Kingdom of the Blind (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #14)

by Louise Penny

She looked over the screen of her laptop at her colleagues. Her brows rose.

  “A bank?” asked Jean-Guy. “The Caisse hired him after what he did at Taylor and Ogilvy?”

  “Let me make a quick call,” said Gamache, picking up his iPhone.

  He dialed, waited, then gave his name and asked for Jeanne Halstrom. The president of the Caisse Populaire. After inquiring about her family, he asked a few other questions, listened, thanked her, then hung up.

  “Bernard Shaeffer was hired as a financial adviser eighteen months ago. He had Anthony Baumgartner down as a reference. According to the personnel file, Monsieur Baumgartner vouched for him and said he’d been an outstanding employee. They’ll start an investigation into Shaeffer’s activities, including if he’s set up any unusually large accounts in his or Baumgartner’s name. We’ll need a warrant, but she’ll get things started.”

  “We might’ve just found out where the client’s money went,” said Beauvoir. “Looks like Baumgartner didn’t break off contact with Bernard. Just the opposite.”

  “He wouldn’t be so stupid as to have the accounts in his own name, would he?” asked Isabelle.

  “We’ll find out,” said Gamache. “Even if it’s offshore, the Caisse can probably track Shaeffer’s activity.”

  “And I’ll go visit young Monsieur Shaeffer right after this.” Beauvoir thought for a moment. “Better still, I’ll have Agent Cloutier bring him in for questioning.”

  He made a call, then hung up. “She’s on her way.”

  “Good,” said Isabelle. “She’s found her . . . footing?”

  “Yes. Finally. But she’s frustrated about not being able to get into Baumgartner’s laptop and get at his personal files. We all are. We’re still trying, of course. Put in the names of his children, and his mother. And father. All the obvious ones.”

  “Maybe it’s not a name,” said Gamache, “but a number.”

  “We’ve tried the children’s birth dates. His birthday. But you asked for facts, patron. There is something else I found out from Bernice Ogilvy,” said Beauvoir. “Not about Baumgartner this time. It’s about Kinderoth. An elderly couple by that name had an account at Taylor and Ogilvy.”

  There was a beat while they took that in.

  “With Baumgartner?” asked Lacoste.

  “Non.”

  She deflated a bit. It was probably too much to ask.

  But Gamache was leaning forward. He knew Jean-Guy well. Very well. And he could see this wasn’t some aside. This was, perhaps, the main course.

  “Go on,” he said.

  And Beauvoir told them what Madame Ogilvy had said about the Kinderoths. And their will.

  Beauvoir watched for their reaction and wasn’t disappointed. Gamache smiled, and Lacoste was almost throbbing with excitement.

  The three sat around the kitchen table, as they’d sat around so many tables, across Québec, across the years. Sipping strong teas and coffees and discussing terrible crimes.

  So much had changed over time, but the core remained the same.

  Beauvoir thought about the question Bernice Ogilvy had asked. Did he love his job? The answer, he knew for certain, was yes. And it wasn’t just his job he loved.

  Chief Superintendent Gamache sat back, a look of extreme concentration on his face. Then he brought a notebook out of his breast pocket.

  “This came in last night,” he said. “From Kontrollinspektor Gund in Vienna. I’d asked him to look up that original will.”

  “The one going back a hundred years,” said Isabelle.

  “A hundred and sixty. Baron Kinderoth, Shlomo, had two sons, twins,” Gamache reminded them. “He left them each the entirety of his estate. We’ll probably never know why he did it, but we can see the effect it had. It clearly caused hurt and confusion. Who inherited? I asked the Kontrollinspektor if he could do some searching through their records. This’s what he sent back.”

  He put on his glasses while Beauvoir and Lacoste leaned closer.

  “I won’t read it verbatim,” said Gamache. “My translation is pretty bad, but I think I got the gist of it. I’ve sent it on to an acquaintance who does speak German, but in the meantime this’ll have to do. Both sons took it to court, of course, and after a few years it was decided in favor of one son, the one deemed the firstborn of the twins. By then both men had themselves died, and the heirs of the other son contested the decision. Because of the complexity and confusion over who was really firstborn, the case lingered. It took another few years to be heard and another few years for a decision. This time it was in favor of the supposed younger son. He worked in the family firm, and the first seems to have been, in the words of the court, a rotter.”

  “How long out from Shlomo Kinderoth’s death did this happen?” asked Lacoste.

  “That decision for the younger son, and now his heirs, was thirty years after Shlomo’s death. Again the family of the older son contested the decision.”

  “And the money?” asked Beauvoir.

  “It remained in trust,” said Gamache. “Growing, but not dispersed.”

  Lacoste did a quick calculation. “Thirty years. That would put that decision around 1915.”

  “Exactly,” said Gamache. “World War One. According to records the Kontrollinspektor found, much of the family was killed, at least the young men. Austria was in turmoil. It wasn’t until the 1930s that the family took another run at it. By then the descendants of one of the sons had become Baumgartners, through marriage. And had since moved to Canada. Montréal. The Kinderoths stayed in Austria.”

  “Oh dear,” said Lacoste.

  “Oui,” said Gamache. “All I have are the court records. That’s all I asked for, and I’m not sure if more detailed accounts are possible, but it does seem that at least one Kinderoth survived the Nazis and came to Canada after the war. There might be others still in Europe somewhere. Kontrollinspektor Gund is looking.”

  “Why Canada?” asked Beauvoir.

  “Not just Canada,” Lacoste pointed out, “but Montréal.”

  “Where the Baumgartners had settled,” said Gamache. “It cannot be a coincidence.”

  “Were they looking for family?” asked Lacoste. “After what happened, maybe distant and even unpleasant family was better than none. It might be instinctive.”

  “It’s possible,” said Gamache. “But I think by then their instincts had warped and something else motivated them. Shortly after the war ended, another petition was filed in the Austrian courts. For the Kinderoth fortune.”

  “My God,” said Lacoste. “Don’t they ever give up?”

  “Was there even a fortune left?” asked Beauvoir.

  “I doubt it,” said Gamache, “but they wouldn’t know that. I think they were still going on family lore.”

  “Or maybe they knew something the authorities didn’t,” said Lacoste. “Some Jewish families managed to convert their money into art, or jewelry, or gold, didn’t they? And then hid it or smuggled it out of the country.”

  “Yes,” said Gamache. “But neither the Kinderoths nor the Baumgartners could get at the money. It was held in trust. And the Nazi regime would’ve confiscated it. Stolen it.”

  “So they’ve been fighting over nothing?” asked Beauvoir. “All these years?”

  “Nothing tangible anyway,” said Gamache. “But who knows? It was there once, so I suppose there’s a possibility—”

  He left it hanging.

  “And now?” asked Lacoste, looking down at the notebook and the careful writing there.

  “And now, according to Kontrollinspektor Gund, a final decision is about to come down in the Austrian courts.”

  “When?” asked Beauvoir.

  “Anytime now. According to Gund, it’s been expected for a year or so, but there’s a backlog, of course, of lawsuits dating from the war. They’re getting through them slowly.”

  “This slowly?” asked Beauvoir. “Most of the people who brought them would be long dead.”

  “Their descen
dants would benefit,” said Gamache. “And the Austrians want to be very careful. To be as fair as possible, especially about anything to do with the Jewish population and what was stolen. They can’t, of course, undo the Holocaust, but they can try to make reparation.”

  “Why don’t the Kinderoths and Baumgartners just decide to divide it equally?” asked Lacoste. “This would’ve been settled generations ago.”

  “Maybe you want to suggest it to them,” said Jean-Guy, and he got a glare from Isabelle.

  “Up until now it’s been unpleasant but civil,” said Isabelle. “Do we really think Anthony Baumgartner’s death—”

  “And maybe his mother’s,” said Beauvoir. “She died suddenly and then was cremated.”

  “Oui,” said Lacoste. “Okay. Maybe the Baroness too. But do we really think they were murdered because of a centuries-old will?”

  “One that was about to be settled,” said Gamache.

  “And contested again,” said Beauvoir.

  “Non. The courts have said they won’t tolerate another appeal. They have too many old cases to go through to keep retrying the same one.”

  “So whoever wins could inherit a fortune,” said Lacoste.

  “Real or imagined,” said Gamache. And this seemed, he thought, a family rich in imagination. Clinging onto the myth of aristocracy and power and wealth, even as they drove cabs and cleaned toilets.

  Beauvoir shook his head.

  Why kill Anthony Baumgartner now? Did they think Caroline and Hugo had murdered their brother for a larger stake in a fictional inheritance?

  He’d met these people. They seemed intelligent. And no intelligent person would believe in the fairy tale of an old fortune that had somehow survived wars and pogroms and the Holocaust to come to them now.

  And suppose the other arm of the family won? The Kinderoths? What then? A fratricide for nothing?

  The three of them stared into space. Thinking. Trying to see through the tangle of time and motives.

  Gamache looked at his watch. He was meeting Benedict in downtown Montréal in twenty minutes. He’d have to be leaving soon to make the rendezvous.

  “And there’s still the issue of the liquidators of Madame Baumgartner’s will,” he said.

  “Very suspicious lot,” Beauvoir said to Lacoste, who nodded agreement.

  Gamache smiled patiently. “We don’t know why Myrna and I were on it, but we at least have some connection through Three Pines, where the Baroness worked. But are we any closer to knowing why Benedict was a liquidator?”

  “Not at all,” said Lacoste, who’d been charged with finding out. “There seems absolutely no connection. He never worked in the area. He never met her. How Madame Baumgartner even knew he existed, never mind trusted him enough to put him on the will, is a mystery.”

  “Dead end?” asked Beauvoir, needling her.

  “Never,” said Lacoste. “There’s a reason, and I’ll find it. I plan on speaking with his ex. This Katie might know something or remember something he’d forgotten. I’ve never met him, but by your description Benedict does seem pretty scatterbrained.”

  Once again Armand felt the body of the young man on his back. As Benedict protected him from falling debris.

  And then, when the worst was over and he could straighten up, Armand had looked, through grit-clogged eyes, at the young man in the silly hat. With blood streaming down his face. From a chunk of concrete that would almost certainly, Armand knew, have struck him.

  It was an act of extreme selflessness. And instinct. It spoke of Benedict’s good heart, though it was no use denying that his brain was perhaps not the sharpest.

  Gamache got up. “I’ve got to go meet him. He’s giving me a lift back to Three Pines. I’m probably late already.”

  “Can I drive you over?” Jean-Guy asked as they walked to the front door.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  Beauvoir went down the outside stairs to start the car.

  Gamache thanked Isabelle. And she thanked him.

  “What for?” he asked.

  “For this. For not leaving me behind.”

  “Never.” He kissed her on both cheeks, then walked carefully down the flight of icy steps. But at the bottom he stopped. Dead.

  Then, as Beauvoir watched from the warming car, Armand turned and raced back up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Shouting to Isabelle.

  Beauvoir got out of the car and was halfway up the stairs himself when Gamache emerged from Isabelle’s home.

  “What is it? What’s happened?” Jean-Guy asked.

  “What was the name,” Gamache asked, his voice brusque, “of the young woman who was at the top of the contact list for Madame Baumgartner?”

  As he spoke, he came down the stairs quickly, faster than he probably should have.

  “In the seniors’ home?” asked Beauvoir. “I can’t remember.”

  “Can you find it?”

  “I can find my notes.”

  “Great,” said Gamache as he got into the passenger seat. “Give them to me, please.”

  Beauvoir handed them over, then drove as Gamache turned on the reading light and scanned, not even bothering to put on his glasses. After a couple minutes, he lowered the notes, wiped his eyes, and stared out the windshield.

  “Katie Burke,” he said.

  “Yes, that’s it,” said Beauvoir. He glanced over at Gamache. “What is it?”

  Something had happened.

  “I asked Isabelle for the full name of Benedict’s girlfriend—”

  “Katie Burke,” guessed Beauvoir, and he saw Gamache nod. “Holy shit,” exhaled Beauvoir. “Benedict’s girlfriend not only knew the Baroness but was her first contact?”

  He was elated, but as he shot a look at Gamache, he could see that far from being triumphant at finding this unexpected connection, Gamache was subdued.

  There was silence as they drove through the now-dark streets of the city, and both men considered what this might mean.

  When he pulled over to drop Gamache off, Beauvoir said, “Benedict lied.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want me there when you speak with him, patron?”

  “No, that’s not necessary. You have a lot to do. Isabelle said she’d find out all she can about Katie Burke and report back to you.”

  “Well, at least we now know how Benedict got onto Madame Baumgartner’s will,” said Beauvoir. “But we don’t know why.”

  “We will,” said Gamache, his voice clipped.

  It was going to be, Beauvoir thought, a very long drive back to Three Pines, for both Gamache and the young man.

  It was never a good idea to lie to the Chief.

  Jean-Guy headed off for his interview with Bernard Shaeffer, who even now was waiting in an interview room at Sûreté headquarters.

  Gamache stood on the sidewalk, scanning for Benedict. The warmth of the drive over slid off him as the biting cold seeped up the cuffs of his sleeves and down his collar and settled against the exposed skin of his face.

  But he felt none of that. He was staring ahead. Thinking. Trying to bridge the chasm between what he knew and what he felt.

  “Chief Superintendent,” came a familiar voice, and Gamache turned to see Hugo Baumgartner approaching. “You look deep in thought,” said the ugly little man.

  A thick winter coat, a tuque, and cheeks ruddy with cold did nothing to improve Baumgartner’s appearance.

  But his eyes were bright and his deep voice warm.

  “I was.”

  “Can I help you with anything?”

  “No, I’m just waiting for my lift, merci.”

  “Would you like to wait inside?” Hugo waved behind him, toward the office building he’d just come from. The head office of Horowitz Investments.

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  But Hugo didn’t leave. He stood beside Gamache, shifting from cold foot to cold foot. And thumping his gloved hands together. He looked like a lug, a pug, a failed boxer who ma
de a living being beaten up by his betters in practice rounds.

  Gamache turned to him. Clearly Hugo had something to say.

  “I hear you had lunch with Mr. Horowitz.”

  “I did,” said Gamache. “How’d you know about that?”

  “Ahh, the street. Everyone knows everything. For instance, I know that during lunch Stephen approached that moron Filatreau and told him he was dumping his stock.”

  “True. Do you know what Monsieur Filatreau had for lunch?”

  It was meant as a joke, but Hugo answered, “Sweetbreads. And you had sea bass.”

  Gamache’s smile faded, and he nodded. The street, it seemed, was well informed.

  “What else do you know, Monsieur Baumgartner?”

  “I know you asked about my brother and that Stephen said he was a crook. Mr. Horowitz is a financial genius and a good judge of character. But he isn’t always right. He likes to imagine the worst in people. His worldview is that everyone’s a crook. Or about to be.”

  “He spoke highly of you.”

  “Well, maybe I have him fooled,” said Hugo. “My brother was a good man. He wouldn’t steal. Word’s spreading that that’s why he was killed. You have to find out who did this, please. It’s bad enough what happened. Anthony’s reputation can’t be ruined too.”

  “What do you know about the will?”

  “My mother’s? Just what you do. That she believed the hokum about some long-lost family fortune that was really ours. It was amusing to us as kids but grew tiresome.”

  “And yet when we were reading the will and your brother and sister seemed embarrassed by it, you defended your mother.”

  “Her, yes, but not the will.”

  “As I remember, you did defend it, saying you thought maybe she was right.”

  Hugo looked around and again shifted from foot to foot. “I loved my mother and hated when anyone mocked her. Even Tony and Caroline.”

  “You’re a loyal man.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  “Not at all. I admire it. But loyalty can blind us to the truth about people. Though, as it turns out, your mother might’ve actually been right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Hugo had stopped shifting and stared at Gamache.

  “I think you know exactly what I mean, monsieur. Think about it, and call me when you decide you do know.”