All the Devils Are Here

by Louise Penny

  He told her about Alexander Plessner. About Stephen. About the upcoming board meeting.

  By the time he stopped, Séverine Arbour was pale. “And you’ve now dragged me into it.”

  “No, you were already in. If I found out about your snooping, they will, too. But if the issue is the mine in Patagonia, why are you so interested in Luxembourg?”

  “How do you know I am?”

  “I searched your files.”

  “You what?”

  “Look, let’s just assume you’re mad at me, I apologize, and you accept, okay? Let’s just skip to the important part. Luxembourg.”

  Arbour glared at him and gave a curt nod. “Fine. Carole Gossette’s in charge of the Patagonia project. I’ve been digging and saw references to her and the Luxembourg funicular. But I can’t figure out the connection.”

  “So Madame Gossette is involved?”

  “Up to her neck, from what I can see. So much for your mentor.”

  And my ability to spot wrongdoing, he thought. Still, if Madame Gossette was trying to hide what she and GHS were doing, why go all the way to Montréal to hire a senior cop, the former head of homicide for the Sûreté? Why not just go with someone dense and easily manipulated?

  Though, come to think of it …

  He put that uncomfortable thought out of his head.

  Séverine Arbour was looking at Loiselle. “He works for GHS. Won’t he report back?”

  “No. He’s with us.”

  She nodded, but was deeply unhappy. Things were getting way out of control. Confusing. This was not at all what she’d signed up for.

  * * *

  “Mrs. McGillicuddy emailed me last night,” said Armand. “She should be awake now. Do you mind?”

  “Non.”

  He placed the call, pressing his phone to his ear in an effort to hear above the din of the restaurant. He said a few words, then listened.

  Reine-Marie saw, for a split second, a look of astonishment on his face.

  He hung up and stared into space. Then he made another call. This time to one of their neighbors in Three Pines.

  “Oui, Clara? No, Stephen’s still in critical condition. Yes. I will, merci. But I have a question. Who do you know at the Louvre?”

  Now it was Reine-Marie’s turn to look astonished.

  * * *

  “Séverine,” said Beauvoir. “What do you know about our company?”

  “What do you mean? It’s a huge engineering firm. What else is there to know?”

  He took another tack. “How could the Luxembourg funicular figure in?”

  “Maybe payoffs, funds for the mine siphoned through the Freeport in the duchy. Or bribes for Chilean officials.”

  Yes, thought Jean-Guy. That made sense. The financial angle. That’s how Stephen would have first suspected something was wrong.

  Beauvoir put his hands behind his back and walked in silence, gazing out over Paris. The great monuments were spread out at his feet. The boy from East End Montréal, who played ball hockey among garbage cans in the alleyways, could see the curve of the earth.

  And all he wanted to do was go home.

  CHAPTER 30

  The taxi on the way to the Louvre stopped briefly at their apartment so Armand could pick up the GHS annual report.

  While he was upstairs, Reine-Marie called Daniel and convinced him to move with Roslyn and the girls to the George V. To join Annie and her family in Stephen’s suite.

  “Shouldn’t we take another room?” he asked. “It’ll be a little tight.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  She hadn’t told him about his name in the archive system. Not yet. Not while there was still a chance he’d go to Commander Fontaine and tell her all he knew.

  Best he didn’t know that.

  When Armand returned to the taxi, she told him of her success with Daniel.

  “That’s good.” He sighed with relief, knowing if he’d asked, Daniel would never have agreed.

  He gave the driver the directions.

  “We don’t want to go to the main entrance. I’ll guide you.”

  Ignoring the snorting and muttering from the front seat, Armand pointed out the way to the Porte des Lions.

  “You won’t get in,” warned the driver when he dropped them off.

  Armand and Reine-Marie stood between the two huge sculptures of lions, and looked up at the tall wooden doors.

  “Do you think there’s a doorbell?” Reine-Marie asked.

  Just as they began to think the surly driver might have been right, the doors slowly, slowly opened.

  “We’re here to see Monsieur de la Coutu,” said Armand, and showed the guard his ID.

  Within minutes the curator arrived, hand extended. “Madame, Monsieur Gamache. Clara Morrow phoned and asked me to help. What can I do for you?”

  To be honest, Reine-Marie had the same question.

  All she knew was that Bernard de la Coutu was a curator in the Louvre’s Department of Paintings.

  “I’d like you to come with us,” said Armand. “I promise, it won’t take long.”

  The curator raised his brows and studied the couple, then nodded. “Absolutely. I’m a huge fan of Clara’s paintings, especially her portraits. She’s become a good friend. I’ll do whatever you need.”

  * * *

  Daniel’s mouth dropped open. He understood why his mother wasn’t worried about them being crammed into the suite. The space, even by Stephen’s standards, was insane.

  But even more striking than the suite was the officer at the door. He looked grim and held a machine gun.

  He remembered the look on his father’s face, in the garden that morning.

  In his outrage, he’d interpreted it as his father being afraid that Daniel knew the truth about his being a member of Task Force Two. And would tell the cops.

  Now he understood that his father wasn’t afraid of him. He was afraid for him.

  Leaving his family behind to explore the hotel, Daniel got into a taxi.

  “Thirty-six, quai des Orfèvres, s’il vous plaît.”

  * * *

  “Are you sure this is smart?” asked Xavier Loiselle.

  La Défense loomed up ahead, like its own great kingdom.

  “It’s so stupid, it’s probably brilliant,” said Séverine Arbour. “Or it’s so brilliant, it’s stupid.”

  “That gets my vote,” said Loiselle.

  They’d taken the métro to the familiar stop. Once they exited the station, Loiselle dropped back and pretended to be tailing them.

  Beauvoir and Arbour signed in and showed their IDs. There was a tense moment when the guard double-checked.

  Had SecurForte twigged to what was really happening? Maybe Loiselle had turned them in after all, or—

  Just as Beauvoir’s mind sped through the possibilities, none of them good, they were waved through.

  Beauvoir and Arbour got off the elevator at their floor, then took the stairs two flights up to Carole Gossette’s office.

  “We probably don’t have much time,” said Beauvoir.

  He tried Gossette’s office door, but it was locked. Then he nodded toward the assistant’s desk.

  He and Arbour started pulling out drawers. Looking for a document. A file. A note. Anything that might tell them what was in the water sample from the mine.

  He sat at her desktop and tried various codes to get in.

  “So, here you are.”

  Beauvoir looked up. Standing at the door was Xavier Loiselle, and beside him was a man in his mid-forties.

  He was fit. His arms hung loosely out from his sides, like an old-time gunslinger. It was the stance of someone prepared, preparing, to act. It wasn’t hard to sense aggression in this man.

  Beauvoir recognized him. Even though he’d only seen his profile, and that only briefly. But he’d stared at the image long enough to recognize the third person at the table.

  The one sitting with Claude Dussault and the head of GHS, drinking tea fr
om fine bone china in the George V.

  Beauvoir could feel Séverine Arbour tense. Could hear her ragged breathing.

  “Do I know you?” asked Beauvoir.

  “I’m the head of security here,” said the man. “Thierry Girard.”

  “Jean-Guy Beauvoir, and this is my number two, Séverine Arbour. Can I help you?”

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “This isn’t your office.”

  “No. It belongs to Madame Gossette.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Beauvoir’s brows lowered in annoyance. Getting up, he walked around the desk. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  “We don’t like people trying to get into offices that are not theirs.”

  “And I don’t like being questioned by a security guard,” said Beauvoir. “I’m senior management here. We haven’t met, but that doesn’t mean you don’t know who I am.”

  “Oh, I know, sir. What I don’t know is why you’re here.”

  “I’m looking for Madame Gossette. Since you’re so efficient, please check and see if she’s in the building.”

  Xavier Loiselle’s eyes had opened wider. Clearly surprised anyone would speak to Thierry Girard like that.

  Beauvoir now knew that Loiselle hadn’t sounded the alarm. In fact, he suspected Loiselle had accompanied his boss in order to protect them.

  Girard was glaring at Beauvoir.

  “Go on,” said Jean-Guy calmly. “We’ll wait.”

  They stared at each other until Girard took out his phone, made a call, then put it away.

  “Unfortunately, Madame Gossette isn’t in today. Why don’t we show you out.”

  As all four stood in the elevator, Beauvoir decided to really push.

  He turned to Loiselle.

  “I spotted you last night, you know. And you’ve been following me all day. Why is that?”

  “You must be mistaken, sir,” said Loiselle.

  “Yes. I agree. A mistake has been made.”

  * * *

  Commander Fontaine’s office was dreary, like the rest of the famed 36.

  Daniel could see why they’d want to leave the rambling old building. It was probably rat-infested. What he couldn’t figure out was why the Prefect had chosen to keep an office here.

  He looked at the mishmash of items on display. There were photos of suspects mixed in with what seemed to be family pictures. Holiday shots and crime scenes.

  As though this woman’s life and work were so tightly intertwined, she could no longer distinguish between flesh and blood, and her own flesh and blood.

  “Did you like it?” Daniel asked, trying to break the ice. “My oldest daughter’s dying to go. She’s been to Brussels to see the Pissing Boy, but—”

  “What are you talking about?” Fontaine interrupted his babbling, glancing up from her notes.

  He gestured toward a poster of Copenhagen Harbor. Florence had become obsessed with the story that Copenhagen Harbor had once been the home of all mermaids.

  “I don’t even know where that is. Never been out of France. Why would I?”

  “Right. Why would you?”

  She closed the file and focused on him. “Why did you lie to us about knowing Alexander Francis Plessner?”

  “I should have told you,” Daniel admitted. “I’m sorry. I think as an investment banker, especially with venture capital, it’s ingrained to be careful. We let something slip, any tiny detail, and suddenly a potential investment is blown.”

  “So you lie? To the police? In a murder investigation?”

  “It was a mistake,” he said, sitting forward. “I was shocked when you said the dead man was Alexander Plessner. But I barely knew him, and I knew that what we were working on couldn’t have anything to do with his death.”

  “What were you working on?”

  “Some small company had come up with a new design for a screwdriver.”

  Now it was her turn to raise her brows. “Screwdriver? The tool?”

  “Yes. I wanted to look for something bigger to invest in, but Monsieur Plessner thought the bank should start small.”

  “The screwdriver.”

  “Oui. You see why I knew it couldn’t have anything to do with me. Unless he was killed with a screwdriver.”

  He smiled. She did not.

  “And did you?”

  “Kill him?”

  “Invest.”

  “Yes. Monsieur Plessner is, was, an engineer, so he had some idea what was interesting about the design.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Not a clue. But I’d looked at their financials and it seemed a low-risk investment. If it failed, we hadn’t plunged a lot of money in. And if it succeeded, well…”

  “Well, what? You’d make a fortune?”

  Daniel gave a single snort of amusement. “Not with that company.”

  “Then why invest?”

  “It was a dry run. What Stephen would call a starter pancake. The one that you drop on the floor but learn from.”

  Irena Fontaine didn’t take her eyes off him. “Do you not find it strange that you’re the only one in this whole case who has a relationship with both victims?”

  Daniel felt his face tingle as the blood rushed first to it, then away. Like a wave with an undertow. Dragging the last of his bravado out to sea.

  “And then,” she added, leaning forward, “you deliberately misled us. Why’re you here now? What changed your mind?”

  “Nothing. My father told me to come.”

  “Is that right? I had the impression that if your father told you to do something, you’d do the opposite.”

  “You’re very perceptive.”

  “No need to patronize me, Monsieur Gamache. Why are you really here?”

  Now he was confused. He’d actually already told her the truth.

  “My father told me you might suspect me if you found out I’d lied, so I wanted to come in and tell you the truth. I knew Monsieur Plessner, but not well. Hardly a relationship.”

  “Did Plessner ever mention Stephen Horowitz?”

  “Yes, they were friends. It’s how Monsieur Plessner came to me.”

  “Through Monsieur Horowitz? Was he directing the investments? Was he part of the venture capital project?”

  “I don’t think so. Stephen never asked about what we were investing in, and I never volunteered any information.”

  Commander Fontaine stared at him, but, while blushing even more furiously, Daniel didn’t drop his eyes.

  This was, after all, the truth.

  “Did you know that Stephen Horowitz has quite a large account at your bank?”

  “No, but I’m not surprised. He’d want money in France. He spends quite a bit of time here.”

  “But Horowitz never approached you about investing in venture capital?”

  “No. Never.”

  “When was the last time you saw Monsieur Plessner?”

  “Six weeks ago.”

  “And you haven’t spoken since?”

  “We spoke yes, on the phone. He called a few times. We discussed other possibilities.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, honestly, we didn’t get far. The screwdriver people had told him about a company that makes screws, and another that makes washers. You know, the metal ring thing you put before a screw.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. These things take months of investigating, sometimes years. Monsieur Plessner was doing some digging around, but he didn’t seem all that enthusiastic. Look, I can guarantee you that whatever the motive was for killing him, it had nothing to do with what we were working on. No one’s going to get rich, or poor, in those investments.”

  Fontaine rose. “Thank you for coming in.”

  Daniel also got up, surprised the interview was over so quickly and so abruptly. “Thank you for listening.”

  She walked him to the door. “Will you tell your f
ather you’ve been to see me?”

  “Probably, eventually. I might let him squirm for a while. He sure made me squirm yesterday.”

  “The difference is, he didn’t mean to. He was trying to help.”

  The small rebuke wasn’t lost on Daniel, though he was surprised that she’d defend his father like that. He’d had the impression she didn’t much like him.

  Daniel decided to walk back to the George V. He felt better for telling her the truth. And when all this was over, he and Roslyn should take the girls to Copenhagen, to see the home of the mermaids.

  His girls would not be like that cop and never see the wonders of the world.

  CHAPTER 31

  Armand paused at the door to Stephen’s apartment, to warn Professor de la Coutu what he was about to see.

  The academic had closely examined countless horrific scenes of beheadings, of rapes, of maulings and stonings and crucifixions. Dreadful torments.

  All while standing on the other side of the picture.

  He was, for the first time in his life, about to step into the frame.

  The professor listened and nodded.

  Monsieur and Madame Faubourg, the concierges, had told them that the flics had left.

  Just before he unlocked the door, Armand’s phone buzzed. He snatched it up and looked at the text. Reine-Marie understood his speed.

  It might be the hospital. It might be about Stephen.

  But it was from Mrs. McGillicuddy and read, We’re here. Will let you know.

  He replaced the phone and opened the door.

  The apartment was a shambles. No surprise there, though as he looked around, Armand had the impression it was even worse than when he was last there.

  The investigators, of course, would do a thorough search. But a well-trained unit, while not tidying up, did not generally make a crime scene worse.

  The curator walked in, curious, as though looking at a new exhibition. Until he saw the stain on the floor. And the outline of the body. Like skin around a hollow man.

  De la Coutu stared. Overcome with the realization that somewhere between standing and hitting the ground, a person had become a corpse.

  And someone else had done it.