All the Devils Are Here

CHAPTER 9

“What the hell’s going on, Armand?”

Claude Dussault and Armand Gamache were standing side by side, looking down at the body while members of the brigade criminelle fanned out in a semicircle, waiting for the Prefect to give them the go-ahead.

Since he didn’t know what the hell was going on, Gamache remained silent.

“Do you know him?”

“I don’t think so,” said Gamache. “But we’ll get a better look when he’s turned over.”

What he could see was that the man was older, perhaps mid-seventies. Caucasian. Slender. In casual but expensive clothes.

Armand lifted his eyes from the body and gazed at the shambles around him. Furniture overturned. Books taken from shelves and splayed on the floor. Drawers pulled out and tossed. Even the art had been taken from the walls, the brown paper at the back of them slashed.

Thankfully none of the art itself appeared to have been destroyed.

Dussault nodded, and the brigade went to work while the two senior officers walked from room to room. Armand hadn’t had a chance to look at the rest of Stephen’s apartment, but now he did.

“Horowitz’s bedroom?” Dussault asked.

“Oui.”

The bed had been taken apart, the mattress thrown to the floor. The doors of the huge armoire were open, and clothing lay in heaps.

“Someone’s done a number on this place,” said the Prefect.

Even Stephen’s bathroom had been searched, the medicine cabinet’s contents in the sink and on the floor.

They walked down the long corridor, glancing into the other bedroom, the bathroom, the dining room.

“Coming?” Dussault asked.

He’d noticed that Armand had stopped.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, really. Désolé.” He looked away, into the second bedroom.

“What?”

Armand turned back to the Prefect, his colleague and friend, and said with a very small, almost sad smile, “Just a memory.”

“Did you stay here as a child?”

“Yes.”

“Hard to see this,” said Dussault. “It must be quite something when not…”

“It is.”

Stephen Horowitz’s Paris apartment spoke of untold wealth and unusual restraint.

The financier preferred the simplicity of the Louis Philippe style, with its warm wood grain and soft, simple lines. Each piece, searched out in auction houses and even flea markets, had a purpose. Each was actually used. The armoires, the bedsteads, the dressers and lamps.

As a result, the place felt more like a home than a museum.

But right now, it could pass as a dump.

“Robbery gone wrong or professional hit?” Dussault asked.

Armand shook his head. “Whoever did this was searching for something. Had Stephen not been attacked last night, I’d have said a robbery gone wrong, but—”

“But it can’t be a coincidence,” agreed Dussault. “The two must be connected. The simplest explanation is that the killer came here knowing Stephen was at dinner, and the apartment would be empty. He could search it without fear of interruption. When he arrived and discovered this fellow, he killed him. Then continued the search. Poor guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Gamache raised his hands. He had no idea if that was true. It was just one scenario.

What he did know was that while it was necessary to go through various scenarios, there was folly, there was danger in landing too heavily on one particular theory early in an investigation. Too often the investigators became invested in that theory and began interpreting evidence to fit.

That could lead to a murderer going free, or, worse, it could lead to the conviction of an innocent person.

Don’t believe everything you think.

Chief Inspector Gamache wrote that on the board for the incoming cadets at the start of every year at the Sûreté academy, and it stayed there all year.

At first the students in the class he taught laughed. It sounded clever but silly. Little by little most got it. And those who didn’t did not progress further.

That phrase was as powerful as any weapon they’d be handed.

No. Right now there were any number of theories, all equally valid. But only one was correct.

“Why was the killer still here this morning?” asked Dussault. “They don’t normally hang around.”

“Or why did he return? The only explanation I can think of is that he hadn’t found what he was looking for.”

“Okay, here’s a thought,” said Dussault. “The original plan was to search the apartment while Monsieur Horowitz was at dinner. When he found what he wanted, the intruder would head over to the restaurant and kill Horowitz, hoping it would look like a hit-and-run. No one would suspect anything other than a terrible accident. Clean. Simple. Fini.”

Armand considered that. It could be true. Except …

“The place is a mess,” said Armand. “If he really wanted Stephen’s death to look like an accident, wouldn’t he leave the apartment as he’d found it?”

“Yes, that would’ve been the plan, but it went south as soon as he discovered this man and killed him,” said Dussault. “Then there was no need to be careful. In fact, he was in a hurry. He had to find whatever he needed, fast. Then get to the restaurant in time to run down Horowitz.”

“By then, why not just shoot Stephen?” asked Armand. “If what you say is true, there was no longer any need to make it look like an accident. We’d find the body in his apartment and realize it was deliberate.”

“He needed to buy time,” said Dussault. “If Horowitz had been shot, the brigade criminelle would’ve come here right away.”

As they should have anyway, thought Gamache.

The only constant in these theories was that the dead man was killed unexpectedly. One of several big mistakes made that night by the intruder.

Murdering the wrong man, failing to kill the right one, and apparently not even finding what he was looking for. If he had, he wouldn’t have still been hanging around when they’d arrived.

“Aaach,” said the Prefect. “My head is beginning to hurt.”

Gamache didn’t believe that. This was the sort of puzzle that people like Dussault, like him, were good at. Trying to unravel what appeared to be a Gordian knot.

But were they working on the same knot?

“It is possible,” said Armand, looking at Dussault to see his reaction to what he was about to say, “that it wasn’t the killer Reine-Marie and I interrupted, but someone else.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

Claude Dussault sighed. “People coming and going. Mistaken identity. We appear to be looking at two different mises-en-scène. I’m seeing an Émile Zola tragedy, while you see a farce straight out of Molière.”

It was not unlike what Gamache himself had been thinking a few moments earlier. Though Dussault’s description, while said with humor, held an implied criticism. And some mocking.

“Could be,” said Armand, with equanimity. “Fortunately, truth is on the march and nothing will stop it.”

Dussault laughed and clapped Armand on the arm. Clearly recognizing the Zola quote.

“Touché, mon ami.”

Dussault turned and they continued down the hall.

“Is this the way you came, following the intruder?”

“Yes.”

“He obviously knew there was a back stairway through the kitchen,” said Dussault.

“Exactly. He’d had plenty of time to get to know the apartment. It’s unfortunate. I thought I’d trapped him.”

“How did you even know there was someone else here?” asked Dussault.

“We heard a sound.”

Dussault was shaking his head. “And what would you do, Armand, if one of your agents, unarmed, chased a murderer with a gun down a narrow hallway?”

Armand gave a small laugh. “I’d have them on the carpet for sure.”

“You’d probably be scraping them off the carpet. Not very smart of you. He could’ve shot you, too.”

“Interesting that he didn’t. Though I am grateful.”

“As am I,” said Dussault, with a smile. “But I am also a little surprised.”

They were standing in the kitchen. Like most older apartments in Paris, it was small. Not much more than a galley, though there was a large window that looked out over the rooftops.

Cereal, sugar, coffee had been shaken out. The cupboards emptied.

It had become obvious, as they’d moved deeper into the apartment, that a methodical search had turned to panic, had turned into a sort of frenzy.

The back door was ajar, untouched from when Armand had followed the intruder through it less than half an hour earlier.

Once it was clear the killer had been swallowed by the Saturday morning crowd, Armand had joined Reine-Marie and waited for Claude Dussault and the rest of the gendarmes.

When they arrived just minutes later, Reine-Marie had taken the box of Stephen’s things into bar Joséphine, where she was now waiting.

“I’ll show you where he went,” said Armand, opening the back door with a gloved hand. “Let’s go down.”

Just as they stepped into the stairwell, a voice called from the apartment, “Patron?”

“Here, Irena,” said Dussault, stepping back into the kitchen. “What is it?”

Irena Fontaine stood beside the Prefect. As she’d stood beside and slightly behind him for years. Since she was a junior agent.

When Claude Dussault had been promoted to Prefect after the death of his predecessor, he’d elevated her to head the brigade criminelle.

At thirty-eight, she was the youngest to do so. And only the second woman.

From there, when his longtime second-in-command left the Préfecture, Dussault had promoted her to his number two.

And now, once again, she took her natural place beside him. Tall, blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, she emanated competence. The sort of person, Gamache thought, you’d want piloting any plane you were flying in.

“The coroner’s here. We’re ready to turn him over.” She looked from the Prefect to his companion.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced you. Commander Irena Fontaine is my second-in-command. Chief Inspector Armand Gamache is the head of homicide with the Sûreté du Québec. He’s a friend and trusted colleague.”

They shook hands, and Fontaine said, “Québec?”

The slight condescension in the tone had long since stopped bothering Gamache. Her attitude was, after all, not his problem.

“Oui.”

“What’ve you found?” Dussault asked as they walked back down the corridor.

“Shot twice, once in his back, once in the head. Looks like a robbery. The victim returned home, surprised the intruder, and was shot.”

“And yet,” said Gamache, a step behind, “nothing was taken.”

Fontaine stopped and turned. “How do you know that?”

“You can see. The artwork alone is worth a fortune. The intruder took the time to take it off the walls, even tearing the framing paper, but didn’t then cut the paintings out.”

“He was looking for ready cash, jewelry,” said Fontaine. “The victim’s wallet is missing.”

“A little early to come to that conclusion, surely,” said Gamache. “With all this mess, it could be anywhere. It looks more like a search than a robbery, non?”

While annoyed at being contradicted by this stranger, Irena Fontaine couldn’t quite suppress a smile. The Québécois accent always amused her. It was like talking to a bumpkin.

“Non,” she said. “It looks to me like a robbery. Not everyone, monsieur, wants to wander the streets with oil paintings under their arms, trying to fence them.”

“There’s something I’ve failed to tell you, Irena,” said Dussault. “Monsieur Gamache isn’t here in his professional capacity, though that is helpful.” He gave her a stern look. Of reproach, Gamache wondered, or warning? “He knows the owner of this apartment. He and his wife found the body.”

Fontaine turned more interested eyes on Gamache. “You know the dead man. Why didn’t you say so?”

“Because the victim isn’t the owner of the apartment. I have no idea who the dead man is, but the owner of the apartment is my godfather. Stephen Horowitz.”

“And where is he?”

“In a coma at the Hôtel-Dieu. He was hit by a van last night in an attempt on his life.”

Fontaine’s eyes widened, and she looked at the Prefect. “That’s the case you passed along to me.”

“Yes.”

“And he owns this apartment?”

“Yes,” said Gamache.

“The two attacks have to be connected,” she said. “There can’t be any doubt now about the hit-and-run last night.”

So there had been doubt, thought Gamache. That might explain why the police hadn’t come to Stephen’s apartment themselves. It was one of the first things you’d expect in an attempted homicide investigation.

“I was with him when he was hit,” said Gamache. “It was deliberate.”

“And you’re here now. You found the body,” said Fontaine.

“I did.”

He knew full well what she was getting at. It was, in all honesty, not a surprise. He’d probably be wondering the same thing if the same person showed up at the scene of two separate, but linked, attacks.

Irena Fontaine turned and looked down the hall toward the living room, and the body.

“I wonder if he was murdered by mistake.”

“We were thinking the same thing,” agreed Dussault.

“Someone was obviously trying to kill this Horowitz,” Fontaine continued, speaking directly, and only, to the Prefect. “They came here first, found this man, and shot him, thinking he was Horowitz. When he discovered his mistake, the murderer went in search of his real target.”

“And how did he know where to find him?” asked Armand.

It was a question that was taking on increasing importance in his mind.

“Maybe someone told him,” she said, staring at Gamache. After a moment’s pause she said, “What do you think happened here?”

“First, let me tell you what we found earlier today.”

“No, I asked you a question. What do you think happened?”

He turned to look at her.

Fontaine expected to see a cold, angry glare. Instead, his gaze was calm, thoughtful. Curious even. She was acutely aware she was being assessed.

She assessed him in return.

Mid-fifties, the Prefect’s vintage. Good cut to his clothes. Well-groomed. Distinguished. What struck her were the lines of his face. Not wrinkles. These weren’t made by time, but by events.

There was the deep scar at his temple. And then there were his eyes. Bright, intelligent, thoughtful. Shrewd. And something else.

There was, she felt, a sympathy there. No, not that. Could it be kindness?

Surely not.

Still, there was something compelling about this man. An unmistakable warmth, like embers in a grate on a dreary day.

Irena Fontaine fought the urge to be drawn in. Recognizing that embers could erupt into flame at any moment.

“I think, Commander,” Gamache said, “I can best answer your question by first telling you what we found among Stephen’s things. If you don’t mind.”

“If you insist.”

“Merci. After Stephen was hit, my wife picked up his glasses and a key off the street. She put both in her purse and only remembered them this morning.”

“So?” said Fontaine. “Natural he’d have a key on him.”

“It was to a hotel room. A suite actually, at the George V. We went there and discovered that Stephen had been living at the hotel for the last ten days. He was planning to check out this coming Wednesday.”

Claude Dussault turned to him. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“I haven’t had the chance. And it looks like there was someone else staying there,” Armand continued, in the face of Dussault’s glare. “A man who’d just arrived. He hadn’t yet unpacked and wasn’t planning to stay long. He only had a carry-on.”

Fontaine cocked a thumb toward the living room. “That man?”

“I don’t know for sure, but it seems a pretty good bet.”

She was shaking her head. “This doesn’t make sense. Why would someone with a place like this, and even a second bedroom for a guest, stay at a hotel?”

“To make it even more puzzling,” said Gamache, “Stephen’s famously cheap. There’d have to be a very, very good reason for him to take a suite at the George V.”

“And what’s that reason?” she asked.

“I wish I knew.”

“Coming?” an agent called to them. “The coroner’s waiting.”

As they walked back down the hall, Dussault muttered to Gamache, “You should’ve told me about the key.”

“And you should’ve told me you didn’t actually believe that the attack was deliberate.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Fontaine herself just admitted there was doubt, and if there wasn’t, your people would have come here immediately. They’d have interrupted the intruder. Not Reine-Marie and me.”

Gamache stopped. It was his turn to glare at the Prefect.

“Your doubt could have cost her her life.”

“And you yours,” admitted Dussault. “It was a mistake on Fontaine’s part. I’ll speak to her.”

Armand almost pointed out that the error didn’t rest solely with Fontaine, but kept his mouth tightly shut.