All the Devils Are Here

CHAPTER 44

It did seem appropriate that a garden named for a man who hid Jews in the war should itself be almost hidden.

But the Gamaches knew how to find it, just off rue des Rosiers.

The jardin Joseph-Migneret was quiet this Thursday morning in mid-October, and they had it almost all to themselves.

The girls ate crêpes, bought from Omar, and now ran like dervishes between the trees and benches, chasing each other and shrieking with laughter.

Annie rocked Idola in her arms, while Honoré tugged at his father’s hand, trying to break free. Eventually, Jean-Guy let go and watched him race into the walled garden, to play with his cousins.

The adults had paused in the passageway, between the busy street and the garden. Standing in a semicircle before the plaque, they read each name. Noting the ages of those Monsieur Migneret had not managed to save.

The children of the Marais, sent away. Who never came home.

Then the Gamaches joined their children.

Armand and Reine-Marie stopped, by habit, at the exact spot where he’d proposed, and she’d accepted, more than thirty years earlier. And watched their grandchildren play.

There was a chill in the air this October morning, and Armand adjusted the blanket around the knees of the elderly man in the wheelchair and got a “Fuck off, I’m fine” from Stephen for his trouble.

Smiling, Armand straightened up in time to see a woman, about his own age, approach.

“Excusez-moi,” she said, pulling a sweater tighter around her. “I live in that apartment”—she pointed to a series of tall windows on the second floor—“and saw you here.”

“Désolé,” said Daniel. “Are the children disturbing you?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. Just the opposite. This garden was created with children in mind.”

She knelt down and, bringing a photograph from her pocket, she placed it on Stephen’s knees.

After examining it, Stephen lowered it to his lap and looked into the woman’s eyes.

“Arlette?”

“Arlette’s daughter. She died four years ago, but kept this by her bed. My father never minded. He knew he owed all he had to the man in the photo. And so do I.”

The cracked and faded picture showed a young woman, in coat and slacks, smiling. But her eyes were grave. And beside her was a young man. Arm across her shoulder.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” said the woman. “You’re Armand?”

“Non,” Annie began, but Stephen interrupted her.

“Oui. That was the name I used in the war.”

Reine-Marie looked at her Armand, who was staring at Stephen, dumbfounded. He never knew that he’d been named after him.

“My mother told me that ‘Armand’ means ‘warrior,’” said the woman. “And she said you were.”

“We both were. My real name is Stephen. And your mother? I only knew her as Arlette.”

“Hélène,” she said. “She looked for you after the war, but you’d gone.”

“Oui. To Canada. This’s my family.”

“Your son?” she asked, turning to Armand.

Stephen began to explain, but this time Armand cut him off and said, “Oui. And these are his grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.”

“You’ve done well with the life you were given,” she said and, kissing his cheek, she left them.

The next day they boarded the flight to Canada.

Daniel and Roslyn’s furnishings were being shipped back to Montréal.

They were going home.

As was Stephen. But his home was now with Armand and Reine-Marie, by choice but also necessity. He’d lost everything.

Stephen was ruined. Stephen was happy.

After the doctor had removed the life support, Armand had sat with him for hours as color returned to the old man’s face and his breathing became deeper and steadier.

Then he and Reine-Marie had gone to Stephen’s apartment, where Irena Fontaine was directing the forensics.

“My God,” she said on seeing him. “What a mess. The Prefect’s gone home to change, but he told me what’s been going on. It’s going to take months, maybe years, to sort it all out.”

She looked around. The body of the guard had been taken away and the scene-of-crime team was again doing its job.

“I’m sorry, Chief Inspector,” she said. “For not believing you.”

“Did you know what the Prefect was doing?”

“Not at all. He kept it close to his chest. Had to, I guess. I just wish he’d trusted me.”

“Oh, I trust you, Irena,” said the Prefect, just arriving back. “But I couldn’t bring anyone in. Just as my predecessor couldn’t bring me in.” He turned to Gamache. “Monsieur Horowitz?”

“We removed the life support.”

“Armand, I’m sorry,” Claude began.

“He’s alive,” said Armand. “The doctors say he seems to actually be gaining strength.”

“My God,” said Dussault. “He’s indestructible.”

“Maybe even inhuman,” said Reine-Marie, and Armand laughed.

“Come to get some of his things?” asked Fontaine.

“Non,” said Armand. “I’ve come to give you the final proof.”

“You mean you weren’t bullshitting?” asked Dussault. “It exists?”

“It not only exists, it’s been here all along.”

Armand walked over to the wall and took down the small watercolor, handing it to Reine-Marie. Then, getting a screwdriver from the toolbox, he removed the screw from the wall and held it in his closed fist.

“Stand back, please,” he said, and the agents in the room stopped and looked over.

Turning to a lamp across the room, he opened his fist. The screw flew like a bullet and hit the lamp, knocking it over.

“Holy shit,” said one of the investigators. “What was that thing?”

Claude Dussault went over and looked down at the screw attached to the metal lamp.

“Proof.”

“Plessner had come back here Friday to retrieve it,” said Armand. “But was interrupted and killed. They thought they were looking for papers, but the most damning evidence was just feet from them all the time. One small screw.”

“How did you know?” Reine-Marie asked.

“Took me a while. I’d thought it strange that Stephen would have screws with him. So I thought it might be that. But the ones in Stephen’s box weren’t made from neodymium. I now think he and Plessner had a collection of normal screws, and invested in Daniel’s venture capital company—”

“Screw-U,” said Reine-Marie as Commander Fontaine shot her a confused look.

“—in order to cover up their interest in the real hardware,” said Gamache. “I dismissed the screws because they weren’t magnetized. But Stephen, thanks to Plessner, had another one.”

He walked over to one of the large oil paintings and removed it.

“See here?” he pointed to the wall. “A picture hook.”

“So?” said Fontaine. “I have them hanging my pictures. What’s so strange about that?”

“Nothing,” Gamache said, replacing the work. “What is strange is that he’d use a screw to hang a tiny, inconsequential painting. Why was that? Normally, if you were going to use a screw at all, it’d be for the largest, heaviest paintings. Why use it for the tiniest? And then there was what it’s hung by.”

Reine-Marie turned the painting around. “It’s a nylon string, not a wire. And the little eye hooks are plastic.”

“Exactly. I thought it was because the painting was obviously inexpensive. But then I began to think the reason was far different. Stephen hung this painting from the most valuable thing he now owned.”

“And it was within feet of them, inches, all the time?” said Fontaine. “What would’ve happened if they’d found it?”

Armand and Reine-Marie returned to the hospital where, twelve hours later, Stephen regained consciousness.

The first thing he saw was Armand and Reine-Marie and, behind them on the wall, the peaceful little painting.

“You found it,” he rasped.