All the Devils Are Here

by Louise Penny

  Jean-Guy nodded and watched as Honoré ran over to play with the other children. Then he looked at Annie, so pregnant she was about to explode. She was sitting on a bench, chatting with another mother.

  “You all right?” asked Armand.

  “I’m sorry. I’m a little distracted.”

  Armand followed his glance. “Tell me.”

  Jean-Guy lowered his voice, becoming almost furtive. As though what he was about to say was shameful.

  “I’m so worried. Have we done the right thing? What’s going to happen? Jesus, I’m standing right next to Honoré and I can’t stop him from swallowing coins. How’m I ever going to keep our daughter safe? All her life. It’ll never stop. And, and, God help me, I think of how happy we are, just the three of us. Have we made a mistake? I’m so afraid.”

  Armand paused, then asked gently, “What’re you afraid of?”

  “I’m afraid we won’t be able to do it. That we, I, won’t love her enough. I’m worried for Honoré. And yes, I’m worried for me. What it’ll mean to me. I wake up in the middle of the night and think, what’ve we done? And I just want to run away. Oh, God, am I really so selfish?”

  Across the park Daniel, now talking with other parents, saw his father and Jean-Guy in a clearly intimate conversation. Turning his back, he focused on the strangers in front of him.

  “No, of course you’re not. Listen.” Armand held Jean-Guy’s arm. “Are you listening? Look at me.”

  Jean-Guy raised his eyes.

  “It would be insane not to be afraid. To worry. The very thing you just admitted is what will make you a great father to your daughter. We’re all afraid. Of something bad happening to our children. Of not being there when they need us. Of not being enough. We all want to pull the sheets up over our heads some days and hide. But not all of us admit it. Your daughter is one lucky girl. I don’t know what it’s going to be like, but I suspect you’ll find that she is much more like other babies than she is different. And I do know you will love her, Jean-Guy.”

  Beauvoir looked into his father-in-law’s eyes and hoped that was true.

  Just then little Zora started crying. They watched as Daniel took her in his arms and held her, rubbing her back. Letting her wail. And whispering, “It’s all right. It’s all right.”

  Reine-Marie and Armand joined them.

  “Did she fall?” asked Reine-Marie.

  Daniel put her down and asked, “Are you hurt?”

  Sputtering, trying to catch her breath, Zora shook her head.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s okay, you can tell me.”

  “Nothing.”

  Armand gave a handkerchief to his son, who used it to wipe Zora’s face and have her blow her nose.

  Florence, her older sister, had come over and was hovering in the background.

  “It’s the other kids,” Florence said.

  “Is not,” muttered Zora.

  “What about them?” asked Daniel.

  “They make fun of her.”

  “Do not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of her name.”

  Now her little sister was quiet, though her face had again crumpled, and she was on the verge of tears.

  “They say it’s weird. That she’s weird.”

  “I hate it,” said Zora. “I hate my name, and I hate them.”

  “Has anyone told you about your name?” her grandfather asked. “Where it comes from?”

  “Grand-mère,” she muttered. “Or something.”

  Armand knelt down now. “Your great-grandmother, yes.” He looked at the other kids, staring, then at Daniel. “Can we all go for a walk?”

  Daniel nodded and put out his hand for his daughter to hold, while Reine-Marie took Florence’s.

  As they strolled through the park, Armand told Zora all about Zora. Leaving out the worst bits, the nightmare parts, time enough for that later. He told her how brave her namesake was. And how loved. How funny and kind. And strong.

  “Zora is a beautiful name,” said Reine-Marie. “It means ‘dawn.’ Every name means something special.”

  “What does my name mean?” asked Florence.

  “It means ‘to flower,’” said Daniel. “‘To blossom.’ And to blossom, you know what you need?”

  “Candy?”

  Her father laughed. “Non. Flowers need the sun.” He looked over at Zora. Florence followed his gaze and nodded. But said nothing.

  “And maybe,” Daniel said to both his girls, “some ice cream. But first”—he leaned toward them—“a horse kiss.”

  At that, they shrieked and ran away, laughing.

  Armand watched his son be a father, and smiled. Yes, it was far more important he be a great father than a good son. Hanging back, he joined Jean-Guy. “We need to talk.”

  * * *

  Reine-Marie went across to the Marché des Enfants Rouges to get food for that evening, while Daniel and Roslyn took the girls home for ice cream.

  Annie walked with Honoré back to their apartment, for a nap.

  “Coming?” she asked Jean-Guy.

  “Do you mind if I speak to your father?”

  “Not at all. Don’t forget the key.”

  “The key,” Jean-Guy said as he and Armand flagged down a taxi, “is a box of mille-feuilles. I’m not allowed in without them.”

  Armand smiled. With Reine-Marie, it had been spicy sausage pizza.

  “Hôtel Lutetia, s’il vous plaît,” he told the driver and closed the glass partition between them.

  It was the first chance they’d had to be alone since Jean-Guy’s visit to his office at GHS Engineering.

  “What did you find out?”

  * * *

  “Well?” said Claude Dussault. “What did you find out?”

  “Nothing concrete, sir,” said Fontaine over the phone.

  Dussault could hear it in her voice. The hesitation. “But?”

  “But I think Monsieur Gamache has suspicions. He was courteous, but I don’t think he was completely open.”

  “I see. How did he react to the file on Stephen Horowitz?”

  “Angrily. It shifted the focus, as you predicted.”

  “Good. Maybe he’ll focus on that and not so much on the investigation.”

  “He did ask to see the box. I told him I didn’t have it. Why can’t you just tell him to back off, patron?”

  “I tried. Didn’t work. Besides, best if we can keep an eye on him. I’m going to their place for dinner. I might find out more.”

  After he hung up, Dussault sat back and considered. He’d initially been annoyed at Monique for accepting the invitation to the Gamaches’ for dinner that night. It would, at the very least, be awkward.

  Now he thought it might be a good idea.

  CHAPTER 20

  Gamache sat in the back seat of the taxi and looked down at the printout Beauvoir had given to him.

  The Luxembourg funicular project. There was a schematic and all sorts of technical language Gamache could not begin to understand.

  Taking off his reading glasses, he looked at Jean-Guy. “Do you have any idea who was erasing all those emails and progress reports?”

  “No, but obviously it was someone familiar with the system.”

  “It at least confirms that GHS has something to hide. I wish we knew what was in those messages.”

  Beauvoir smiled and hit play on his iPhone.

  Both squinted in concentration as the video he’d taken at GHS came on.

  “The emails?” Armand asked.

  “And reports, oui. I recorded them as they were being erased.”

  “Clever.”

  But the taxi ride was too bumpy, the video already too shaky, the messages flashing by too quickly, for them to make anything out.

  “Damn,” said Beauvoir, clicking it off. “Have to wait until we arrive.”

  “Those messages, they were to and from Carole Gossette?” said Gamache. �
�Your boss? A senior executive? Is that—”

  “Unusual? Very. She oversees some projects, but only the really big ones.”

  “And she’s the one who quoted Auden, right? About the crack in the teacup leading to death. About something small, some everyday issue, that can be devastating. It was an odd thing to say. What were you talking about at the time?”

  Jean-Guy threw his mind back. “About my job. Whether I was there to police.”

  Gamache looked out the window as Paris slipped by. Thinking. “We don’t know what those messages are about. She might’ve placed herself on the project because she had suspicions.”

  “That’s true,” said Beauvoir, brightening.

  Gamache turned to him. “You like her.”

  “I do. I can’t see her being involved in anything criminal.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right.” But he wondered how much they ever really knew anyone. Even someone they’d known all their lives. “They must’ve panicked when they realized you’d opened the files.”

  “Except that I used Arbour’s computer.”

  “So they’d think it was her?” said Gamache, nodding. “That was smart. But … still…” His mind was working quickly, trying to put it together. “If someone was monitoring that project and noticed that Séverine Arbour had accessed it, and that set off alarms, that would mean—”

  Beauvoir’s eyes opened wider. “That she’s not in on it. If she was, they wouldn’t be concerned, and they sure wouldn’t erase those files. By using her terminal, have I just put Arbour in danger?”

  “It’s possible. Do you know where she lives?”

  “Non. But I have her number.” He lifted his iPhone, but Gamache touched his arm.

  “Just a moment. She might still be in on it. It’s possible what set off alarms wasn’t the computer but the security cameras. They might’ve seen you at her desk.”

  Gamache thought, then remembered something curious. “You went to the window of Daniel’s apartment during the interview with Fontaine. You told her you were checking on the kids, but you can’t see the park from there. What were you really looking for?”

  “I’m not sure it’s anything, but a guard came up while I was at GHS. They’d never done that before. He asked all sorts of questions.”

  “Did he go over to Madame Arbour’s desk?”

  “Non. But I saw him again on my ride back. In the métro. He got onto the same car as me.”

  Gamache had grown very still. Very focused. His eyes on Jean-Guy were sharp. Quickly absorbing the information.

  And Jean-Guy wondered if, maybe, Irena Fontaine had been right. And Chief Inspector Gamache had done more than just instruct recruits to Canada’s elite tactical team, Joint Task Force Two.

  Though it did occur to Beauvoir to wonder what had happened to Task Force One.

  “You were looking out the window for him,” said Gamache.

  “Yes. But no sign of him. He was probably just going home. He didn’t get off at my stop. I think I was just spooked.” Jean-Guy tapped his phone then showed it to Gamache. “I took a picture of him. His name’s Xavier Loiselle.”

  Gamache studied the photo, in case he saw the man again, then looked at Jean-Guy. “You have good instincts. What do they tell you?”

  Jean-Guy shifted. He really hated it when Gamache talked about instincts, or accused him of being intuitive. It was, he was pretty sure, an insult.

  But he was equally sure his father-in-law saw it as a compliment.

  “I think the guard Loiselle was following me. But I don’t know why he would’ve stopped.”

  “Maybe his orders were to scare you. What do you think is going on at GHS?”

  Beauvoir exhaled and shook his head. “I wish I knew. I wish I could understand that report.” He pointed to the printout in Gamache’s hands. “The engineering could be flawed and they’re covering up. Could be money laundering. Drugs? Arms dealing? The company has the scope for it. Projects all over the world. Shipments of equipment going back and forth to places known to traffic in drugs and weapons and people. But the Luxembourg project?” Beauvoir shook his head. “A funicular in a grand duchy? It seems unlikely. Too small. Too time-limited. They’d choose something that would go on for years, not months.”

  Gamache was quiet, nodding slightly, as though listening to music. Or some internal voice.

  “What is it?” asked Beauvoir.

  “There’s either something very wrong about the Luxembourg project, or there isn’t.”

  That was a little cryptic even for Gamache.

  Beauvoir was about to ask for clarification when he suddenly understood. “You think they were erasing all those messages so that we wouldn’t see that there’s nothing wrong with it. So we’ll continue to focus on the Luxembourg project, and not where the issue really is.”

  “I think it’s possible.”

  “Shit,” said Beauvoir, leaning back in the taxi seat and staring ahead. His mind working rapidly. “The problem will be understanding the report and emails well enough to spot a flaw.”

  “We need a financial analyst and an engineer,” said Gamache, staring at Beauvoir.

  “Oui.” And his eyes widened. “Jesus. Like Stephen and Plessner.”

  Gamache’s phone vibrated. It was Mrs. McGillicuddy.

  Jean-Guy could hear her voice, high-pitched with anxiety.

  She was at Stephen’s office with Isabelle Lacoste—

  Just then his own phone vibrated. It was Lacoste.

  Both Stephen’s office and home had been broken into, the security systems circumvented.

  “They’ve thrown things everywhere,” said Mrs. McGillicuddy.

  “Agents at his home report it’s been searched, too,” said Lacoste, her voice calm, stating facts. “I can’t tell what they were looking for, but seems like papers.”

  “Did they find them?” Jean-Guy asked.

  “I’m not sure. The place is a mess.”

  “Ask her about his safety-deposit boxes,” said Armand, covering the mouthpiece of his phone. In the background, Jean-Guy could hear Mrs. McGillicuddy still talking. Upset. Shocked.

  “I heard,” said Lacoste. “We’re going there next. Mrs. McGillicuddy has the card that’ll get us in.”

  “The JSPS card, oui,” said Beauvoir. “Let us know.”

  He hung up. Armand was talking with Mrs. McGillicuddy, who’d calmed down a little. As he listened, Gamache pulled out his notebook and made notes.

  Thanking her, he hung up.

  “The code to Stephen’s laptop. Claude wanted it.”

  “Are you going to give it to him?”

  “I’ll have to, yes. Let’s just hope Stephen didn’t have anything important on his laptop.”

  “Yes, because people don’t,” said Beauvoir, all but rolling his eyes.

  The taxi had arrived at the Lutetia.

  Getting out, Gamache took a step toward the liveried woman holding the heavy door open for them.

  Then stopped.

  Though he’d known the history of the hotel, including during the war, what Gamache had heard most about was that this was where the survivors of some of the concentration camps had been brought immediately after liberation.

  He’d seen photographs of emaciated men, their striped clothing still hanging in tatters from their bones. They sat glaze-eyed in the opulent surroundings.

  This was an act of brutality. Though unintentional. What had the liberators been thinking, to bring the survivors there?

  What had those ghostly men and women been thinking as they looked around?

  There was no celebration, no triumph, in those blank faces. Those photographs spoke only of savagery. Of an unspeakable cruelty, made even more hideous, if that was possible, by the luxury around them.

  Yes, he’d known about what seemed a misguided attempt at kindness.

  But now another image superimposed itself. Of Stephen. His hand on the shoulder of the monster who had done that.

  “Patron?�
� Beauvoir broke into his thoughts.

  Gamache turned away. “I’m going across to Stephen’s apartment. I have some questions for the concierge.”

  Beauvoir watched as his father-in-law jogged across rue de Sèvres, between oncoming vehicles.

  He’d seen Gamache go into homes, warehouses, forests where they knew heavily armed gunmen waited.

  Armand Gamache had never hesitated. Had only ever moved forward, the first in. His agents following him.

  And now Beauvoir followed Gamache as he ran away.

  “You know she was messing with you,” said Beauvoir once he’d caught up with Gamache.

  “Fontaine? I don’t think she was,” said Gamache, walking rapidly along the sidewalk. “I think she believes what she said about Stephen.”

  “Do you? Believe it, I mean.”

  To Jean-Guy’s surprise, Armand hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Not in the least.”

  At the huge red-lacquered doors into Stephen’s building, Gamache pressed a button. A minute later the door was opened by a thin older man, who peered out, then smiled.

  “It’s the boy,” he called behind him. Then opening the door fully, he let Armand and Jean-Guy in.

  * * *

  Claude Dussault sat in his office, going through the box. Again.

  Was it just the annual report Armand wanted to see, or was there something else?

  There were the predictable items. Stephen Horowitz’s wallet, with euros and some Canadian money. Various credit cards and ID.

  Dussault took out Stephen’s passport and examined it. There were no stamps, but then there wouldn’t be if he’d traveled elsewhere in Europe.

  Like Luxembourg, for instance.

  There were pens and paper clips in the box. Two screws and an Allen wrench. Scotch tape and a pristine notepad with the George V logo. All of which Armand had swept into the container while Reine-Marie stalled the manager.

  Then there were the interesting items.

  The slender laptop. The crushed phone.

  The Préfecture’s technical department had examined the phone, taking out the chip and declaring that it was destroyed. And Stephen Horowitz had not used any cloud-based system to store information. Either because he was too technically challenged, or because he didn’t trust it. Or, most likely, thought Dussault, Horowitz trusted technology. It was people he distrusted.