“And that fortunes could be made,” said Gamache.
“True.”
They stopped at rue des Jardins. Like most of the streets in the old city, this one curved and disappeared around a corner. There was nothing even approaching a grid system, just a higgledy-piggledy warren of tiny cobbled streets and old homes.
“Which way?” Émile asked.
Gamache froze. It took him a moment to remember where that came from. The last time someone asked him that question. Jean-Guy. Staring down the long corridor, first in one direction then the other, then at him. Demanding to know which way?
“This way.”
It had been a guess then and it was a guess now. Gamache could feel his heart thumping from the memory and had to remind himself it was just that. It was past, done. Dead and gone.
“You’re right,” said Émile, pointing to a gray stone building with an ornate, carved, wooden door, and the number above. 1809.
Gamache rang the doorbell and they waited. Two men and a dog. The door was opened by a middle-aged man.
“Oui?”
“Mr. Patrick,” said Gamache, in English. “My name is Gamache. I left a message on your machine this morning. This is my colleague Émile Comeau. I wonder if I might ask you some questions?”
“Quoi?”
“Some questions,” said Gamache more loudly, since the man seemed not to have heard.
“Je ne comprends pas,” said the man, irritated, and began to close the door.
“No, wait,” said Gamache quickly, this time in French. “Désolé. I thought you might be English.”
“Everyone thinks that,” said the man, exasperated. “My name’s Sean Patrick.” He pronounced it Patreek. “Don’t speak a word of English. Sorry.”
Once again he went to close the door.
“But, monsieur, that wasn’t my question,” Gamache hurried on. “It’s about the death of Augustin Renaud.”
The door stopped closing, then slowly opened again and Gamache, Émile and Henri were admitted.
Monsieur Patrick pointed them to a room.
Gamache ordered Henri to lie down by the front door then they took off their boots and followed Monsieur Patrick into the parlor, an old-fashioned word but one that fit. It certainly didn’t seem to be a living room. Looking at the sofas Gamache could see no sign a body had ever touched those cushions, and weren’t about to now. Monsieur Patrick did not invite them to sit down. Instead they clustered in the middle of the stuffy room.
“Lovely furniture,” said Émile, looking around him.
“From my grandparents.”
“Are those them?” asked Gamache, wandering over to the photos on the wall.
“Yes. And those are my parents. My great-grandparents lived in Quebec City too. That’s them over there.”
He waved to another set of photos and Gamache looked at two stern people. He always wondered what happened the instant after the shot was taken. Did they exhale, glad that was over? Did they turn to each other and smile? Was this who they really were, or simply a function of a primitive technology that demanded they stay still and stare sternly at the camera?
Though—
Gamache was drawn to another photo on the wall. It showed a group of dirty men with shovels standing in front of a huge hole. Behind them was a stone building. Most of the workers looked glum, but two were grinning.
“How wonderful to have these,” said Gamache. But Patrick didn’t look like it was wonderful, or terrible, or anything. Indeed, Gamache thought he probably hadn’t looked at the sepia photos in decades. Perhaps ever. “How well did you know Augustin Renaud?” the Chief Inspector turned back into the room.
“Didn’t know him at all.”
“Then why did you meet him?”
“Are you kidding? Meet him? When?”
“A week before he died. He’d arranged to meet with you, Monsieur O’Mara and two others. A Chin and a JD.”
“Never heard of ’em.”
“But you do know Augustin Renaud,” said Émile.
“Of him. I know of him. I don’t know him.”
“Are you saying Augustin Renaud never contacted you?” asked Gamache.
“Are you with the police?” Patrick had grown suspicious.
“We’re helping the investigation,” said Gamache, vaguely. Fortunately Monsieur Patrick wasn’t very observant or curious, otherwise he might wonder why Gamache was there with an elderly man and a dog. A police dog, granted, but it was still unusual. But Sean Patrick didn’t seem to care. Like most Quebeckers, he was simply fixated on Augustin Renaud.
“I hear the English killed him and buried him in the basement of that building.”
“Who told you that?” asked Émile.
“That did.” Patrick waved toward Le Journalist on the table in the front hall.
“We don’t know who killed him,” said Gamache firmly.
“Come on,” insisted Patrick. “Who else but the Anglos? They killed him to keep their secret.”
“Champlain?” asked Émile, and Patrick turned to him, nodding.
“Exactly. The Chief Archeologist says Champlain isn’t there, but he’s almost certainly lying. Covering up.”
“Why would he do that?”
“The Anglos bought him off.” Patrick was rubbing his two fingers together.
“They did no such thing, monsieur,” said Gamache. “Believe me, Samuel de Champlain is not buried in the Literary and Historical Society.”
“But Augustin Renaud was,” said Patrick. “You can’t tell me les Anglais didn’t have something to do with that.”
“Why was your name in Monsieur Renaud’s diary?” Gamache asked and saw a look of astonishment on Patrick’s face.
“My name?” Now Patrick was making a face, something between disdain and impatience. “Is this a joke? Can I see some ID?”
Gamache reached into his breast pocket and brought out his ID. The man took it, read it, stared at the name, stared at the photo and looked up at Gamache. Stunned.
“You’re him? That Sûreté officer? Jesus. The beard threw me off. You’re Chief Inspector Gamache?”
Gamache nodded.
Patrick leaned closer. Gamache didn’t move, but grew even more still. A more observant man might have taken warning. “I saw you on TV of course. At the funerals.” He examined Gamache as though he was an exhibit.
“Monsieur—” said Émile, trying to stop Patrick.
“It must have been horrible.” And yet the man’s eyes were gleaming, excited.
And still Gamache was silent.
“I kept the magazine, L’actualité, with you on the cover. You know, that photo? You can sign it for me.”
“I will do no such thing.”
Gamache’s voice was low with a warning even, finally, Sean Patrick couldn’t miss. Patrick turned at the door, an angry retort on his lips, and froze. Chief Inspector Gamache was staring at him. Hard. His eyes filled with contempt.
Patrick hesitated then colored. “I’m sorry. That was a mistake.”
Silence filled the room and stretched on. Finally Gamache nodded.
“I have a few more questions,” he said and Patrick, docile now, returned. “Has anyone mentioned Champlain to you or wanted to know the history of your home?”
“People are always interested in that. It was built in 1751. My great-grandparents moved here in the late 1800s.”
“Do you know what was here before?” Émile asked.
Patrick shook his head.
“And these numbers,” Gamache showed him the numbers from the diary page. 9-8499 and 9-8572. “Do they mean anything to you?”
Again Patrick shook his head. Gamache stared at him. Why was this man’s name in a dead man’s diary? He could swear that while insensitive, Sean Patrick wasn’t lying. He seemed genuinely baffled when told Augustin Renaud had an appointment to meet him.
“What do you think?” Gamache asked Émile as they left. “Was he lying?”
“I actua
lly don’t think so. So either Renaud meant another S. Patrick, or he planned to meet them but never actually set up the appointment.”
“But he seemed so excited about it. Why not follow through?”
They walked quietly for a few minutes, then Émile stopped. “I’m meeting some friends for lunch, would you like to join us?”
“Non, merci. I think I’ll go back to the Literary and Historical Society.”
“More digging?”
“Of a sort.”
FOURTEEN
A few sightseers, of the more gruesome type of tourism, still hung round outside the Lit and His. What did they hope to see?
Gamache realized as he listened to them talk about Augustin Renaud and Champlain, about conspiracy theories, about les Anglais, that human nature hadn’t changed in hundreds of years. Two hundred years ago a similar crowd would have stood exactly where they were, huddled against the biting cold. Waiting to see the convict led to that large opening above the door, put on a small balcony, a noose around his neck, and thrown off. To swing, dead or dying, before the crowd that had gathered.
The only difference today was that the death had already occurred.
Was it an execution too?
Chief Inspector Gamache knew that most killers didn’t consider their act a crime. They’d somehow convinced themselves the victim had to die, had brought it on themselves, deserved to die. It was a private execution.
Was that what Renaud’s killer had believed? The power of the mind, Gamache knew, could not be underestimated. A murder was never about brawn, it began and ended in the brain and the brain could justify anything.
Gamache looked at the people around him. Men and women of all ages staring at the building as though it might get up and do something interesting.
But was he any better? After leaving Émile, he and Henri had strolled the narrow, snowy streets, thinking about the case. But also about why he was still on it. Surely his obligation was discharged? Inspector Langlois was a competent and thoughtful man. He’d solve the case, Gamache was sure of it, and he’d make sure the English weren’t unfairly targeted.
So why was he still poking around into the murder of Augustin Renaud?
Now there is no more loneliness.
“Suzanne and I have a dog, you know.”
“Really? What sort?”
“Oh, a mutt,” said Agent Morin.
As he talked, and listened, Chief Inspector Gamache sat at his desk in front of his computer following the progress of the search, or lack of progress.
It had been six hours and they still hadn’t traced the call. More and more sophisticated equipment, more experts, were brought in, and still nothing.
One team was trying to trace the call, another was analyzing the farmer’s voice, teams were combing the countryside and following leads on the ground. All coordinated by Chief Superintendent Francoeur.
Though there was no love lost between the two men, Gamache had to admit he was grateful to the Chief Superintendent. Someone had to take charge and he clearly couldn’t.
Gamache’s voice with Morin was calm, almost jovial, but his mind was racing.
Something was very wrong. It didn’t make sense, none of this did. As Morin talked about his puppy Gamache was thinking, trying to put it together.
Then he had it. Leaning into his computer he fired off an instant message.
The farmer isn’t a farmer. It was an act. Get the voice analysts to verify his accent.
They have, came Agent Isabelle Lacoste’s response. The accent’s genuine.
She was in Ste-Agathe, gathering information at the scene of the shooting.
Get them to look harder. He’s not the bumpkin he wanted us to believe. He can’t be. So what is he? In his ear he heard Morin talking about dog food.
What are you thinking? Beauvoir joined in. He was outside in the Incident Room, helping the investigation.
Suppose this wasn’t an accident? wrote the Chief, his fingers pounding the keyboard, typing quickly as his thoughts raced. Suppose he wanted to kill an agent and kidnap another? Suppose this was the plan all along.
Why? asked Beauvoir.
There was a pause on the telephone line. “What’s your dog’s name?” Gamache asked.
“We call her Bois because she looks like a log.” Morin laughed, as did the Chief.
“Tell me all about her.”
I don’t know, Gamache typed while Agent Morin told him about taking the dog home from the SPCA to Suzanne. But let’s say this is all planned, then that includes the timing. 11:18 tomorrow morning. They want us occupied until then. It’s misdirection. They want us looking one way while they do something somewhere else.
Something is planned to happen at 11:18 tomorrow morning? Both Beauvoir and Lacoste typed.
Or, typed the Chief, something that ends at 11:18 tomorrow morning. Something that’s going on right now.
There was a pause. The cursor throbbed on Gamache’s quiet screen while in his ears he heard about Bois’s current habit of eating, and pooping, socks.
So what do we do? Beauvoir asked.
Gamache stared at his blinking cursor. What do they do?
You do nothing, appeared on the screen.
Who is this? typed Gamache quickly.
Chief Superintendent Francoeur, came the equally quick response. Gamache looked up and saw the Chief Superintendent in the Incident Room at a computer also staring at him through the window. You, Chief Inspector, will continue to talk to your agent. That’s your one and only job. Inspector Beauvoir and Agent Lacoste will continue to follow my orders. There can only be one leader of this investigation, you know that. We’ll get your agent back, but you need to focus and follow a clear chain of command. Do not splinter off. That only helps the criminals.
I agree, wrote Gamache. But we need to consider other possibilities, sir. Including that this is all part of a well-organized plan.
A plan? To alert every cop in North America? An agent’s been killed, another kidnapped. Pretty crappy plan, wouldn’t you say?
Gamache stared at the screen then typed. This farmer isn’t who he appears to be. We’d have found him by now. We’d have found Agent Morin. Something is going on.
Your panicking isn’t going to help, Chief Inspector. Follow orders.
He isn’t panicking, wrote Beauvoir. What he says makes sense.
Enough. Chief Inspector Gamache, stay focused. We’ll get Agent Morin back.
Chief Inspector Gamache watched the flashing cursor then looked over his screen. Francoeur was staring at him. Not angrily. Indeed, there seemed compassion in his stare, as though he had some idea how Gamache must be feeling.
And he might have. Gamache only wished the Chief Superintendent knew what he was thinking.
This was wrong. There were eighteen hours left to find Agent Morin and they were no closer. No ordinary farmer could bring all the resources and technology of the Sûreté to a halt. Therefore, this was no ordinary farmer.
Gamache nodded to the Chief Superintendent, who gave the Chief Inspector a grateful smile. This was not the time for the two leaders to clash and while Chief Superintendent Francoeur outranked Gamache, the Chief Inspector was the more respected.
No, a rift right now would be a disaster.
But so was ignoring what seemed to Gamache obvious. They were being led away from the truth. And with each passing minute they were getting further from it. From Agent Morin. From whatever larger plan was at work.
Gamache smiled back and paused. Should he do it? If he did, there was no going back. Careers and lives might be ruined. He stared through the window.
“You have a dog, don’t you sir?”
“Yes. Henri. Also a foundling, like Bois.”
“Funny how they get under your skin. I think there’s something special about the ones we rescue.”
“Yes,” said Gamache decisively. He sat forward, jotted a note longhand and made eye contact with Inspector Beauvoir who got up, filled a pitcher
with fresh water and wandered into the Chief’s office, under the gaze of Chief Superintendent Francoeur.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir picked up the note and closed his hand over it.
Gamache’s feet were growing numb with cold as he stared at the Literary and Historical Society. Beside him Henri was lifting first one paw then another. The snow and ice were so cold it actually, and ironically, burned.
Why was he still investigating the Renaud case? Was this his private misdirection? Was he trying to take his mind off something he might otherwise have to see? And hear? And feel? Was his whole career like that? Replacing one ghost with a fresher one? Racing one step ahead of his memory?
He yanked open the heavy wooden door and entered the Literary and Historical Society, where the Anglos kept and filed and numbered all their ghosts.
In the library Mr. Blake was just pouring himself a cup of tea and taking a cookie from the blue and white china plate on the long wooden table. He looked at Gamache and indicated the pot. Gamache nodded and by the time he’d taken off his coat and rubbed Henri’s feet warm and dry there was a cup of tea and a cookie on the table for him.
Mr. Blake had gone back to reading and Gamache decided he might as well too. For the next hour he collected books, sipped the tea, nibbled his cookie and read, sometimes making notes.
“What’re you reading?” Mr. Blake lowered his book, a slim volume on grasses in the Outer Hebrides. “Is it about the Renaud case?”
Armand Gamache marked his page with a slip of paper and looked across the sitting area to the elderly man, perfectly attired in gray flannels, a shirt, tie, sweater and jacket.
“No, I thought I’d give that a rest for an hour or so. This,” he held up the book, “is just a curiosity of mine. It’s about Bougainville.”
Mr. Blake leaned forward. “As in bougainvillea? The flowering plant?”
“That’s right.”
They both imagined the exuberant, colorful plant, so common in the tropics.
“You’re interested in botany too?” asked Mr. Blake.
“No, I’m interested in the Plains of Abraham.”
“Not much bougainvillea there.”