All the Devils Are Here

CHAPTER 16

“Merci,” said Gamache when Claude Dussault’s assistant put the espresso in front of him.

“Je vous en prie,” said the young man, and withdrew from the office.

Armand had been in the famed 36 many times, and in this very office quite often. With its grimy old windows, long since painted shut. No doubt with lead-based paints. The coal-burning fireplace thankfully no longer worked. And there was probably asbestos in the ceiling.

It smelled musky, as though there might be dead things mummified in the walls.

The building was damp and chilly in winter, and stifling in summer. And yet it contained so much history, it thrilled Gamache every time he entered.

He could understand the need to modernize, and that meant moving to a new location, but he’d been glad to hear the Prefect had maintained an office here.

Claude’s desk had framed pictures of his wife and children. And dog. The walls were covered with photos of colleagues, though not one, he noticed, of Dussault’s predecessor, Clément Prévost.

Dussault accepted his espresso with thanks, then dismissed his assistant with a nod. Leaning forward, he asked, “How’re you doing, Armand?”

“I’m holding it together.”

“Are you?”

Dussault could see the strain around his friend’s eyes and the slight pallor that came from little sleep and a lot of worry.

Does he know Horowitz is going to die?

Does he know why?

What exactly does Gamache know?

Armand took a long sip of his espresso. It was rich and strong and exactly what he needed.

He regarded the man in front of him and wondered, What exactly does Claude Dussault know?

“I just spoke to Stephen’s assistant,” he said, leaning back and crossing his legs. “Agnes McGillicuddy. I’ll give you her coordinates. She’s probably someone you’d like to connect with. But it was…” Armand paused to gather his thoughts. “Difficult. Emotional. She’s in her eighties and has been with Stephen almost since the beginning.”

“Did you tell her everything?”

“I told her I thought it was deliberate, yes. And about Monsieur Plessner.”

“We haven’t released the news about Monsieur Plessner, but Stephen Horowitz is making headlines.”

“You put it out as an accident. A hit-and-run. Best thing to do,” said Armand.

“Still, the press will be onto her. She’ll need to be careful about what she says.”

“She’ll say nothing.”

Dussault looked skeptical.

“I can guarantee it,” said Gamache. “Stephen chose her for that reason, and kept her for that reason.”

“Even under torture, Mrs. McGillicuddy wouldn’t reveal anything,” Stephen used to say. And Armand knew he wasn’t joking.

Stephen Horowitz knew who would crack, and who would not. It was how he measured people. Most, of course, came up short. But not Agnes McGillicuddy.

Fortunately, the press in Canada, though capable of tormenting, hadn’t yet stooped to actual torture.

Gamache, while often in their crosshairs, had a great deal of respect for journalists.

He now filled the Prefect in on everything Mrs. McGillicuddy had said.

“So she claims not to know why Monsieur Horowitz was in Paris,” said Dussault.

“If she says it, it’s true.”

“She did admit Monsieur Horowitz knew Alexander Plessner,” said Dussault. “That’s something.”

Gamache uncrossed his legs and placed the demitasse on the table. “Monsieur Plessner was an engineer.”

“C’est vrai?” said Dussault.

He sounded as though this was news, and yet he didn’t look surprised. Not by the information, at least. Perhaps slightly by the fact Gamache knew.

“Oui. My second-in-command, Isabelle Lacoste, passed along the information a few minutes ago. Trained as a mechanical engineer. Worked in the field for several years before making a fortune in venture capital.”

Dussault was taking notes. “Merci.”

It seemed incredible, and unlikely, to Gamache that Dussault’s own people hadn’t found this out themselves.

“I’d like to go through the box of Stephen’s things again,” he said. “I didn’t get a good look the first time.”

“I don’t have it. Handed it over to Commander Fontaine. I’ll ask her to give you what you want. But that reminds me. Monsieur Horowitz’s laptop is in there. We need the password and any codes he might’ve used. Do you know them?”

“No, but I can ask Mrs. McGillicuddy.”

“That’s okay, I’ll ask.”

“I doubt she’d give them to you.”

Dussault’s eyes widened. “She’ll have to. She wants to help the investigation, doesn’t she?”

“Of course, but she doesn’t know you. She knows me. Let me ask.”

Dussault hesitated, then nodded. “Of course. And I have some news for you. We found the van.”

Armand leaned forward.

“It was wiped clean. Our forensics team’s going over it for DNA. But…” Dussault put up his hands to express faint hope.

“Clean clean?” Gamache asked.

Dussault nodded. Both men knew it was extraordinarily difficult to take away all physical evidence. It meant using special cleansers designed to destroy DNA. Not everyone knew about them. Fewer had access.

And the person had to be meticulous to get every molecule. A pro.

Either that, or the forensics had to be incredibly sloppy. Could that be it? And not just incredibly but intentionally sloppy?

“The coroner called me about an hour ago. She’s preparing Monsieur Plessner’s body for the autopsy—”

“By the way, I won’t be able to make it. I need to get back for the interview with Commander Fontaine.”

“Right. That’s at three?”

“Oui.”

They looked at the clock on the old mantel. It was quarter past two.

“You were telling me about the coroner,” said Gamache.

“Two bullets were used. That much was obvious.”

“Back and head, yes,” said Gamache.

“Not just back, it severed his spine.”

Gamache held his colleague’s gray eyes. Both knew what that could mean. “Commando? The GIGN?”

Dussault nodded. “Possible.”

They knew that was how commando units were trained to kill. Use as few bullets as possible and make sure each one counted. Spine to guarantee incapacitation. Head to guarantee death. Then move on. And do it again.

Even as he stared at Claude Dussault, Gamache remembered his colleague’s CV. Dussault liked to say he’d washed out of the elite corps, the GIGN, but Armand knew that wasn’t true.

He’d completed his training and was about to be assigned when he’d suddenly transferred to the Préfecture in Paris.

Or appeared to.

But the reality was, Claude Dussault had stayed with the GIGN, only leaving several years later to move up the ranks of the Préfecture.

Did Dussault realize that Armand knew the truth?

Was he looking at the man who’d killed Alexander Francis Plessner and been involved in the attempt on Stephen’s life? He had the skills, but did he have the motive?

“It could be a former member of the GIGN,” conceded Dussault. “Or the Sayeret Matkal, or the SAS. The SEALs. Even”—he smiled at Gamache—“Joint Task Force Two. There’re any number of highly trained former special forces floating around this city, hiring themselves out as security and intelligence contractors.”

“Mercenaries.”

“Why not use their skills?”

“Depends on which skills, doesn’t it?” said Gamache. “Have you had a chance to look at the security cameras around Stephen’s apartment?”

“We’re going through the footage. Unfortunately, most of the cameras are facing the Lutetia and Le Bon Marché.”

“So the cameras don’t show people entering or leaving Stephen’s apartment building?”

“No.”

“A shame.”

“Oui.”

Dussault knew Gamache well enough to know the man was almost always calm and courteous. Gracious, in an almost old-world manner. It was what made him an effective leader. Armand Gamache never flew off the handle. Never lost control. Unless he wanted to.

But Dussault also knew that the angrier Gamache became, the more contained, the more polite he became. Putting iron straps around any violent emotion.

As he regarded his colleague and friend, Claude Dussault realized with surprise that Armand’s politesse was being directed at him.

He was, at the moment, the target of Gamache’s brutal courtesy.

Claude Dussault leaned back in his chair.

“You were telling me about the van,” said Gamache. “Where was it found?”

“It was abandoned just outside the bois de Boulogne.”

Armand brought up, in his mind, the map of Paris. And the location of the huge park, the Woods of Boulogne.

“The bois is close to the headquarters of GHS,” he said.

“Yes, and Mr. Horowitz had the GHS annual report in his possession,” said Dussault. “Probably just a coincidence.”

“More than that. He was planning on going to the GHS board meeting on Monday morning.”

Dussault stared at him. “How do you know that?”

“It’s in his agenda.”

“What agenda?” The stare had become a glare.

It was the moment of truth. The moment for truth.

“The one Mrs. McGillicuddy has,” Armand lied. “She told me his plans.”

“Was he a member of the board?” the Prefect asked.

“No.”

“Then why would he go? And would they even let him in? Why’re you shaking your head?”

“If GHS Engineering is somehow involved, why would the attacker abandon the van pretty much on the corporation’s doorstep?”

“He might not have known who his employer was. The bois de Boulogne, as you know, has become a dumping ground for all sorts of things.”

“True. Which is why you have cameras all over it. Do they show anything?”

But Armand already knew the answer. If they did, Dussault would have said something.

“We have cameras, but as soon as we put them up, they’re smashed.”

“So, once again, no footage?”

“No.” Dussault was quiet for a moment before asking his next question. “Your former number two, Beauvoir, works for GHS, isn’t that right?”

“It is.” Gamache’s tone was relaxed. Reasonable. But his guard was up.

“In fact, Horowitz helped get him the job,” said Dussault. “That was the drama this morning in the Lutetia.”

“Right.”

Gamache made up his mind.

His suspicions of the head of the entire Préfecture were so paper-thin as to be almost irrational.

He had to share some information.

“Does Luxembourg mean anything to you?”

“Luxembourg? The country or the garden?”

“Country.” Armand was watching him closely.

Dussault considered, then shook his head. “Why?”

“Beauvoir had an odd experience at work with his own number two.”

Gamache described what had happened.

“So you do suspect GHS,” said Dussault. “And that’s why you asked about the box. You want their annual report. Monsieur Horowitz is a financier, not an engineer. If he was studying their annual report, he must’ve been looking for financial wrongdoing, and obviously found something if he was planning to go to their board meeting. Corruption, fraud. Maybe money laundering. Luxembourg has traditionally been a harbor for that. Is that what you think?”

“I honestly don’t know what’s going on, but yes, I do think Stephen found something out about GHS, and was planning to confront them at the board meeting.”

“Which is what the killer was looking for in his apartment. The evidence. If it’s that important, we have to find it first. Do you have any idea what it might be?”

“I wish,” said Gamache. “We don’t even know if it was GHS he was after or some other company.”

“I’ve found out a little about GHS Engineering since this morning. But it’s surprisingly very difficult, even for us. It’s a multinational. Mostly engineering, but with interests in oil and gas, some manufacturing. It’s a private company, with emphasis on ‘private,’ and has friends powerful enough to keep their interests secret. If it was GHS Horowitz was tilting at, they’d make a formidable adversary.”

Stephen was famous for bringing a cannon to a fistfight. Was it really possible, Armand wondered, that he’d underestimate his opponent?

But he was in a coma and Alexander Plessner was in the morgue, so clearly he had. But Armand was also curious about Claude’s turn of phrase. Describing Stephen as “tilting at” GHS. That conjured images of Don Quixote, who tilted at windmills, mistaking them for adversaries.

Was Claude suggesting, however subtly, that Stephen was also mistaken?

“Is that why Stephen got your Beauvoir a job at GHS?”

“It’s possible. If that is the reason, he didn’t share it with Beauvoir.”

“So Beauvoir knows nothing?”

“Nothing except what I’ve told you.”

“The Luxembourg thing.”

“Yes.”

“Seems pretty thin. Could a business rival be setting GHS up? Knowing we’d investigate? But would they really go this far to discredit, maybe ruin, another company?” Dussault stopped and grimaced. “Sorry. That was stupid.”

Yes, it was.

Corporations that put profit before safety would not stop at killing two old men to protect themselves. That would be considered a slow day.

Dussault made a note. “I’ll pass along our thoughts to Commander Fontaine.”

“Poor her,” said Armand.

Dussault chuckled, then glanced at the clock. “You need to be off soon.”

It was now half past two.

“I do.”

As he walked Gamache to the door, Claude Dussault said, “You were a member of Joint Task Force Two, Armand. Non?”

Armand cocked his head and looked at his friend. How did Dussault know about his relationship with the elite Canadian force? But then, how did he know about Dussault’s background as a commando?

Because that’s what they did. If knowledge was power, both wanted to be the most powerful in any room. Neither carried a gun. What they carried was a brain, and in that brain was information.

“Non. I’ve trained recruits,” said Armand, his voice steady. “But that’s all.”

“In counterterrorism and hostage situations,” said Dussault.

“Correct.”

“And how to kill effectively.”

“Mostly how not to have to kill.”

“Far more interesting,” conceded the Prefect. “And challenging.”

With some surprise, Gamache realized that while he harbored suspicions of Claude Dussault, it was actually a fairly crowded harbor.

It seemed Dussault might have some suspicions, too.

And Gamache could see why. He’d been essentially on the scene of both attacks. While not there for the murder of Alexander Plessner, he had discovered the body. And come away unharmed from a confrontation with an intruder no one else saw.

It would have been amusing, these two men in late middle age suspecting each other of commando-style murders. If one of them wasn’t, possibly, right.

At the door Dussault spoke quietly and gravely. Holding Armand’s eyes.

“I’m happy for your insights into Monsieur Horowitz, but please, Armand, after your talk with Commander Fontaine, it’s time for you to leave this investigation to us. Step away. You’re too close.”

“Close to what?”

The truth?

“Leave it.”

“Would you, Claude? If you were in Montréal and a man who was pretty much your father was attacked. Would you just step back?”

“If you were in charge of the investigation? Yes.”

Armand left, knowing he’d just heard at least one lie. And told at least one himself.

He called Mrs. McGillicuddy and asked her to agree that the board meeting was noted in Stephen’s agenda.

“Just, perhaps, don’t say which agenda.”

After leaving the BHV, Reine-Marie Gamache hurried back home. Showering and changing again, she placed a call before she thought better of it.

“Dr. Dussault? Monique?”

“Oui?”

“It’s Reine-Marie Gamache.”

“Oh, I was just about to call to invite you and your husband for dinner.” Monique Dussault’s voice was deep and warm. “Claude told me what happened last night. I’m so sorry.”

While Reine-Marie had only met her a few times, she’d immediately liked the woman. Dr. Dussault was a pediatrician who had a practice in Montparnasse, not far from the catacombs.

“Seems like some sort of karma,” she’d told Reine-Marie. “I live with a secretive man, and now I live over those secret tunnels. The only difference between them is that the catacombs have hidden depths.”

She’d laughed and looked across the table at her husband with undisguised affection.

“Why don’t you come to us,” said Reine-Marie. “Something simple. To be honest, once home I’m not sure I’ll want to go out again. I know the men will want to talk, and honestly, I’d like the company.”

“But you must be exhausted.”

Reine-Marie was, and could barely believe she was inviting company for dinner. But it was the only way …

“I find cooking relaxing. Please come. It’ll be just us. En famille.”

“Let me at least bring a dessert.”

And so it was decided. No going back now, thought Reine-Marie, and wondered how Armand would feel about this.

She looked at the box on their dresser. Then, opening the bottom drawer, she hid it under a layer of sweaters. Not from Armand, but from their dinner guests.

It was twenty to three when Jean-Guy signed out.

This was a different guard than the one who’d visited him. But no less fit. No less focused. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? No flab on these men and women. Their eyes were sharp, intelligent. Watchful. Suspicious.

Once out the door, he kept walking, his pace measured.

He was longing to look at what he’d printed out and recorded on his phone.

Up ahead was the entrance to the métro. He took the escalator down, used his Navigo Liberté card to get into the station, and waited for his train.

Once on, he pulled out his phone to check he’d actually recorded.

Before clicking it on, he glanced to the left and saw bored passengers reading Le Monde or looking at their phones.

Then the other direction.

And there he was. The guard Loiselle. The one who’d come up to the office.

The man was staring at him. Not even trying to hide his presence, or his scrutiny.

It was twenty to three when Reine-Marie once again emerged from the dry cleaners.

The first time that day she’d dropped off a reeking set of clothes, they’d smiled and been polite. Pretending not to notice the shrieking smells.

This time there was no pretense.

“Do you work in a perfume factory, Madame Gamache?” the young woman asked as she used two fingers to pick up the clothes, holding them at arm’s length.

“No. I was just testing some.”

“With a fire hose?”

Reine-Marie laughed, and got out of there as quickly as possible.

Stepping onto rue des Archives, she first turned toward Roslyn and Daniel’s place. Then, changing her mind, she walked in the opposite direction.

It was twenty to three when Armand entered the hôpital Hôtel-Dieu.

The nurse had a brief word with him. Nothing had changed. Which, she said, was actually good news. At least Monsieur Horowitz hadn’t gotten worse.

After exchanging a few words with the guard outside Stephen’s room, Armand went in. He kissed Stephen on the forehead. Then, walking to the end of the bed, he opened the paper bag Reine-Marie had given him.

Uncovering Stephen’s feet, he squirted moisturizer on his hands, and gently massaged Stephen’s feet while telling him about the day. The family. Mrs. McGillicuddy.

“And Jacques at the Lutetia says, ‘Fluctuat nec mergitur.’ I think that means ‘pay your hotel bill, you schmuck.’”

Armand waited, as though expecting a reaction.

Then he covered the feet up again, put on his reading glasses, and, sitting beside the bed, read out loud stories about the bumper grape crop in Bordeaux, and the nuclear power plants coming online around the world to cut down on fossil fuels.

Then he found a wire service story from Agence France-Presse about a tortoise in Marseilles that could predict horse races. He read it out loud, just to annoy Stephen.

But he only got a few lines in before stopping. Taking off his glasses, he reached out and held his godfather’s cold hand, warming it in both of his.

Then Armand closed his eyes and whispered, “Hail Mary, full of Grace. Hail Mary, full of Grace.”

Over and over. He knew the rest of the prayer, but just kept repeating that first line.

“Hail Mary, full of Grace.”

And then, dropping his head to Stephen’s hand, he whispered, over and over, “Help me. God, help me.”

Reine-Marie quietly entered the hospital room and stood in the shadows, watching.

Armand’s head was resting on Stephen’s hand. His voice muffled by the bedding.

But she knew what he was doing.

Hush, hush, she thought. Whisper who dares. Armand Gamache is saying his prayers.