by Louise Penny
But this wasn’t her business. And maybe there was nothing there.
After all, Armand’s new number two was also a young woman. Isabelle Lacoste. She’d become a close family friend. A cherished and valued colleague. He’d brought her into homicide and mentored her. Isabelle had repaid Armand by saving his life, at a terrible personal cost to herself.
They were like father and daughter. There was never any suspicion of more between them.
But then, Reine-Marie didn’t know Monique’s husband as well as she knew her own.
“Do you know the name of the cologne?” Reine-Marie asked again, casually.
“No, but I can tell you the bottle looks more like booze than scent. It’s quite ornate. Attractive, actually. The only thing I do like about it. Oh, wait. It’s not a name, it’s a number. Made me laugh. I thought it said 112 at first. Seemed appropriate.”
Yes, thought Reine-Marie as she put the coffeepot on the tray. 112 was the French emergency number. Alarms should be going off for Monique Dussault.
“Maybe we can find it,” said Reine-Marie, reaching for her iPhone on the counter.
She put in cologne from Cologne and up popped the image of a blue-and-gold box.
“Yes, that’s it,” said Monique. “It’s called 4711. I knew it was a number. Says here it’s the first cologne ever made. Ha, probably why Claude wears it. He loves history. As does Armand. Something they have in common.”
“Oui,” said Reine-Marie.
As she closed the phone, she thought it might be the only thing the two men had in common.
The cologne was exactly the same as the one hidden in their bedroom. She’d confirmed the scent. But in doing that, she’d uncovered another, more important question.
Was it Claude Dussault they’d surprised in Stephen’s apartment or Irena Fontaine?
* * *
Jean-Guy got up from his laptop and went to the open window. He scanned the dark street below and breathed in the fresh night air. Trying to clear his mind. To get the clutter out and to see more clearly the connections that were appearing.
SecurForte was the link.
The security firm owned by GHS Engineering. It looked after security at the George V and almost certainly the Lutetia.
And where else?
He looked at his watch. Almost ten. He’d call the Gamaches at ten thirty. By then their guests might be gone.
Returning to his laptop he clicked on the link the GM of the George V had sent, to access the tapes from the hotel cameras. They’d been edited, almost certainly by SecurForte. To hide something or someone.
But it had to have been done quickly, and something might have been missed.
And sure enough, after twenty-five minutes of going back and forth, he found something. Someone.
Not Stephen. Not Alexander Francis Plessner.
What he found was a grainy image of a gray-haired, elegant woman.
She was just emerging from behind a huge floral arrangement in the lobby. It was a split second of tape they’d failed to erase.
There was no mistaking Eugénie Roquebrune, the president of GHS, entering the George V yesterday afternoon. She was there one moment, then the next there was no trace of her on the video. She’d disappeared.
But why was she there, and why had she been erased? Could she have been the one Stephen was meeting before dinner Friday night?
He got up and walked around the living room, unable to settle. What could this mean?
Had Stephen sat across from her, looked her in the eyes, and told the president of GHS Engineering that he’d found out about their industrial espionage?
Was that what he was going to announce at the board meeting on Monday?
Is that why they tried to have him killed? That might explain the lack of finesse in both attacks. They were ordered at the last minute.
But something wasn’t quite right.
For a man who’d survived the war as a member of the Resistance. Who’d been cunning then and throughout his long life. Why would he make such a foolish strategic error now? Effectively signing his own death warrant.
Presumably he was in the George V to hide. Why invite over the very person he was hiding from?
After another circuit of the small living room, Jean-Guy sat back down and went through the video again. The lobby. The hallway to the elevator. The elevators, including the service elevators.
Nothing. Eugénie Roquebrune had disappeared.
He broadened the search.
And that’s where he found her. In the reflection of a waiter’s large silver tray. Polished and gleaming. It showed, for 2.7 seconds, three guests at a private corner table in the Galerie lounge.
The head of GHS Engineering sat with two male companions. Stephen Horowitz and Alexander Plessner?
Back and forth Jean-Guy went, over and over the footage. Until he was certain that he recognized one of the men at the table.
Just hours before the attacks, Claude Dussault, the Prefect of Police, was having tea with Eugénie Roquebrune.
Beauvoir got to his feet. It was almost ten thirty. He could call, but …
Dussault was at the Gamaches’. He didn’t want to say anything that might be overheard.
A man naturally given to action, Jean-Guy had come late to the value of pausing.
“It is solved by walking,” Gamache had often said.
In the middle of a stressful case, the Chief would leave his office, and instead of doing something, he’d go for a walk. Often just up and down the corridors of Sûreté headquarters, hands clasped behind his back, occasionally muttering, while Beauvoir, figuratively, danced Tigger-like around him.
Gamache had patiently explained, over and over, over the years, that he was doing something.
He was thinking.
It had taken Beauvoir years to see the power of pausing. And of patience. Of taking a breath to consider all options, all angles, and not simply acting on the most obvious.
After looking in on Annie and Honoré, he put on a light jacket and went out for a walk.
CHAPTER 24
When the men returned to the living room with dessert and coffee, Reine-Marie nodded toward the box. “Find anything interesting?”
“Look at this,” said Armand. “And tell us what you think.”
He handed them the GHS annual report, open to the page listing the board of directors. “My God. The former President of France?” said Monique. “An ex–American Secretary of State?”
“Look, a Nobel laureate,” said Reine-Marie. “I read her book. Formidable.”
They scanned the list of diplomats, world leaders, philosophers, and artists.
“Anything strike you?” asked Armand.
“Besides the caliber of members?” said Monique. “GHS must be incredibly powerful to attract such people.”
“Yes,” said Armand. He was watching Reine-Marie as she stared at the list. Then, after taking a large forkful of creamy cake, she turned to the President’s Report. There was a photo of the CEO, Eugénie Roquebrune. And below it a précis of their corporate philosophy.
“Seems interesting to me,” she said slowly, “who’s not on the board.”
“What do you mean?” Monique reexamined the names.
“This’s an engineering firm, right?” said Reine-Marie. “So why aren’t there any engineers? There’re no scientists of any kind. Nobel laureates, but not in economics or physics. They’re in literature. And why aren’t there any accountants? Anyone who could read a financial statement and see if there’s anything wrong? They’re all politicians and diplomats. Minor royalty and celebrities. There’s this one fellow, head of a media empire, but that doesn’t mean he can read a spreadsheet even if he wanted to.”
And that, thought Armand, was the crux. How much did these people actually want to know?
“Not exactly the checks and balances you’d hope for in a board of directors,” said Monique.
The photo of Madame Roquebrune smiled out at them.
She seemed pleasant enough, but did not give the impression of immense power or even authority.
But then, that might’ve been the idea. Gamache suspected nothing, no word, no image, not even the font, was chosen without intense scrutiny.
Reine-Marie also studied the photograph. She saw a woman in her early fifties. Elegant, warm. Kindly even. Not at all intimidating or formidable. In fact, as she looked closer, Reine-Marie saw there was a very small eyelash on Madame Roquebrune’s cheek.
It was almost unnoticeable, except as a tiny human flaw.
It was actually quite endearing. She wanted to brush it away.
And that, Reine-Marie knew, was the trap. Even as she felt herself drawn into it.
Could this, she found herself wondering, really be one of the most powerful people in France? In Europe?
But then, her own husband was often mistaken for a college professor. Not a man who hunted killers.
The GHS president was not kindly and benign, and its board was not oversight. It was a façade, a stamp of legitimacy. The men and women on the board gave the corporation access, and cover, should anything go wrong.
“Claude, do you know this Eugénie Roquebrune?” Armand asked.
“No,” he said. “Though that’s some impressive board. I wonder if Monsieur Horowitz really did have anything on GHS. Hard to believe people like that could be taken in.”
“People believe what they want to believe,” said Reine-Marie. “It’s just human nature.”
“Reminds me of the story of the oilman who went to Heaven,” said Claude. “He shows up at the Pearly Gates and Saint Peter says, ‘I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is, you’ve got into Heaven.’
“‘Fantastic,’ says the oilman. ‘But what’s the bad news?’
“‘I’m afraid the part of Heaven reserved for oilmen is full.’
“‘Well, I know how to solve that,’ says the oilman. ‘Take me to them.’
“When Saint Peter does, the oilman calls for their attention and announces, ‘Exciting news. They’ve struck oil in Hell.’
“And with that, the place empties out.
“Saint Peter turns to the oilman and says, ‘That was amazing. You can go in now.’
“‘Are you kidding?’ says the oilman. ‘I’m going to Hell. I hear they’ve struck oil there.’”
The other three laughed.
“It’s true what you say, Reine-Marie,” said Claude. “People believe what they want to believe. Beginning with their own lies.”
“Hell is the truth seen too late,” said Reine-Marie as she poured out more coffee. “Thomas Hobbes.”
For a moment, Armand could feel Stephen’s steely grip on his wrist, and see his laser-blue eyes, staring at him as they sat in the garden of the Musée Rodin. In front of The Gates of Hell.
I’ve always told the truth, Armand.
* * *
Jean-Guy glanced around to see if he could spot anyone watching.
But he was alone in the park.
He walked along the path, unconsciously clasping his hands behind his back. As he strolled, Jean-Guy Beauvoir went over what he’d found. And what it could mean.
And, equally disturbing, what Annie had told him. And what that could mean.
Jean-Guy stopped. Supposedly to stare into the duck pond. But actually, he’d picked up the fact he wasn’t alone. Someone was quietly watching from the shadows.
A thief? Was he about to be robbed?
It is a mystery, he hummed as he slowly circled the pond. It is a big mystery.
Then, turning quickly, his hand shot out, but the man had lightning reflexes and jumped out of his grasp, then turned and took off.
Jean-Guy ran after him, and while the man was younger and had the advantage of age, Jean-Guy had the advantage of rage.
The man ran out into the traffic along rue de Bretagne. Horns sounded and curses followed them down rue du Temple, the distance between the men growing. The man turned down an alley, knocking over bins to slow his pursuer.
While all his survival instincts, all his training, told Jean-Guy it was a mistake to follow a suspect into a dark alley, his instincts as a husband and father were stronger.
The man disappeared around a corner.
Skidding around the corner, Beauvoir saw a brick wall at least ten feet high blocking their way. It was a dead end.
The man didn’t slow down. Didn’t hesitate. He ran full tilt at it, leaping and grabbing the top. Pulling himself up, he went over the other side.
At the very top, he twisted and looked back.
Directly at Beauvoir.
Then he dropped from sight.
Beauvoir got to the wall and jumped. Clutching for the top. His fingers scraping the bricks. Clawing at them for purchase. But he skidded down. Once, twice, three times he tried. Then stopped. Bending over, holding his knees. Gasping for breath.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered, pounding the wall with each word.
Then he turned and jogged back to the apartment, picking up speed, breaking into a run as his mind raced ahead of him.
Had he actually been lured away? Was he meant to chase one man while another broke in?
He was running across streets as cars slammed on brakes.
At his building he took the stairs two at a time, yanking himself up with the handrail.
The door to their apartment was closed. And still locked. But …
Hands trembling, he unlocked it and ran to Honoré’s room, then checked on Annie.
Both were asleep. Both snoring lightly.
Returning to the front door, he double locked it. Then, leaning against it, he slid down, landing on the floor, his knees to his chin and his head in his hands.
What could have happened to his family?
He got up and walked unsteadily into the living room. The chase had not been totally futile. He’d found out one thing.
The man had turned at the top of the wall on purpose. So that Jean-Guy could get a good look at him.
It was the guard Loiselle.
Jean-Guy’s bloody hand reached for the phone. The Chief was right. Some things were solved by walking. And some by running.
* * *
Armand put down the phone and turned to Claude.
“Did you assign an agent to guard Annie?”
“I asked Irena to do it. Why?”
“Because,” snapped Armand, “there’s no one there, except, as it turns out, a security guard working for GHS. They’re watching the apartment.”
“Armand?” said Reine-Marie, standing up.
“They’re all right. No thanks to you,” he said to Dussault. “Jean-Guy chased him away.”
Claude Dussault picked up his phone and made a call. A moment later he hung up. “An agent has been assigned, but his shift won’t start until midnight. I’m sorry. I didn’t make it clear to Fontaine that this was a priority. A flic is on his way now.”
Armand continued to stare at the Prefect, who colored under the unrelenting glare.
“Désolé,” Dussault repeated.
Gamache was far from convinced this man was désolé. He was also concerned that any gendarme Dussault sent would be there not to guard, but to watch. And maybe do more, if it came to that.
The Dussaults were on their feet, understanding that the evening was over. But as Claude bent to pick up the box, Armand stopped him.
“I’d like to keep this for a day.”
The two men locked eyes. Over the box. Over the barricade. And the Prefect, knowing he was in a difficult position after his failure earlier, conceded. But he wasn’t surrendering completely.
“I’ll just take this then.” He picked up the laptop.
Had they actually been at the barricades, Armand had the impression Dussault would have pulled the trigger.
And he’d have shot back.
CHAPTER 25
“What was that about?” Monique asked as they got in their car.
“The Horowitz case,�
� said Claude, tossing the laptop into the back seat.
“I know that, but there was tension. More than tension. Is something wrong?”
“Non.” But her husband was distracted. Enough to actually get lost for a moment in the narrow streets of the Marais. “I’ll drop you at home. I need to speak with Irena.”
“At this hour? It’s almost eleven. Claude, what’s going on?”
“Nothing. I need to get her the laptop, now that we have the password. I’ll be home before midnight.”
He dropped her at the door to their building and made sure she got in safely, then drove off.
Monique walked up the stairs slowly. Thinking. Her husband’s scent, even more rank than she remembered it, clung to her clothing.
* * *
Beauvoir opened the door.
Once in, Reine-Marie hugged Jean-Guy.
“You all right?” Armand asked, noticing the scrapes on Jean-Guy’s hand.
“A bit shaken, to be honest. It really is different when it’s your own family.” His eyes were wide. “Thank you for coming.”
“Annie?” asked Armand.
“Asleep. So’s Honoré.”
Despite the reassurance, Reine-Marie and Armand walked to the bedrooms, peered in, then returned to the living room.
“We brought this.” Reine-Marie held up the pastry box. “I’ll make some tea.”
They followed her into the small kitchen and put out the tea things.
“What happened,” Armand asked.
Jean-Guy described it, then said, “I’ll tell you, Armand, that guy barely touched the wall as he went over. That’s no ordinary guard. And I’m pretty sure he wanted me to recognize him.”
“Bit of psychological warfare,” said Armand.
“But the good news is, his orders were to follow me, not to do any harm to Annie or Honoré. There’s something else. He works for SecurForte.”
“The same company that has the contract with the George V,” said Gamache. “Who almost certainly doctored the tapes.”
“It gets worse. SecurForte is owned by GHS.”
