All the Devils Are Here

CHAPTER 20

Gamache sat in the back seat of the taxi and looked down at the printout Beauvoir had given to him.

The Luxembourg funicular project. There was a schematic and all sorts of technical language Gamache could not begin to understand.

Taking off his reading glasses, he looked at Jean-Guy. “Do you have any idea who was erasing all those emails and progress reports?”

“No, but obviously it was someone familiar with the system.”

“It at least confirms that GHS has something to hide. I wish we knew what was in those messages.”

Beauvoir smiled and hit play on his iPhone.

Both squinted in concentration as the video he’d taken at GHS came on.

“The emails?” Armand asked.

“And reports, oui. I recorded them as they were being erased.”

“Clever.”

But the taxi ride was too bumpy, the video already too shaky, the messages flashing by too quickly, for them to make anything out.

“Damn,” said Beauvoir, clicking it off. “Have to wait until we arrive.”

“Those messages, they were to and from Carole Gossette?” said Gamache. “Your boss? A senior executive? Is that—”

“Unusual? Very. She oversees some projects, but only the really big ones.”

“And she’s the one who quoted Auden, right? About the crack in the teacup leading to death. About something small, some everyday issue, that can be devastating. It was an odd thing to say. What were you talking about at the time?”

Jean-Guy threw his mind back. “About my job. Whether I was there to police.”

Gamache looked out the window as Paris slipped by. Thinking. “We don’t know what those messages are about. She might’ve placed herself on the project because she had suspicions.”

“That’s true,” said Beauvoir, brightening.

Gamache turned to him. “You like her.”

“I do. I can’t see her being involved in anything criminal.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.” But he wondered how much they ever really knew anyone. Even someone they’d known all their lives. “They must’ve panicked when they realized you’d opened the files.”

“Except that I used Arbour’s computer.”

“So they’d think it was her?” said Gamache, nodding. “That was smart. But … still…” His mind was working quickly, trying to put it together. “If someone was monitoring that project and noticed that Séverine Arbour had accessed it, and that set off alarms, that would mean—”

Beauvoir’s eyes opened wider. “That she’s not in on it. If she was, they wouldn’t be concerned, and they sure wouldn’t erase those files. By using her terminal, have I just put Arbour in danger?”

“It’s possible. Do you know where she lives?”

“Non. But I have her number.” He lifted his iPhone, but Gamache touched his arm.

“Just a moment. She might still be in on it. It’s possible what set off alarms wasn’t the computer but the security cameras. They might’ve seen you at her desk.”

Gamache thought, then remembered something curious. “You went to the window of Daniel’s apartment during the interview with Fontaine. You told her you were checking on the kids, but you can’t see the park from there. What were you really looking for?”

“I’m not sure it’s anything, but a guard came up while I was at GHS. They’d never done that before. He asked all sorts of questions.”

“Did he go over to Madame Arbour’s desk?”

“Non. But I saw him again on my ride back. In the métro. He got onto the same car as me.”

Gamache had grown very still. Very focused. His eyes on Jean-Guy were sharp. Quickly absorbing the information.

And Jean-Guy wondered if, maybe, Irena Fontaine had been right. And Chief Inspector Gamache had done more than just instruct recruits to Canada’s elite tactical team, Joint Task Force Two.

Though it did occur to Beauvoir to wonder what had happened to Task Force One.

“You were looking out the window for him,” said Gamache.

“Yes. But no sign of him. He was probably just going home. He didn’t get off at my stop. I think I was just spooked.” Jean-Guy tapped his phone then showed it to Gamache. “I took a picture of him. His name’s Xavier Loiselle.”

Gamache studied the photo, in case he saw the man again, then looked at Jean-Guy. “You have good instincts. What do they tell you?”

Jean-Guy shifted. He really hated it when Gamache talked about instincts, or accused him of being intuitive. It was, he was pretty sure, an insult.

But he was equally sure his father-in-law saw it as a compliment.

“I think the guard Loiselle was following me. But I don’t know why he would’ve stopped.”

“Maybe his orders were to scare you. What do you think is going on at GHS?”

Beauvoir exhaled and shook his head. “I wish I knew. I wish I could understand that report.” He pointed to the printout in Gamache’s hands. “The engineering could be flawed and they’re covering up. Could be money laundering. Drugs? Arms dealing? The company has the scope for it. Projects all over the world. Shipments of equipment going back and forth to places known to traffic in drugs and weapons and people. But the Luxembourg project?” Beauvoir shook his head. “A funicular in a grand duchy? It seems unlikely. Too small. Too time-limited. They’d choose something that would go on for years, not months.”

Gamache was quiet, nodding slightly, as though listening to music. Or some internal voice.

“What is it?” asked Beauvoir.

“There’s either something very wrong about the Luxembourg project, or there isn’t.”

That was a little cryptic even for Gamache.

Beauvoir was about to ask for clarification when he suddenly understood. “You think they were erasing all those messages so that we wouldn’t see that there’s nothing wrong with it. So we’ll continue to focus on the Luxembourg project, and not where the issue really is.”

“I think it’s possible.”

“Shit,” said Beauvoir, leaning back in the taxi seat and staring ahead. His mind working rapidly. “The problem will be understanding the report and emails well enough to spot a flaw.”

“We need a financial analyst and an engineer,” said Gamache, staring at Beauvoir.

“Oui.” And his eyes widened. “Jesus. Like Stephen and Plessner.”

Gamache’s phone vibrated. It was Mrs. McGillicuddy.

Jean-Guy could hear her voice, high-pitched with anxiety.

She was at Stephen’s office with Isabelle Lacoste—

Just then his own phone vibrated. It was Lacoste.

Both Stephen’s office and home had been broken into, the security systems circumvented.

“They’ve thrown things everywhere,” said Mrs. McGillicuddy.

“Agents at his home report it’s been searched, too,” said Lacoste, her voice calm, stating facts. “I can’t tell what they were looking for, but seems like papers.”

“Did they find them?” Jean-Guy asked.

“I’m not sure. The place is a mess.”

“Ask her about his safety-deposit boxes,” said Armand, covering the mouthpiece of his phone. In the background, Jean-Guy could hear Mrs. McGillicuddy still talking. Upset. Shocked.

“I heard,” said Lacoste. “We’re going there next. Mrs. McGillicuddy has the card that’ll get us in.”

“The JSPS card, oui,” said Beauvoir. “Let us know.”

He hung up. Armand was talking with Mrs. McGillicuddy, who’d calmed down a little. As he listened, Gamache pulled out his notebook and made notes.

Thanking her, he hung up.

“The code to Stephen’s laptop. Claude wanted it.”

“Are you going to give it to him?”

“I’ll have to, yes. Let’s just hope Stephen didn’t have anything important on his laptop.”

“Yes, because people don’t,” said Beauvoir, all but rolling his eyes.

The taxi had arrived at the Lutetia.

Getting out, Gamache took a step toward the liveried woman holding the heavy door open for them.

Then stopped.

Though he’d known the history of the hotel, including during the war, what Gamache had heard most about was that this was where the survivors of some of the concentration camps had been brought immediately after liberation.

He’d seen photographs of emaciated men, their striped clothing still hanging in tatters from their bones. They sat glaze-eyed in the opulent surroundings.

This was an act of brutality. Though unintentional. What had the liberators been thinking, to bring the survivors there?

What had those ghostly men and women been thinking as they looked around?

There was no celebration, no triumph, in those blank faces. Those photographs spoke only of savagery. Of an unspeakable cruelty, made even more hideous, if that was possible, by the luxury around them.

Yes, he’d known about what seemed a misguided attempt at kindness.

But now another image superimposed itself. Of Stephen. His hand on the shoulder of the monster who had done that.

“Patron?” Beauvoir broke into his thoughts.

Gamache turned away. “I’m going across to Stephen’s apartment. I have some questions for the concierge.”

Beauvoir watched as his father-in-law jogged across rue de Sèvres, between oncoming vehicles.

He’d seen Gamache go into homes, warehouses, forests where they knew heavily armed gunmen waited.

Armand Gamache had never hesitated. Had only ever moved forward, the first in. His agents following him.

And now Beauvoir followed Gamache as he ran away.

“You know she was messing with you,” said Beauvoir once he’d caught up with Gamache.

“Fontaine? I don’t think she was,” said Gamache, walking rapidly along the sidewalk. “I think she believes what she said about Stephen.”

“Do you? Believe it, I mean.”

To Jean-Guy’s surprise, Armand hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Not in the least.”

At the huge red-lacquered doors into Stephen’s building, Gamache pressed a button. A minute later the door was opened by a thin older man, who peered out, then smiled.

“It’s the boy,” he called behind him. Then opening the door fully, he let Armand and Jean-Guy in.

Claude Dussault sat in his office, going through the box. Again.

Was it just the annual report Armand wanted to see, or was there something else?

There were the predictable items. Stephen Horowitz’s wallet, with euros and some Canadian money. Various credit cards and ID.

Dussault took out Stephen’s passport and examined it. There were no stamps, but then there wouldn’t be if he’d traveled elsewhere in Europe.

Like Luxembourg, for instance.

There were pens and paper clips in the box. Two screws and an Allen wrench. Scotch tape and a pristine notepad with the George V logo. All of which Armand had swept into the container while Reine-Marie stalled the manager.

Then there were the interesting items.

The slender laptop. The crushed phone.

The Préfecture’s technical department had examined the phone, taking out the chip and declaring that it was destroyed. And Stephen Horowitz had not used any cloud-based system to store information. Either because he was too technically challenged, or because he didn’t trust it. Or, most likely, thought Dussault, Horowitz trusted technology. It was people he distrusted.

“The boy’?” whispered Jean-Guy, as they took seats at the kitchen table.

Madame Faubourg had just brought a pain au citron out of the oven, filling the kitchen with a citrusy baking scent. Now she put a kettle on the gas stove, while Monsieur Faubourg opened a cupboard and brought out three bottles of warm beer.

“He doesn’t want tea, Madame,” said Monsieur. “He’s a grown man. He wants beer.”

“Actually—” Gamache began but was drowned out.

“Beer and pain au citron?” said Madame. “Whoever heard of that? And after what happened? He needs tea.” She turned to Armand. “Unless you’d prefer chocolat chaud?”

“Actually—” Armand tried again.

“We’ll put it all out,” Monsieur announced, grabbing some glasses, “and let the boy decide. Brewed it myself.”

He tipped the bottle toward his guests.

“Non, merci,” said Armand, managing to hold Monsieur’s hand to stop him from popping the top off the beer. “I think tea, actually.”

On seeing his disappointment, Armand went on, “For my son-in-law. But I’d love a beer.”

When they’d all settled around the Formica table, Madame Faubourg asked, “How is he?”

“Well, you know Stephen,” said Armand. “Indestructible.”

“So he’ll be all right?” asked Madame.

“I hope so.” That at least was true.

“What happened, Armand?” asked Monsieur Faubourg. “First he’s hit by a car, and now a man’s killed in his apartment. We don’t understand.”

“It can’t be a coincidence, can it?” asked Madame Faubourg.

“Non,” said Jean-Guy. “We think what happened to Monsieur Horowitz wasn’t an accident.”

“Voilà,” said Madame, while Monsieur crossed himself. “That’s what I said.”

“But why would someone do this?”

“That’s what we want to know,” said Jean-Guy. “When did you last see him?”

“Monsieur Horowitz?” Madame looked at Monsieur. “Was it June? July?”

“Not since then?” asked Jean-Guy. “Not in the last couple of days?”

“Days? No,” said Monsieur. “We only knew he was in Paris when we heard about the accident, this morning. We thought he must’ve just arrived. We haven’t seen him here.”

Madame’s hand was shaking as she reached for the teapot.

“Here,” said Jean-Guy, gently taking the heavy pot from her. “Let me be mother.”

“Pardon?” asked Monsieur.

“Désolé,” said Beauvoir, reddening. “Just something a friend back home says when pouring tea.”

Damn Gabri, he thought, remembering the large man in the intentionally frilly apron, pouring the Red Rose from the Brown Betty teapot.

Oh, dear God, thought Beauvoir. Why do I know these things?

Madame closed her hands into fists to stop the trembling. “We’ve known Monsieur Horowitz for so long. We knew one day … but not like this.”

Armand had no idea what their first names were. They only ever called each other Madame and Monsieur. Childless, they’d adopted the residents of the building as their family. As their children, their aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters.

Stephen was somewhere between an uncle and an older brother.

When in Paris, his godfather almost always had Sunday lunch with Madame and Monsieur. And as a child, young Armand had joined them around this kitchen table for roast chicken, or fish pie. The food provided by Stephen, the cooking by the apron-clad Madame. The men would drink beer in the courtyard while Armand helped in the kitchen.

This kitchen, this home, had not changed. Though he had. From child to adult. Father and grandfather now. From boy with flour on his hands to man with blood on them.

Still, he’d always be “the boy” to them. And they’d always be Madame and Monsieur to him.

Monsieur watched as Armand took a long sip of beer, coming away with a slight foam mustache, which he wiped away.

“Délicieux.”

And it was. Monsieur had obviously had long practice making beer.

Madame Faubourg, back in control of her movements, cut thick slabs of pain au citron and put out a ceramic tub of whipped butter.

“You want to ask us about what happened,” she said, shifting the point of the knife from one to the other. “Well, we didn’t see anything, and thank God for that.”

“Wish we had.”

“Don’t say that, Monsieur. They’d have killed us, too.” She put down the knife and touched his hand, in an act as sacred as the sign of the cross.

“Monsieur Horowitz has the whole top floor, as you know. And you can’t see his windows from here,” said Monsieur. “He looks out over the street, not into the courtyard.”

“The police are still up there going over things,” said Madame. “We expect they’ll want to talk to us eventually.”

“They haven’t yet?” asked Beauvoir, glancing at Gamache.

“No.”

“And you saw no stranger cross the courtyard yesterday?” asked Armand. “No one rang you?”

“Do murderers normally ring the concierge for admittance?” asked Madame, and Jean-Guy smiled.

“Non,” admitted Armand.

The apartment building was fairly typical of the quartier. The large wooden door from the sidewalk opened onto a private courtyard. The residents walked across it to access another door that led to the elevator, though most took the stairs if they could.

The elevator was the cage type, tiny, old, rickety.

“And this morning?” asked Gamache. “Did you see anyone arrive?”

“I saw you and Madame Gamache,” said Monsieur. “That was mid-morning. I came out to say bonjour, but you’d already gone into the building. You found the body?”

“Oui.”

“Pauvre Madame Gamache,” said Madame. “You must give her some cake.”

Gamache considered declining, but realized it would just hurt her feelings. He accepted the slab of warm pain au citron wrapped in wax paper and put it in his pocket.

“You saw no one else?” asked Beauvoir.

“No strangers,” said Monsieur. “The children of the family on the third floor came in from Provence for the weekend, but we know them well. And the woman on the second floor had a delivery from Le Bon Marché. We know the deliveryman. See him often. He came and left right away.”

“And you didn’t see Monsieur Plessner arrive?” asked Jean-Guy.

They looked blank.

“The man who was killed,” Jean-Guy explained.

“No,” said Madame. “But Fridays are always busy. I’m doing the cleaning, and Monsieur here is dealing with the garbage and recycling.”

“There was a leak in the radiator of the apartment on the first floor,” he said. “I was fixing that. It’s always something in these old buildings.”

But what had happened the day before, thought Armand as they left, was something else entirely.

Once in the courtyard, Gamache touched Beauvoir’s arm in a silent request to pause.

A single tree, thick-trunked, tall and gnarled, dominated the space. Lace curtains fluttered at windows where boxes were planted with bright red geranium and soft blue pansies.

Even Beauvoir, not given to appreciating aesthetics, could appreciate this.

It was one of the many peculiarities of Paris. Hidden behind many of the simple wooden doors were these courtyards and secret gardens.

It was a city of façades. Of beauty, both obvious and obscure. Of heroism, both obvious and obscure. Of dreadful deeds, both obvious and obscure.

“Is it possible,” Armand began, his voice low so that none of the other residents, whose windows opened onto the courtyard, could hear, “Alexander Plessner let his killer into the apartment?”

“But why would he do that?”

“Two reasons,” said Gamache. “Either Plessner had been bought off, and the killer was actually an accomplice—”

“Then why kill him?” asked Beauvoir. “Especially before he’d found the documents? The place was turned upside down. They were pretty desperate to find something. And apparently never did.”

“Or,” continued Gamache, “Plessner was working with Stephen to uncover something. He’d hidden the evidence in his apartment and sent Plessner there to recover it. And to meet someone else there. Someone they trusted.”

“But who would they trust that much?”

“Who were you told to always trust, as a child?”

“Not the man with the candy, that’s for sure.” Beauvoir thought, then turned to his father-in-law. “A cop.”

“Oui. Stephen wouldn’t trust just any cop, but a senior one…”

“The most senior one,” said Beauvoir. He glanced around and lowered his voice still further. “The Prefect of Police?”

“Stephen wouldn’t go to the apartment himself for fear it was being watched and he’d be recognized. So he sent Plessner, who no one would know, and arranged for a senior cop, Claude Dussault or someone else, to meet him there.”

“Let in through the fire escape so no one could see.”

“Could be.”

“But again, why kill Monsieur Plessner before the evidence was found? The place was turned upside down. Plessner obviously hadn’t handed it over.”

“Maybe he suspected something,” said Gamache. “Maybe Plessner refused to do it, and was shot trying to get away.”

Some of the pieces fit.

Some did not.

“So, to recap,” said Beauvoir. “There might or might not be something wrong with the Luxembourg project, GHS might or might not be involved, Alexander Plessner might or might not have been working with Stephen to expose some wrongdoing. And the Prefect of Police might or might not be involved.”

“Exactly,” said Gamache.

“You know,” said Beauvoir. “Can’t say I really miss homicide investigations.”

Gamache gave a small grunt of amusement.

They’d arrived at the elevator, Beauvoir blanched. “You first.”

“I’ll take the stairs, merci,” said Gamache.

“Me, too.”

Beauvoir took them two at a time, arriving at the top wheezing.

Gamache walked up slowly. Arriving at the top with another question.

Could Stephen have discovered Alexander Plessner, his friend and colleague, ransacking his apartment, and killed him? Is that what he was doing in the hours before dinner?