That sat in the room. A bald statement so certain of itself that Commander Fontaine could not think of an argument.
“What have you found out about him, the dead man?” Beauvoir asked, hoping to draw some of her fire.
Fontaine disengaged from Gamache and turned to Beauvoir. “We’ve tracked down one of Monsieur Plessner’s colleagues in Toronto. She was, of course, shocked. The news of his murder isn’t public yet, and I have local investigators searching his office and home. As we know, Monsieur Plessner was trained as a mechanical engineer and seems to have used his training to invest in venture capital, mainly in small, apparently insignificant inventions or innovations that others dismissed, but ended up making him a fortune.”
“There can’t be many that come to anything,” said Roslyn.
“No, but if even one hits,” said Daniel, “a fortune is made.”
Reine-Marie heard Armand sigh, a long exhale of exasperation with a son who just could not shut up.
“That’s right, I’d forgotten, you’re in venture capital, too,” said Fontaine, who clearly had not forgotten.
If there was a trap to step into, Daniel would find it. If there was no trap, Daniel would create one. Then step into it.
“And yet, you don’t know Monsieur Plessner?” asked Fontaine, pleasantly.
“Never heard of him. If he’s based in Toronto, I wouldn’t. There’re a lot of people who think they can find the next Apple or Facebook. And some do. That’s where lives are changed.”
And sometimes, thought Gamache, staring at his son, lives lost.
CHAPTER 18
When the interview ended, the others went across the street to join the children and their sitter in the park. But Gamache and Beauvoir stayed behind.
Jean-Guy was dying to tell Gamache what had happened at work, and to check out what he’d recorded on his phone. But Fontaine and her number two also lingered in the apartment.
“Did you bring the box, Commander?” Gamache asked, looking around the foyer.
“The box, sir?”
“Monsieur Dussault said he’d ask you to bring Stephen’s things so we could go through them again.”
“Were you looking for anything in particular?”
“Well, yes. I wanted to look at the annual report from GHS.”
“The Prefect did ask, but I’d already left. Perhaps tomorrow.”
“Merci,” said Gamache, doubting he’d see that box the next day, or ever. He went to open the door for them, but Fontaine didn’t move.
“I’d like to speak with you. Privately, sir.” She glanced at Beauvoir.
“Yes? You can speak in front of Jean-Guy. What is it?”
He could see it was something. Something even more sensitive, it seemed, than accusing his children of murder.
They were standing in the front hall, and she pointed to the dining room. When they sat down, she said, “Are you aware of Monsieur Horowitz’s background?”
Armand opened his mouth to answer, then changed his mind. Finally saying, “I think so, but what do you know?”
“He’s German by birth.”
“Yes.”
“And fought with the French Resistance during the war,” said Fontaine. “His family was arrested for protecting Jews, and shot. Monsieur Horowitz managed to escape.”
“Oui. His family stalled the Gestapo long enough to allow him to lead the Jewish family out a hidden door in the back garden.”
This was news to Jean-Guy, who listened in astonishment. He knew about the Resistance, but not this.
“That’s the story, yes,” said Fontaine.
Gamache shifted in his seat but remained silent. He was beginning to get an inkling of what was coming.
“As you can imagine, sir, we have access to files that aren’t public. That were suppressed after the war, for all sorts of reasons.”
“Go on.”
Armand had tensed his muscles, like a boxer preparing for a body blow.
“The reports we have in the archives tell a different story,” said Fontaine. “His family was indeed killed in the war. His mother and siblings in Dresden. His father and uncle survived the war but were shot by the Russians.”
“Why?”
“They were senior Gestapo officers responsible, according to the Russians, for sending thousands to the camps.”
Armand sat perfectly still. Struck dumb. Almost blind and deaf. His senses shutting down. Not breathing. Not blinking. This was far worse than anything he could have expected or imagined. Or steeled himself against.
It was so great a lie, it staggered him.
And then an image exploded in his mind. Of his grandmother. Zora. Looking at Stephen, as though the devil himself had entered the house.
Did she know something? Sense something?
But no. That wasn’t possible. This wasn’t possible.
With a jolt, like a man coming up for air, he was back in the peaceful dining room of his son’s apartment in Paris. Diffused light came in through the sheer curtains, giving it an ethereal quality.
“That’s not true,” he finally managed to say.
“I can show you the documents.”
He nodded. Knowing he had to see them, but not wanting to. He wanted to crawl back to an hour ago, when things were just terrible, not monstrous.
“Even if it is true, about his father and uncle, that doesn’t mean Stephen was part of it. He still escaped to France. Still fought in the Resistance.”
“Did he?” asked Fontaine. “Are you so sure? If he lied about his family, maybe he lied about that, too.”
“What he told us is the truth.” Gamache’s grip was slipping. The horses straining. “The man is ninety-three, fighting for his life in a hospital bed after being attacked, and now you … you … attack him again? With wild accusations that are impossible to prove, or disprove? Jesus Christ.”
The stamping horses had broken loose.
Beside him, Jean-Guy jerked. He’d rarely heard Armand Gamache shout, and never, ever heard him swear. Not with those words anyway. Never.
And now the Chief was literally trembling with rage.
Across the table, Irena Fontaine smiled. She’d hit a nerve, just as Dussault had predicted. And not just hit but shattered a nerve.
Gamache had managed to remain calm, contained, when she’d accused his children of murder. But this accusation against Horowitz had made him lose it. Why?
Because, she thought, he’s afraid it might actually be true.
“What I know,” she said, “is that the Allies had their doubts. The leaders of the Resistance had their doubts.”
“But not enough to prosecute.”
“That’s hardly a measure of innocence, as we all know.”
She opened the slender folder and produced a grainy black-and-white photograph.
It showed German officers laughing and raising glasses. Among them a thin-lipped, humorless man who looked like a failed accountant. Heinrich Himmler. Head of the Gestapo and father of the Holocaust.
Food and drink were in front of them. A celebration in progress.
And behind Himmler, a slender hand resting comfortably on the Nazi leader’s shoulder, was a young man with a familiar grin, looking straight into the camera.
Armand felt light-headed and thought he might be sick. It was the same hand he’d gripped as a child. He’d gripped that morning in the hospital.
Stephen. Impossibly young. Happy. Joining in the fun. Joining in the joke.
Armand recognized the fresco behind them.
The photo was taken in the Hôtel Lutetia after it had been commandeered as the headquarters of the Abwehr, the Nazi counterespionage unit, in occupied Paris.
Gamache had sat at that same table with Stephen. Eating ice cream as a child, sipping scotch as an adult. Perhaps the very same drink, from the same glasses, in the very same chair, as that creature.
“After the war, when questioned, Horowitz claimed to have taken a job at the Lutetia to spy on the Ge
rmans and pass the information on to his comrades in the Resistance,” said Fontaine.
“That makes sense,” said Armand, struggling to regain his equilibrium.
In the photo Stephen was in uniform, but not that of the Abwehr, or any German unit. It was the crisp uniform of a Lutetia waiter.
“It’s what every collaborator claimed, monsieur, as you must know.”
“And it’s what members of the Resistance actually did. How else would they get information except to cozy up to the Nazis? And Stephen, being German, would be in a perfect position to get information. He was telling the truth. The man I know wouldn’t do what you’re suggesting.”
“Help the Nazis? He was one.”
“He was German. There’s a huge difference.”
“I agree. I meant that he was raised in a house that supported the Nazi party. His family were members. Senior officers. They rounded up men, women, children and sent them to camps. Death camps this man”—she thrust a finger onto Himmler’s face—“created.”
“And that’s why Stephen escaped to France and fought the Nazis,” said Armand, raising his voice again, before pulling it back so far he was almost whispering. “Because he couldn’t support that.”
Even to his own ears, he’d begun to sound like an upset child insisting on something that might not be true.
“You could be right,” she admitted. “Monsieur Horowitz was investigated. The Allies decided, with his perfect German and French and his smattering of English, he could be of more use to them free than as a prisoner. And they had far worse criminals to go after. After your father helped Horowitz get to Canada, the dossier was closed and buried.”
She paused, almost hating to take this next step. Almost.
“Your father was a conscientious objector, is that right? He refused to fight?”
“Pardon? My father? What’s he got to do with it?”
“Just answer the question, please.”
Gamache glared at her, and composed himself before answering.
“He didn’t believe in killing people in a war so far from home. But he volunteered as a Red Cross medic.”
Would she know what that meant? Unarmed, their job was to drag wounded soldiers, often under intense fire, back to safety.
The casualty rate among medics was the highest of any unit except paratroops. The commandos.
“My father came to regret his opposition to the war. He was deeply scarred by what he saw in the camps. He spent much of his time after the war trying to make amends.”
“By bringing the woman Zora to Québec and into your family.”
“Oui. And by helping Stephen, among other things. He wouldn’t have done that if there was any suspicion that Stephen was a collaborator. I heard him and my mother talk about it. I remember clearly.”
“You were a child, sir. Eight, nine years old? Children can mishear, misunderstand.”
“What? That my godfather was a Nazi collaborator who my father essentially helped escape justice? You think I’d misunderstand that? You think he’d do that?”
“I didn’t know your father.” She held his intense stare. “And neither did you.”
Below the table, below everyone else’s line of sight, Jean-Guy saw Gamache’s hands clutching each other so tight his knuckles were white.
But Gamache held his outrage. Held his tongue. Held his horses. Just.
“Why bring this up now? What can this possibly have to do with the attack on Stephen and the murder of Alexander Plessner?”
“It speaks to Horowitz’s character. You might not want to see it, and I don’t blame you, sir, but that’s who your godfather is. All his life Stephen Horowitz has betrayed friends in exchange for freedom. He betrays colleagues in exchange for wealth. It’s how he stayed alive. It’s how he got to Canada. It’s how he made his billions.”
“He made his fortune by being smart and working hard,” said Armand. “By being more ethical, having more integrity and courage, than anyone else out there.”
“That’s what he wants you to believe, but the truth is Stephen Horowitz is out only for himself. Why do you think he’s left a trail of enemies? He sat on boards collecting confidential information, then used it against the very people he sat beside. He went to their weddings and baptisms and bar mitzvahs, then turned on them. Betrayed their trust, just as he betrayed his comrades in the Resistance. He’s a traitor. It’s in his nature.”
“It is not.” Gamache leaned toward her.
“The only thing that changed after the war was his location,” Fontaine said, leaning toward him. “Horowitz was, and is still, interested in only one thing. Himself. A snake sheds its skin, but nothing else changes. It’s still exactly the same creature.”
“Stephen Horowitz fought against the Nazis in his youth. And in his career he’s fought against corruption, against wrongdoing. He never betrayed anyone. They betrayed themselves, by cheating and stealing from investors, many of them small. Many in danger of losing life savings. He was, is, ruthless. Yes. But he’s on the side of the angels.”
Beauvoir couldn’t believe Gamache had just brought angels into the argument, but the Chief Inspector did not look at all embarrassed. And for her part, Commander Fontaine didn’t laugh.
In fact, what she said next surprised him.
“Angels? Are you so sure? Is it possible that Hell is empty, and all the devils”—she brought her index finger down again on the grainy photograph, this time on top of Stephen’s face—“are here?”
Gamache leaned back, slowly, almost casually, and continued to regard her. When he spoke, his voice was calm, reasonable. Thoughtful.
“Dussault told you about Stephen’s favorite saying?”
“He did.”
“Did he also tell you that he called Stephen an avenging angel?”
“Non.”
“But I think now he was wrong, and you’re right,” said Gamache, to everyone’s surprise. “Stephen’s actions during the war were a prelude to what he did all his life. He tracked down the devils among us. He’s not an avenging angel. He’s an exorcist. I’m going to join the others in the park, unless there’s another member of my family you’d like to attack.”
He got up.
“No, I think that does it,” said Fontaine.
They all rose. Gamache gave a curt nod and left.
Beauvoir waited until the door closed, then turned to Fontaine. “Give me the dossier. I’ll pass it along to him.”
“I don’t have it on me. I only brought the photograph. But we can get it to you.”
“Do. And by the way, just so you know, you’re wrong. About Stephen, for sure. But you’ve made another mistake.”
They’d walked to the door, and now he paused. “Monsieur Gamache might look old to you. Did you call him a hundred? Over a hundred?”
“It was a joke.”
Beauvoir nodded. And smiled. Then leaned closer to her. “Just a word of warning. You don’t want to fuck with him.”
“Oh, really? And what’s he going to do?”
“Not him. Me.”
CHAPTER 19
Armand stood in the bright sunshine of the small park. He knew he should read his emails, make some phone calls.
But he needed this more. This moment watching his grandchildren play. Watching his own children be parents. Turning his back on life as it was, he watched life as it should be.
Walking over to Daniel, who was pushing Zora on a swing, he said, “Can we grab a beer later? Just us.”
“Why?”
“Because I like your company. Because it would be nice to catch up. Hear more about your new job, your new home.”
“Continue the interrogation?”
Armand managed not to be drawn in. “I just want to catch up. We don’t get to do that often.”
Ever.
“I’m a little busy right now,” said Daniel. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“Daniel—”
“See you later, Dad.”
He ga
ve Zora another push, turning his back on his father.
Across the park, Reine-Marie was watching, and caught Armand’s eye.
“You okay?” Reine-Marie asked when he joined her. “That looked tense.”
“He’s angry about the interview. About my questioning him.”
“He’ll settle down. Realize you did it to help him.”
“I don’t think he will. I tried to talk to him, but …” He raised his hands.
She saw in that gesture all the pain and futility of the last twenty-five years. The frustration and sadness of trying to connect with a child who’d one day vanished. His sweet boy. Gone. Replaced by a grim, angry child.
And they didn’t know why.
She looked at her husband and thought, not for the first time, that here was a man who spent his life working out what had happened to others, but who couldn’t figure out what had happened to his own child.
“I’ve invited the Dussaults for dinner tonight,” she said.
“I’m sorry? You what?”
“Claude and Monique are coming for dinner.”
He stared at her. Of course, she couldn’t have known the awkwardness of the conversation at the 36 just an hour or so earlier. But she did know that the cologne they’d smelled in Stephen’s apartment, while standing over the body, was the same as Claude Dussault wore. That there was a suspicion that the Prefect was somehow involved.
“Why?”
“I think I’ve found the cologne,” she said. “The one we smelled. But I want to be sure. I thought if we had them over …”
“We could just ask him? Claude, were you in the apartment with us? Did you kill Alexander Plessner? Cheese?”
She laughed. “No. Of course not. But it might come up.”
“Cologne?”
“He doesn’t know we smelled it in the apartment, does he?”
“No.”
“Then there’s no harm in asking.”
“There’s a great deal of harm,” said Armand, turning to her. “Reine-Marie, please. Promise me you won’t ask him. Please. These are dangerous times. He might be a friend, but if he isn’t, if he feels threatened, cornered—”
All the Devils Are Here Page 17
