by Louise Penny
* * *
“The boy’?” whispered Jean-Guy, as they took seats at the kitchen table.
Madame Faubourg had just brought a pain au citron out of the oven, filling the kitchen with a citrusy baking scent. Now she put a kettle on the gas stove, while Monsieur Faubourg opened a cupboard and brought out three bottles of warm beer.
“He doesn’t want tea, Madame,” said Monsieur. “He’s a grown man. He wants beer.”
“Actually—” Gamache began but was drowned out.
“Beer and pain au citron?” said Madame. “Whoever heard of that? And after what happened? He needs tea.” She turned to Armand. “Unless you’d prefer chocolat chaud?”
“Actually—” Armand tried again.
“We’ll put it all out,” Monsieur announced, grabbing some glasses, “and let the boy decide. Brewed it myself.”
He tipped the bottle toward his guests.
“Non, merci,” said Armand, managing to hold Monsieur’s hand to stop him from popping the top off the beer. “I think tea, actually.”
On seeing his disappointment, Armand went on, “For my son-in-law. But I’d love a beer.”
When they’d all settled around the Formica table, Madame Faubourg asked, “How is he?”
“Well, you know Stephen,” said Armand. “Indestructible.”
“So he’ll be all right?” asked Madame.
“I hope so.” That at least was true.
“What happened, Armand?” asked Monsieur Faubourg. “First he’s hit by a car, and now a man’s killed in his apartment. We don’t understand.”
“It can’t be a coincidence, can it?” asked Madame Faubourg.
“Non,” said Jean-Guy. “We think what happened to Monsieur Horowitz wasn’t an accident.”
“Voilà,” said Madame, while Monsieur crossed himself. “That’s what I said.”
“But why would someone do this?”
“That’s what we want to know,” said Jean-Guy. “When did you last see him?”
“Monsieur Horowitz?” Madame looked at Monsieur. “Was it June? July?”
“Not since then?” asked Jean-Guy. “Not in the last couple of days?”
“Days? No,” said Monsieur. “We only knew he was in Paris when we heard about the accident, this morning. We thought he must’ve just arrived. We haven’t seen him here.”
Madame’s hand was shaking as she reached for the teapot.
“Here,” said Jean-Guy, gently taking the heavy pot from her. “Let me be mother.”
“Pardon?” asked Monsieur.
“Désolé,” said Beauvoir, reddening. “Just something a friend back home says when pouring tea.”
Damn Gabri, he thought, remembering the large man in the intentionally frilly apron, pouring the Red Rose from the Brown Betty teapot.
Oh, dear God, thought Beauvoir. Why do I know these things?
Madame closed her hands into fists to stop the trembling. “We’ve known Monsieur Horowitz for so long. We knew one day … but not like this.”
Armand had no idea what their first names were. They only ever called each other Madame and Monsieur. Childless, they’d adopted the residents of the building as their family. As their children, their aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters.
Stephen was somewhere between an uncle and an older brother.
When in Paris, his godfather almost always had Sunday lunch with Madame and Monsieur. And as a child, young Armand had joined them around this kitchen table for roast chicken, or fish pie. The food provided by Stephen, the cooking by the apron-clad Madame. The men would drink beer in the courtyard while Armand helped in the kitchen.
This kitchen, this home, had not changed. Though he had. From child to adult. Father and grandfather now. From boy with flour on his hands to man with blood on them.
Still, he’d always be “the boy” to them. And they’d always be Madame and Monsieur to him.
Monsieur watched as Armand took a long sip of beer, coming away with a slight foam mustache, which he wiped away.
“Délicieux.”
And it was. Monsieur had obviously had long practice making beer.
Madame Faubourg, back in control of her movements, cut thick slabs of pain au citron and put out a ceramic tub of whipped butter.
“You want to ask us about what happened,” she said, shifting the point of the knife from one to the other. “Well, we didn’t see anything, and thank God for that.”
“Wish we had.”
“Don’t say that, Monsieur. They’d have killed us, too.” She put down the knife and touched his hand, in an act as sacred as the sign of the cross.
“Monsieur Horowitz has the whole top floor, as you know. And you can’t see his windows from here,” said Monsieur. “He looks out over the street, not into the courtyard.”
“The police are still up there going over things,” said Madame. “We expect they’ll want to talk to us eventually.”
“They haven’t yet?” asked Beauvoir, glancing at Gamache.
“No.”
“And you saw no stranger cross the courtyard yesterday?” asked Armand. “No one rang you?”
“Do murderers normally ring the concierge for admittance?” asked Madame, and Jean-Guy smiled.
“Non,” admitted Armand.
The apartment building was fairly typical of the quartier. The large wooden door from the sidewalk opened onto a private courtyard. The residents walked across it to access another door that led to the elevator, though most took the stairs if they could.
The elevator was the cage type, tiny, old, rickety.
“And this morning?” asked Gamache. “Did you see anyone arrive?”
“I saw you and Madame Gamache,” said Monsieur. “That was mid-morning. I came out to say bonjour, but you’d already gone into the building. You found the body?”
“Oui.”
“Pauvre Madame Gamache,” said Madame. “You must give her some cake.”
Gamache considered declining, but realized it would just hurt her feelings. He accepted the slab of warm pain au citron wrapped in wax paper and put it in his pocket.
“You saw no one else?” asked Beauvoir.
“No strangers,” said Monsieur. “The children of the family on the third floor came in from Provence for the weekend, but we know them well. And the woman on the second floor had a delivery from Le Bon Marché. We know the deliveryman. See him often. He came and left right away.”
“And you didn’t see Monsieur Plessner arrive?” asked Jean-Guy.
They looked blank.
“The man who was killed,” Jean-Guy explained.
“No,” said Madame. “But Fridays are always busy. I’m doing the cleaning, and Monsieur here is dealing with the garbage and recycling.”
“There was a leak in the radiator of the apartment on the first floor,” he said. “I was fixing that. It’s always something in these old buildings.”
But what had happened the day before, thought Armand as they left, was something else entirely.
Once in the courtyard, Gamache touched Beauvoir’s arm in a silent request to pause.
A single tree, thick-trunked, tall and gnarled, dominated the space. Lace curtains fluttered at windows where boxes were planted with bright red geranium and soft blue pansies.
Even Beauvoir, not given to appreciating aesthetics, could appreciate this.
It was one of the many peculiarities of Paris. Hidden behind many of the simple wooden doors were these courtyards and secret gardens.
It was a city of façades. Of beauty, both obvious and obscure. Of heroism, both obvious and obscure. Of dreadful deeds, both obvious and obscure.
“Is it possible,” Armand began, his voice low so that none of the other residents, whose windows opened onto the courtyard, could hear, “Alexander Plessner let his killer into the apartment?”
“But why would he do that?”
“Two reasons,” said Gamache. “Either Plessner had been bought off, and the killer was act
ually an accomplice—”
“Then why kill him?” asked Beauvoir. “Especially before he’d found the documents? The place was turned upside down. They were pretty desperate to find something. And apparently never did.”
“Or,” continued Gamache, “Plessner was working with Stephen to uncover something. He’d hidden the evidence in his apartment and sent Plessner there to recover it. And to meet someone else there. Someone they trusted.”
“But who would they trust that much?”
“Who were you told to always trust, as a child?”
“Not the man with the candy, that’s for sure.” Beauvoir thought, then turned to his father-in-law. “A cop.”
“Oui. Stephen wouldn’t trust just any cop, but a senior one…”
“The most senior one,” said Beauvoir. He glanced around and lowered his voice still further. “The Prefect of Police?”
“Stephen wouldn’t go to the apartment himself for fear it was being watched and he’d be recognized. So he sent Plessner, who no one would know, and arranged for a senior cop, Claude Dussault or someone else, to meet him there.”
“Let in through the fire escape so no one could see.”
“Could be.”
“But again, why kill Monsieur Plessner before the evidence was found? The place was turned upside down. Plessner obviously hadn’t handed it over.”
“Maybe he suspected something,” said Gamache. “Maybe Plessner refused to do it, and was shot trying to get away.”
Some of the pieces fit.
Some did not.
“So, to recap,” said Beauvoir. “There might or might not be something wrong with the Luxembourg project, GHS might or might not be involved, Alexander Plessner might or might not have been working with Stephen to expose some wrongdoing. And the Prefect of Police might or might not be involved.”
“Exactly,” said Gamache.
“You know,” said Beauvoir. “Can’t say I really miss homicide investigations.”
Gamache gave a small grunt of amusement.
They’d arrived at the elevator, Beauvoir blanched. “You first.”
“I’ll take the stairs, merci,” said Gamache.
“Me, too.”
Beauvoir took them two at a time, arriving at the top wheezing.
Gamache walked up slowly. Arriving at the top with another question.
Could Stephen have discovered Alexander Plessner, his friend and colleague, ransacking his apartment, and killed him? Is that what he was doing in the hours before dinner?
CHAPTER 21
“Oh, God,” said Annie, lowering herself into the armchair in her living room. “That feels better.”
She and Honoré had had their naps, then invited Daniel and Roslyn and the girls around for tea.
“Okay,” she said, looking at her brother. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your answers to the investigator. Not very satisfactory.”
“She practically accused me, us, of killing Stephen for his money. That didn’t upset you?”
“She had to ask,” said Annie. “They’re legitimate questions. We know the truth.”
“Tell that to Dad. He piled on fast enough.”
“He was trying to save you, you asshole. Sorry, it’s the baby talking.” She placed her hand on her belly.
“Are you carrying the anti-Christ?” Daniel asked, and Annie laughed.
“Dad just wanted to give you another chance to say what everyone in that room, especially the cops, knew to be true. That corporations get away with murder.”
“Still, he could’ve let it go, but instead he deliberately made me look bad.”
“Really? You can’t believe that, you fuckhead.”
“The baby again?” asked Roslyn.
“No, that was all me,” said Annie. “You made yourself look bad, and while we’re on the subject, the baby wants to know how the hell you can afford that new apartment?”
“You want to know?” said Daniel, getting red in the face. His daughters looked over, and he took a deep breath to calm himself.
Lowering his voice, and making his tone friendly, he said, “It’s none of your business, but I’ll tell you anyway.” As he spoke, he ticked the points off on his fingers. “We saved up. I got a raise. Ros has a great job, and I get a favorable mortgage rate from my own bank. Satisfied?”
“I’m happy for you. For both of you. I really am. But you have to see that it looks suspicious. Why didn’t you tell the cops all this? It looks like you knew you were going to come into money when Stephen died. Dad was trying to help you.”
Daniel shook his head.
Honoré walked over to Daniel, offering his uncle the toy duck his godmother, Ruth, had given him when they’d left Québec.
When squeezed, it said “duck.” They thought. They hoped.
“Merci,” said Daniel, taking it. He squeezed it twice and Honoré laughed.
“I need to call work,” Daniel said, getting up.
She watched him leave the room, the phone to his ear.
Then Annie pulled out her own phone and made a call.
* * *
“I’m afraid you can’t come in, sir,” said the gendarme guarding the door to Stephen’s apartment.
“Is it possible to speak to the agent in charge?” asked Gamache.
“He’s busy.”
Beauvoir was about to say something, but Gamache stopped him. Bringing out his wallet, he handed the agent his card.
“Do you mind giving him this, please?”
The cop glanced at it. Unimpressed. A lowly chief inspector, from Québec.
“Un moment,” he said and swung the door shut in their faces.
“Well,” said Beauvoir, “this’s humbling. For you.”
Gamache smiled. “Humility leads to Enlightenment, Grasshopper.”
“Well, you are brilliant, patron.”
The door was opened a moment later and a plain-clothed officer in his mid-forties stood there.
“Désolé,” he said, putting out his hand. “Inspector Juneau, Stefan Juneau.”
“Armand Gamache. This’s my former second-in-command, Jean-Guy Beauvoir. He now works in Paris.”
“For us?”
“No, for a private company.”
“A security firm? SecurForte?”
“No, GHS Engineering.”
“Ah, oui?” said Juneau, walking into the apartment as they followed. “Out at La Défense?”
“Yes.”
Juneau stopped in the hall. “Commander Fontaine filled me in on what happened last night and this morning.” He dropped his voice. “Please forgive Agent Calmut. He’s young and, frankly, just a little stupid. I’m having him flogged as we speak. How can I help?”
Gamache could actually see the young officer going through the pile of books flung onto the floor.
“We’d like to take a look around the apartment, if you don’t mind. I know it well. It might be some help to you.”
“Absolutely. Are you looking for something in particular?”
“Not really. I was here earlier, but I thought it might be helpful to come back. Get a better look. Have you spoken to the neighbors yet?”
“Yes. No one heard or saw anything. The concierges are next on my list.”
Gamache and Beauvoir were given gloves and the freedom to roam the apartment.
“It looks worse now than this morning,” said Beauvoir as they picked their way through the mess in the living room.
Beauvoir watched as his father-in-law took several photos of the room, then moved aside a chair to get at a large oil painting. Leaning it against the wall, he stared at it. Then he turned it around and looked at the brown paper, slashed to expose the canvas behind.
Another painting was examined, the front and back photographed by Gamache.
“We did wonder if the intruder found something hidden behind the paintings,” said Juneau, joining them.
“I don’t think so,”
said Gamache as he put a Rothko back on the wall.
“Why not?” asked Juneau.
“Because the intruder kept searching after he’d slashed them,” said Beauvoir.
He pointed to the remaining art on the floor. Some almost hidden beneath splayed books and pillows.
“Good point,” said Juneau. Though he didn’t sound so happy that the Québec guy had seen it and he hadn’t.
Gamache spent the next few minutes digging out the paintings, photographing them, and replacing them on the wall.
Juneau walked over to Beauvoir. “Is he okay?”
Gamache was just standing there, staring at the paintings.
“Ça va, patron?” asked Beauvoir.
“Yes, yes,” said Gamache. “Everything’s fine.”
Though he sounded distracted. Not exactly upset, but definitely preoccupied as he returned to the art.
Then he looked at his watch and turned abruptly. “I’m afraid I haven’t been any help. I can’t see that anything’s missing.” He stripped off the gloves and held out his hand to Juneau. “We need to be going. Thank you for your understanding.”
“Thank you, Chief Inspector.”
“If the backs of the paintings were slashed, that means the intruder thought something was hidden there,” said Beauvoir as they left. “Papers. Documents.”
“I agree,” said Gamache. “The paintings are important.”
* * *
Annie Gamache was staring out their apartment window at the Tour Eiffel in the distance.
Daniel, Roslyn, and the girls had left, and Honoré was sitting at his little table having applesauce.
Her hands rested naturally, protectively, on her belly. On her baby. Their daughter.
She dropped her eyes to the fromagerie across the street. At least soon she’d be able to eat all the cheese. And she planned to.
Then she stood up straighter.
There he was. She’d spotted him earlier and now there he was again. The man. Looking up. At the window. At her. There was no mistaking it this time.
