
Armand left, knowing he’d just heard at least one lie. And told at least one himself.
He called Mrs. McGillicuddy and asked her to agree that the board meeting was noted in Stephen’s agenda.
“Just, perhaps, don’t say which agenda.”
* * *
After leaving the BHV, Reine-Marie Gamache hurried back home. Showering and changing again, she placed a call before she thought better of it.
“Dr. Dussault? Monique?”
“Oui?”
“It’s Reine-Marie Gamache.”
“Oh, I was just about to call to invite you and your husband for dinner.” Monique Dussault’s voice was deep and warm. “Claude told me what happened last night. I’m so sorry.”
While Reine-Marie had only met her a few times, she’d immediately liked the woman. Dr. Dussault was a pediatrician who had a practice in Montparnasse, not far from the catacombs.
“Seems like some sort of karma,” she’d told Reine-Marie. “I live with a secretive man, and now I live over those secret tunnels. The only difference between them is that the catacombs have hidden depths.”
She’d laughed and looked across the table at her husband with undisguised affection.
“Why don’t you come to us,” said Reine-Marie. “Something simple. To be honest, once home I’m not sure I’ll want to go out again. I know the men will want to talk, and honestly, I’d like the company.”
“But you must be exhausted.”
Reine-Marie was, and could barely believe she was inviting company for dinner. But it was the only way …
“I find cooking relaxing. Please come. It’ll be just us. En famille.”
“Let me at least bring a dessert.”
And so it was decided. No going back now, thought Reine-Marie, and wondered how Armand would feel about this.
She looked at the box on their dresser. Then, opening the bottom drawer, she hid it under a layer of sweaters. Not from Armand, but from their dinner guests.
* * *
It was twenty to three when Jean-Guy signed out.
This was a different guard than the one who’d visited him. But no less fit. No less focused. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? No flab on these men and women. Their eyes were sharp, intelligent. Watchful. Suspicious.
Once out the door, he kept walking, his pace measured.
He was longing to look at what he’d printed out and recorded on his phone.
Up ahead was the entrance to the métro. He took the escalator down, used his Navigo Liberté card to get into the station, and waited for his train.
Once on, he pulled out his phone to check he’d actually recorded.
Before clicking it on, he glanced to the left and saw bored passengers reading Le Monde or looking at their phones.
Then the other direction.
And there he was. The guard Loiselle. The one who’d come up to the office.
The man was staring at him. Not even trying to hide his presence, or his scrutiny.
* * *
It was twenty to three when Reine-Marie once again emerged from the dry cleaners.
The first time that day she’d dropped off a reeking set of clothes, they’d smiled and been polite. Pretending not to notice the shrieking smells.
This time there was no pretense.
“Do you work in a perfume factory, Madame Gamache?” the young woman asked as she used two fingers to pick up the clothes, holding them at arm’s length.
“No. I was just testing some.”
“With a fire hose?”
Reine-Marie laughed, and got out of there as quickly as possible.
Stepping onto rue des Archives, she first turned toward Roslyn and Daniel’s place. Then, changing her mind, she walked in the opposite direction.
* * *
It was twenty to three when Armand entered the hôpital Hôtel-Dieu.
The nurse had a brief word with him. Nothing had changed. Which, she said, was actually good news. At least Monsieur Horowitz hadn’t gotten worse.
After exchanging a few words with the guard outside Stephen’s room, Armand went in. He kissed Stephen on the forehead. Then, walking to the end of the bed, he opened the paper bag Reine-Marie had given him.
Uncovering Stephen’s feet, he squirted moisturizer on his hands, and gently massaged Stephen’s feet while telling him about the day. The family. Mrs. McGillicuddy.
“And Jacques at the Lutetia says, ‘Fluctuat nec mergitur.’ I think that means ‘pay your hotel bill, you schmuck.’”
Armand waited, as though expecting a reaction.
Then he covered the feet up again, put on his reading glasses, and, sitting beside the bed, read out loud stories about the bumper grape crop in Bordeaux, and the nuclear power plants coming online around the world to cut down on fossil fuels.
Then he found a wire service story from Agence France-Presse about a tortoise in Marseilles that could predict horse races. He read it out loud, just to annoy Stephen.
But he only got a few lines in before stopping. Taking off his glasses, he reached out and held his godfather’s cold hand, warming it in both of his.
Then Armand closed his eyes and whispered, “Hail Mary, full of Grace. Hail Mary, full of Grace.”
Over and over. He knew the rest of the prayer, but just kept repeating that first line.
“Hail Mary, full of Grace.”
And then, dropping his head to Stephen’s hand, he whispered, over and over, “Help me. God, help me.”
* * *
Reine-Marie quietly entered the hospital room and stood in the shadows, watching.
Armand’s head was resting on Stephen’s hand. His voice muffled by the bedding.
But she knew what he was doing.
Hush, hush, she thought. Whisper who dares. Armand Gamache is saying his prayers.
CHAPTER 17
It was just after three o’clock when Irena Fontaine and her second-in-command entered Daniel and Roslyn’s apartment.
They were met at the door by a man in his early thirties. Bearded, tall, substantial. That much was obvious. But Fontaine was skilled at seeing what others might miss.
His eyes, while serious, were thoughtful, warm even. Here was a man it would be easy to like, she thought. And trust.
Which meant she immediately distrusted this Daniel Gamache, despite the fact he was Chief Inspector Gamache’s son.
But then, Commander Fontaine was far from sure she trusted
the father.
When she entered the living room, she saw the rest of the family, on their feet and turned to her. The large room felt even bigger thanks to the three floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the metal roofs, the garrets, the chimney pots.
It was a timeless Paris view.
Before starting the interview, her number two took down the particulars of everyone in the room.
Reine-Marie Gamache was a senior librarian and archivist. Retired.
Annie was an avocate. A trial lawyer who’d trained in Québec but qualified for the French bar and was on maternity leave.
Roslyn worked in marketing for a design label, and Daniel was a banker.
He looks, thought Fontaine, a lot like his father. If you removed the beard, the resemblance would be remarkable. And she wondered if that was why the son had grown the beard. So that he needn’t see his father in the mirror, examining him at the beginning and end of every day.
When they were asked for their addresses, Daniel shifted in his seat, and he and Roslyn exchanged glances.
“There’s something we need to tell you,” he said, then turned to the rest of them. “This won’t be our home much longer. We’re moving.”
“Moving?” asked Reine-Marie. “Home?”
There was no mistaking the hope in her voice and the gleam in her eyes.
“This is home, Mama,” he said. “No, we’re putting in an offer on a place in the Sixth Arrondissement.”
“Three bedrooms,” said Roslyn. “The girls will each have their own. And it’s close to their school in Saint-Germain-des-Prés.”
“But they go to school around the corner here,” said Annie.
“Not next semester,” said Roslyn. “They’ve been accepted into the Lycée Stanislas.”
Everyone’s eyes opened wider, including the investigators’.
The little boys and girls, in their dark blue and crisp white uniforms, were as much a part of Paris lore as Madeline and her adventures. The boys and girls could be seen solemnly holding hands as they crossed the boulevards of the Sixth Arrondissement, and played in the jardin du Luxembourg.
It was, without a doubt, the very best private school in Paris. Probably France. And one of the most expensive.
“How…?” Reine-Marie began, then stopped herself.
“Did we get them in?” asked Daniel, beaming.
“Yes.”
Though it was clear she’d actually meant to ask another question.
How were they going to pay for it? And a new apartment?
But some things were best not asked. Not in front of a homicide investigator.
“Congratulations,” said Armand. “It’s a great school. The girls will love it.”
But Annie was glaring at her brother. Not sharing her parents’ enthusiasm, however forced it might have been.
“Terrific, my ass,” said Annie, unable to hold it in. “We decided to live two streets over to be close to you, and now you leave?”
“We’re not going far,” said Daniel.
“Do you rent here?” asked Fontaine.
“Yes. Shouldn’t be a problem subletting,” said Daniel. He turned to his sister. “Maybe you could take it?”
“Maybe you could—” began Annie.
“Maybe we can talk about this later,” their mother interrupted.
But if she was hoping to change the subject, it was too late.
“You’re going from renting to buying?” said Commander Fontaine. “A larger apartment in a better neighborhood.”
“Yes,” said Daniel.
“And sending both of your daughters to the Lycée?”
If Daniel didn’t hear the subtle implication, his father did. He remained quiet, though watchful.
Daniel took Roslyn’s hand and smiled, his face open and without guile. “Oui. Sorry, Mom, I know you hoped we’d eventually move back to Montréal, but Paris is our home now.”
Armand put his own hand lightly over Reine-Marie’s.
It was true. They’d always hoped, expected even, that Daniel, Roslyn, and the children would one day return to Québec. But now it seemed that wouldn’t happen. Paris had taken their son and their grandchildren. And now Annie and her growing family had been beguiled.
It wasn’t the city’s fault. It couldn’t help being luminous.
But just at this moment, Reine-Marie hated the city. And Armand wasn’t so enamored either.
“Well, that sucks,” said Annie as Jean-Guy took her hand and squeezed.
Commander Fontaine watched. But try as she might, she couldn’t see this as a family riddled with hatred and resentments. If anything, their reaction to Daniel’s announcement was driven by affection.
They wanted to be closer, not farther apart.
After listening to their recollections of the events of the night before, Commander Fontaine once again turned to Daniel.
In the few minutes she’d been there, she’d come to realize that while he looked like his father, he was not actually like him.
They both, père et fils, seemed kind. Not at all threatening. But where in Gamache the elder it took the form of confidence and authority, in the younger it came across as charm. Which, while pleasant, could be superficial. Often was. A sort of genial wrapping paper hiding, what? Neediness? Insecurity?
“Monsieur Horowitz had been in Paris for ten days before being hit. Did you get together with him in that time?”
“No,” said Daniel, surprised. “Not until last night. I thought he’d just arrived.”
“Had any of you heard from him?” asked Fontaine.
They shook their heads.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir had gotten up and wandered over to a window.
“Am I boring you, Monsieur Beauvoir?” Fontaine asked.
“Non, désolé. I just wanted to make sure I could see the children and their sitter in the park.”
He returned to his seat beside Annie, and reaching into his pocket, he began playing with the nickels that were stuck together. He’d meant to show them to Honoré but had forgotten he had them.
“Monsieur Horowitz had planned to go to a board meeting this coming week,” said Fontaine. “We’re wondering if there could be a connection between that and the attacks.”
“Which board meeting?” asked Daniel.
“GHS Engineering.” She turned to Beauvoir. “Monsieur Horowitz got you your job at GHS, I believe.”
“That’s true,” said Beauvoir.
“He did?” said Daniel. He seemed surprised, and surprisingly pleased.
“Did you ask him to?” Fontaine asked Beauvoir.
“It was a favor for me,” said Gamache. “I asked him to find a position in private industry for Jean-Guy.”
“In private industry, or in GHS?” asked Fontaine.
“No, not specifically that company.”
“So as far as you know, Monsieur Horowitz didn’t plant you there”—she turned back to Beauvoir—“to get information for him? Insider information even.”
“To spy?” asked Jean-Guy. “No. He never asked. And I’d never pass along insider information. And if I thought something was wrong, I’d have gone to my immediate superior.”
“And who’s that?”
“Carole Gossette.”
“But you saw nothing suspicious?”
“No.”
“Not even the Luxembourg project?”
“How do you know about that?” Beauvoir asked.
“Monsieur Gamache here told the Prefect about your questions.”
Beauvoir shot Gamache a quick look before turning back to Fontaine. “That was odd,” he admitted. “But from what I could see, there’s nothing wrong there.”
“Would you necessarily know?” Fontaine asked.
It was a good question. “No.”
“And you have no idea why Monsieur Horowitz was planning to go to the board meeting on Monday?”
“Can I interrupt?” said Daniel. “Do we know if Stephen is on the board?”
“He is not,” said Fontaine.
“Then he might’ve had it in his agenda, but he’d never get in. It’s a private company. Only board members are allowed in board meetings. Confidential things are discussed. No outsider would be allowed anywhere near it.”
“Monsieur Horowitz would know that?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Was he an investor in the company?” Annie asked.
“No,” said Armand. “I asked Mrs. McGillicuddy. Stephen didn’t hold any shares in GHS. In fact, as Daniel says, they’re a private company, and not listed on the stock exchanges.”
“Then what’s his interest?” asked Daniel.
Gamache looked at Fontaine to answer. It seemed Claude Dussault had, quite rightly, briefed her on their discussion, and their suspicions. He was very interested to see how much Commander Fontaine would say.
But even as he looked to her, she was studying him.
The man confused her.
She didn’t like that.
She didn’t like Gamache’s ease and natural authority. She didn’t like his accent. She sure didn’t like that he seemed oblivious to the fact that he was not their equal, socially, culturally, intellectually, professionally. Couldn’t be. Not coming from Canada. Not coming from Québec.
She didn’t like his relationship, his close friendship, with the Prefect.
She didn’t like that when something bad had happened in the past twenty-four hours, Armand Gamache wasn’t far behind.
And she sure didn’t like that she actually liked the man. That her instinct was to trust him. The Prefect had warned her about that.
“We have no idea why he wanted to go to the board meeting,” admitted Fontaine. “But you know Monsieur Horowitz. Was it more likely he planned to go to congratulate them on their success? Or to expose some wrongdoing? What’s more in character?”
It was clear by their expressions that they knew the answer to that.
“That’s what we thought. But he can’t go now. One question we ask in a homicide is, who benefits? Isn’t that right?”
She’d turned to Gamache, who nodded.
