Kingdom of the Blind

CHAPTER 30

Chief Superintendent Gamache was already there when Jean-Guy arrived at Isabelle Lacoste’s home.

He joined them at the kitchen table.

They looked at each other, and then, in unison, all three said, “Tell me what you know.”

“You first, Jean-Guy,” said Gamache, smiling at his son-in-law and naturally taking charge.

Beauvoir told them quickly, succinctly, about his meeting with Bernice Ogilvy. And his thoughts as he drove over to meet them.

“Do you think it’s … possible Baumgartner knew nothing about it?” asked Lacoste. “That someone else was stealing the client’s … money and using his name?”

“And Baumgartner was killed because he found out?” said Beauvoir. “Follow the money. One of the first rules of homicide.”

He looked at the Chief Superintendent. They’d spent much of their apprenticeship as agents watching Gamache break not the law but the so-called rules of homicide investigation. Which was why, as Beauvoir and Lacoste knew, his department had a near-perfect record of finding killers.

“Murderers haven’t read the rule book,” he’d told them. “And while money’s important, there are other forms of currency. And poverty. A moral and emotional bankruptcy. Just as a rape isn’t about sex, a murder is rarely about money, even when money’s involved. It’s about power. And fear. It’s about revenge. And rage. It’s about feelings, not a bank balance. Follow the money, certainly. But I can guarantee when you find it, it’ll stink of some emotion gone putrid.”

“Go on,” Gamache now said to Beauvoir.

“It would sure be a good reason to kill Baumgartner,” said Beauvoir. “Whoever was stealing from the clients was facing not just ruin but prison if Baumgartner exposed him.”

“In killing Baumgartner he kept his wealth and freedom,” said Lacoste. “Pretty good motive, I agree.”

“And now,” said Gamache, “pick it apart. What’s wrong with that theory?”

Far from being annoyed at this challenge, Beauvoir found it one of his favorite things to do. He was very good at finding fault, even with his own theories. And this was far from a theory he owned or, as Madame Ogilvy would say, was invested in. It simply interested him.

“Okay,” said Beauvoir. “If he wasn’t stealing from his clients, then what were the statements doing in Baumgartner’s study?”

“He’d just discovered what was happening,” said Lacoste, taking on the devil’s-advocate role, to Beauvoir’s delight. “He was shocked and angry and needed to study them to make absolutely sure before accusing anyone.”

“But how would he know, just from those papers, who was doing it? They only have his name on them.”

“He’s a smart man,” said Lacoste. “He knows Taylor and Ogilvy and who was likely to be able to do it.”

It was a weak argument, they recognized. One the devil would probably lose in court. But possible.

“And who would that be?” Gamache asked. It was unusual for him to interrupt this part of the process. He preferred to listen and absorb.

This showed he thought they just might be onto something.

“The broker doing the trades for him,” suggested Beauvoir. “I’m having him brought in for questioning.”

“And?”

“The obvious,” said Jean-Guy. “Bernice Ogilvy.”

“What did you make of her?” Gamache asked.

“She’s young, bright. Got there because of her family, of course, but she has the skills and temperament to keep the job. She’s smart. Ambitious. Adaptable.”

“Greedy?” asked Gamache.

Beauvoir thought about that. “Entitled, maybe. I think she’d do just about anything to protect what’s hers.”

“Would she steal from clients and blame her former mentor?” asked Gamache.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir found himself coloring slightly at the mention of betraying a former mentor. And he wondered, fleetingly, whether Gamache could possibly know about the meeting that morning. And the paper he’d signed.

“She understood very quickly how it could be done,” said Beauvoir. “Maybe too quickly. And she strikes me as the sort who thinks she’s smarter than those around her.”

“Probably … because she is,” said Lacoste. “Besides, who really believes they’re going to get caught? Madame Ogilvy knows the … business and knows how to get around any scrutiny.”

“Just set up fake accounts,” said Gamache. “It’s so simple. No one at Taylor and Ogilvy would see them. And the clients would have no idea. They’d continue to get what looked like real statements, with real transactions. They’d have dividends and profits deposited in their accounts. All would look perfectly normal.”

“Except she’d be putting the capital, their initial investment, into her own account,” said Beauvoir. “And paying out generous so-called dividends to keep clients from asking any questions.”

“Could they have been in it together?” Lacoste asked. “Ogilvy and Baumgartner?”

“Agent Cloutier suspects there’d have been two of them,” said Beauvoir. “And don’t forget, Baumgartner himself wasn’t exactly splashing money around. He lived in the same house. Drove a decent but sensible car. Why would he steal and not spend the money?”

“Retirement,” said Lacoste. “Squirreling it away in some offshore account. Then one day he disappears.”

As Gamache listened, a series of photos in Baumgartner’s home came to mind. Of Baumgartner and his children. Happy. Radiant, in fact. Was this the face of a man willing to turn his back and never see them again? Disappear to some Caribbean refuge? For what? A power boat and marble bathrooms?

“Désolé,” said Gamache. “I’ve taken you off course. Back to the arguments. You were making the case for Anthony Baumgartner’s finding out about the embezzlement and confronting whoever was doing it.”

“Right,” said Beauvoir, refocusing. “So he stumbles on what’s happening. Maybe one of the so-called clients calls him or he runs into them at a party, and they ask about their account. An account he knows nothing about. Baumgartner does some digging, finds the fake statements, and brings the evidence home. He pores over them, then arranges to meet the person he suspects was—”

“Why?” Lacoste interrupted.

“Why what?”

“Why not just go to his manager?”

“Maybe the manager’s the one who’s doing it?” said Beauvoir.

“Then why not go to the industry regulator?” asked Lacoste.

“Because he’s not sure,” said Beauvoir, feeling his way along more slowly now. “Or he is sure and doesn’t want to believe it. He wants to give this person a chance to explain or clear themselves. Or maybe he doesn’t realize he’s talking to the guilty party.”

Gamache shifted in his chair and tilted his head.

This was interesting.

“Maybe he asked to meet someone he thinks will be an ally,” said Beauvoir, gaining more confidence in this unexpected theory. “To show them the evidence and ask what they think.”

“And the person kills him?” asked Lacoste. “Bit of an … overreaction. Can’t the person just muddy the waters or send B- … Baumgartner off in the wrong direction? They must know that if they kill Baumgartner then the cops, aka us, will definitely be involved, and asking questions.”

“Why?” asked Beauvoir, turning the tables on her.

“Why ask questions? It’s kinda how we … solve murders, isn’t it?” asked Lacoste.

Armand Gamache was watching this. Two smart young investigators, hashing out the most vile of crimes. His investigators. His protégés. Now more than capable of running whole departments on their own.

He missed this. Not simply sitting around kitchen tables trying to solve a murder. But doing it with these two. With Jean-Guy and Isabelle. Going at it like siblings.

“I know you prefer to just arrest the first person you meet in an … investigation,” said Isabelle. “But the rest of us actually investigate.”

“Merci,” said Beauvoir, smiling thinly and recognizing the patronizing tone as a ruse, an attempt by Isabelle to get under his skin. It worked more often than he was willing to show.

“But I meant why would we ask about an embezzlement?”

“Because”—now she sounded patient in the extreme—“the investigation would uncover it.”

“But would it? I hope so, but it’s far from a given, especially if Baumgartner had nothing to do with it,” said Beauvoir. “Look, suppose Baumgartner was inadvertently meeting with the person who was actually responsible for the embezzlement—wouldn’t he take along his evidence? Even if he was meeting with someone he suspected, he’d take it along. As proof.”

“Right,” said Lacoste, her voice guarded. Trying to see where this was going. “So?”

But Gamache could see and was smiling slightly.

“So that person would know two things,” said Jean-Guy. “That there was nothing linking Baumgartner to the thefts. On his computer or files or anywhere. So any investigation into his death would reveal exactly nothing. And the killer would reasonably expect that whatever papers Baumgartner had with him were probably his only copies. Might even have asked, to make sure they were.”

“So he’d kill Baumgartner and destroy the evidence,” said Lacoste, forgetting to argue.

“Exactly.”

Gamache waited to see if either of them would spot the flaw in that argument. He waited.

And waited.

“If those were his only proof,” said Jean-Guy, “why were the statements found in his study?”

And there it was, thought Gamache. The problem.

If Baumgartner was meeting someone to either confide suspicions or confront them about the embezzlement, he’d take proof. And the person, after killing Baumgartner, would take that proof and burn it.

So why were there copies of the incriminating statements next to his computer?

And there was another problem with this theory.

“Why the farmhouse?” asked Lacoste.

Yes, thought Gamache. Why meet at the farmhouse?

“Familiar ground,” suggested Beauvoir. “Maybe he was going to be there anyway, a final look around before it was torn down. Maybe the reading of the will brought up childhood memories and he wanted to visit. Convenience, coupled with the need to be in what he, even unconsciously, considered a safe place.”

“At night? Without electricity or heat?” asked Lacoste.

Beauvoir nodded. Hugo had said they’d had dinner together. He’d left early, but still, it would have been dark.

“And why was he upstairs?” asked Lacoste.

“Looking around,” said Beauvoir. “In his childhood bedroom.”

It was credible, though hanging on to believability by a thread.

“Don’t forget,” said Beauvoir, “Baumgartner didn’t expect to be killed. Either he thought he was meeting a friend, someone who’d help him, or he thought he’d be confronting someone. That it would be a shitty conversation. But he clearly didn’t see this person as any physical threat. Or he’d never have agreed to meet him—”

“Or her,” said Lacoste.

“—there.”

“There’s another problem,” said Lacoste. “The convenience of the building falling down.”

“But was it convenient?” asked Beauvoir. “It meant Baumgartner’s body was found, maybe sooner than the killer expected. If it hadn’t fallen, it’s possible his body wouldn’t have been found for a long time.”

“I guess it’s also possible Baumgartner didn’t arrange to meet this person at the farmhouse,” said Lacoste. “Maybe he was followed there and killed.”

“What do you mean?” asked Beauvoir.

“Suppose Baumgartner got in touch with the person he suspected and arranged to … meet them the next day, at the office. The person, knowing they were in trouble, drives over to Anthony Baumgartner’s … home, maybe to kill him there, but then sees him leaving. He follows him to the abandoned house and kills him there.”

“Bit convenient for the killer, non?” asked Beauvoir.

“But it fits, and it explains the timing, with the will,” said Lacoste, warming to her just-discovered theory. She turned to Gamache. “You and Myrna and Benedict read them their mother’s will. While … ridiculous, it was very much the Baroness. It stirs feelings of childhood, and Anthony decides to drive out and see the old … place before it’s torn down or sold.”

Beauvoir snorted, but Gamache tilted his head. He drove, every now and then, past the house he grew up in. And after Reine-Marie’s mother died and before they sold the family home, she’d wanted one last walk around.

What Lacoste was describing was emotionally valid. Though Beauvoir was also right. It did seem a bit too convenient for the murderer. That Baumgartner would just happen to be in a remote farmhouse, designed for quiet murder.

“Bon,” he said. “Let’s move on to the more likely theory. That Anthony Baumgartner not only knew about the money being stolen but was responsible. Who killed him then?”

“One of his targets,” said Beauvoir. “Someone who found out.”

“But why kill him? Why not just tell someone at his company or, better still, go to the police?” asked Lacoste.

“Because the company had been told once and nothing happened to him,” said Beauvoir. “A slap on the wrist. Why trust Taylor and Ogilvy to do something this time, when they did nothing last time?”

“Okay, but my question stands,” said Lacoste. “Why not go to the police or a lawyer? Why not sue his … ass? Why confront Baumgartner?”

“Because they weren’t sure,” said Beauvoir. “Most people can’t believe someone they trust is stealing. They’d ask first, and if they didn’t like the answer, then they’d take the next step.”

“Right,” said Lacoste. “A lawyer or the police. Plan B surely isn’t to kill the guy. But you’re saying that’s what … happened. What would that achieve?”

“It was a bang on the head,” said Beauvoir. “Has the makings of a sudden rage, not something planned out. As much as Baumgartner didn’t expect to be killed, I’m betting whoever did this didn’t expect to kill.”

Gamache was listening. But there remained one big problem with that theory. A familiar one.

“Why the farmhouse?” Lacoste asked. “Would Baumgartner really agree to meet a client, someone he was stealing from, there? Even if he didn’t know … what it was about, that’s a long way to go. Out in the middle of nowhere. And a pretty personal space. I just don’t buy it.”

Gamache was listening to this and thinking that it wasn’t so easy to find a place to kill someone. Even in rural Québec. A forest would make sense, but how do you lure a client, who’s already suspicious, into the woods?

“Come on,” said Lacoste, following the same line of thought. “Would the client really agree to meet in an isolated, abandoned home? I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Beauvoir turned to Gamache. “You did. When you got the letter from the notary.”

Gamache gave a short laugh. “True, but I wasn’t going there to confront someone. And I didn’t realize it was abandoned until I got there.”

“And there you have it,” said Beauvoir. “The client who’s being screwed wouldn’t know either. He’d gone that far, and I’m sure Baumgartner explained it was his mother’s house. It sounded okay. Safe.”

It was possible, thought Gamache. But far from probable. Though it did explain why those statements were still in Baumgartner’s study. He was doing the stealing. And the killing. And he expected to be home.

“So,” said Lacoste. “We have two theories. That Anthony Baumgartner was doing the stealing and that he wasn’t.”

“Doesn’t feel like progress to me,” admitted Beauvoir.

“Let’s move from theories to facts,” said Gamache.

“D’accord,” said Beauvoir, putting a slip of paper on the kitchen table. “I have information on the assistant who was fired. His name’s Bernard Shaeffer. Taylor and Ogilvy had his address from when he worked for them, but nothing since.”

“Bernard Shaeffer,” repeated Lacoste. She took the paper and entered his name in her laptop. “His address is the same,” she said, reading from the government files. “Looks like he’s now working for the … Caisse Populaire du Québec.”

She looked over the screen of her laptop at her colleagues. Her brows rose.

“A bank?” asked Jean-Guy. “The Caisse hired him after what he did at Taylor and Ogilvy?”

“Let me make a quick call,” said Gamache, picking up his iPhone.

He dialed, waited, then gave his name and asked for Jeanne Halstrom. The president of the Caisse Populaire. After inquiring about her family, he asked a few other questions, listened, thanked her, then hung up.

“Bernard Shaeffer was hired as a financial adviser eighteen months ago. He had Anthony Baumgartner down as a reference. According to the personnel file, Monsieur Baumgartner vouched for him and said he’d been an outstanding employee. They’ll start an investigation into Shaeffer’s activities, including if he’s set up any unusually large accounts in his or Baumgartner’s name. We’ll need a warrant, but she’ll get things started.”

“We might’ve just found out where the client’s money went,” said Beauvoir. “Looks like Baumgartner didn’t break off contact with Bernard. Just the opposite.”

“He wouldn’t be so stupid as to have the accounts in his own name, would he?” asked Isabelle.

“We’ll find out,” said Gamache. “Even if it’s offshore, the Caisse can probably track Shaeffer’s activity.”

“And I’ll go visit young Monsieur Shaeffer right after this.” Beauvoir thought for a moment. “Better still, I’ll have Agent Cloutier bring him in for questioning.”

He made a call, then hung up. “She’s on her way.”

“Good,” said Isabelle. “She’s found her … footing?”

“Yes. Finally. But she’s frustrated about not being able to get into Baumgartner’s laptop and get at his personal files. We all are. We’re still trying, of course. Put in the names of his children, and his mother. And father. All the obvious ones.”

“Maybe it’s not a name,” said Gamache, “but a number.”

“We’ve tried the children’s birth dates. His birthday. But you asked for facts, patron. There is something else I found out from Bernice Ogilvy,” said Beauvoir. “Not about Baumgartner this time. It’s about Kinderoth. An elderly couple by that name had an account at Taylor and Ogilvy.”

There was a beat while they took that in.

“With Baumgartner?” asked Lacoste.

“Non.”

She deflated a bit. It was probably too much to ask.

But Gamache was leaning forward. He knew Jean-Guy well. Very well. And he could see this wasn’t some aside. This was, perhaps, the main course.

“Go on,” he said.

And Beauvoir told them what Madame Ogilvy had said about the Kinderoths. And their will.

Beauvoir watched for their reaction and wasn’t disappointed. Gamache smiled, and Lacoste was almost throbbing with excitement.

The three sat around the kitchen table, as they’d sat around so many tables, across Québec, across the years. Sipping strong teas and coffees and discussing terrible crimes.

So much had changed over time, but the core remained the same.

Beauvoir thought about the question Bernice Ogilvy had asked. Did he love his job? The answer, he knew for certain, was yes. And it wasn’t just his job he loved.

Chief Superintendent Gamache sat back, a look of extreme concentration on his face. Then he brought a notebook out of his breast pocket.

“This came in last night,” he said. “From Kontrollinspektor Gund in Vienna. I’d asked him to look up that original will.”

“The one going back a hundred years,” said Isabelle.

“A hundred and thirty. Baron Kinderoth, Shlomo, had two sons, twins,” Gamache reminded them. “He left them each the entirety of his estate. We’ll probably never know why he did it, but we can see the effect it had. It clearly caused hurt and confusion. Who inherited? I asked the Kontrollinspektor if he could do some searching through their records. This’s what he sent back.”

He put on his glasses while Beauvoir and Lacoste leaned closer.

“I won’t read it verbatim,” said Gamache. “My translation is pretty bad, but I think I got the gist of it. I’ve sent it on to an acquaintance who does speak German, but in the meantime this’ll have to do. Both sons took it to court, of course, and after a few years it was decided in favor of one son, the one deemed the firstborn of the twins. By then both men had themselves died, and the heirs of the other son contested the decision. Because of the complexity and confusion over who was really firstborn, the case lingered. It took another few years to be heard and another few years for a decision. This time it was in favor of the supposed younger son. He worked in the family firm, and the first seems to have been, in the words of the court, a rotter.”

“How long out from Shlomo Kinderoth’s death did this happen?” asked Lacoste.

“That decision for the younger son, and now his heirs, was thirty years after Shlomo’s death. Again the family of the older son contested the decision.”

“And the money?” asked Beauvoir.

“It remained in trust,” said Gamache. “Growing, but not dispersed.”

Lacoste did a quick calculation. “Thirty years. That would put that decision around 1915.”

“Exactly,” said Gamache. “World War One. According to records the Kontrollinspektor found, much of the family was killed, at least the young men. Austria was in turmoil. It wasn’t until the 1930s that the family took another run at it. By then the descendants of one of the sons had become Baumgartners, through marriage. And had since moved to Canada. Montréal. The Kinderoths stayed in Austria.”

“Oh dear,” said Lacoste.

“Oui,” said Gamache. “All I have are the court records. That’s all I asked for, and I’m not sure if more detailed accounts are possible, but it does seem that at least one Kinderoth survived the Nazis and came to Montréal after the war. There might be others still in Europe somewhere. Kontrollinspektor Gund is looking.”

“Why Canada?” asked Beauvoir.

“Not just Canada,” Lacoste pointed out, “but Montréal.”

“Where the Baumgartners had settled,” said Gamache. “It cannot be a coincidence.”

“Were they looking for family?” asked Lacoste. “After what happened, maybe distant and even unpleasant family was better than none. It might be instinctive.”

“It’s possible,” said Gamache. “But I think by then their instincts had warped and something else motivated them. Shortly after the war ended, another petition was filed in the Austrian courts. For the Kinderoth fortune.”

“My God,” said Lacoste. “Don’t they ever give up?”

“Was there even a fortune left?” asked Beauvoir.

“I doubt it,” said Gamache, “but they wouldn’t know that. I think they were still going on family lore.”

“Or maybe they knew something the authorities didn’t,” said Lacoste. “Some Jewish families managed to convert their money into art, or jewelry, or gold, didn’t they? And then hid it or smuggled it out of the country.”

“Yes,” said Gamache. “But neither the Kinderoths nor the Baumgartners could get at the money. It was held in trust. And the Nazi regime would’ve confiscated it. Stolen it.”

“So they’ve been fighting over nothing?” asked Beauvoir. “All these years?”

“Nothing tangible anyway,” said Gamache. “But who knows? It was there once, so I suppose there’s a possibility—”

He left it hanging.

“And now?” asked Lacoste, looking down at the notebook and the careful writing there.

“And now, according to Kontrollinspektor Gund, a final decision is about to come down in the Austrian courts.”

“When?” asked Beauvoir.

“Anytime now. According to Gund, it’s been expected for a year or so, but there’s a backlog, of course, of lawsuits dating from the war. They’re getting through them slowly.”

“This slowly?” asked Beauvoir. “Most of the people who brought them would be long dead.”

“Their descendants would benefit,” said Gamache. “And the Austrians want to be very careful. To be as fair as possible, especially about anything to do with the Jewish population and what was stolen. They can’t, of course, undo the Holocaust, but they can try to make reparations.”

“Why don’t the Kinderoths and Baumgartners just decide to divide it equally?” asked Lacoste. “This would’ve been settled generations ago.”

“Maybe you want to suggest it to them,” said Jean-Guy, and he got a glare from Isabelle.

“Up until now it’s been unpleasant but civil,” said Isabelle. “Do we really think Anthony Baumgartner’s death—”

“And maybe his mother’s,” said Beauvoir. “She died suddenly and then was cremated.”

“Oui,” said Lacoste. “Okay. Maybe the Baroness too. But do we really think they were murdered because of a century-old will?”

“One that was about to be settled,” said Gamache.

“And contested again,” said Beauvoir.

“Non. The courts have said they won’t tolerate another appeal. They have too many old cases to go through to keep retrying the same one.”

“So whoever wins could inherit a fortune,” said Lacoste.

“Real or imagined,” said Gamache. And this seemed, he thought, a family rich in imagination. Clinging on to the myth of aristocracy and power and wealth, even as they drove cabs and cleaned toilets.

Beauvoir shook his head.

Why kill Anthony Baumgartner now? Did they think Caroline and Hugo had murdered their brother for a larger stake in a fictional inheritance?

He’d met these people. They seemed intelligent. And no intelligent person would believe in the fairy tale of an old fortune that had somehow survived wars and pogroms and the Holocaust to come to them now.

And suppose the other arm of the family won? The Kinderoths? What then? A fratricide for nothing?

The three of them stared into space. Thinking. Trying to see through the tangle of time and motives.

Gamache looked at his watch. He was meeting Benedict in downtown Montréal in twenty minutes. He’d have to be leaving soon to make the rendezvous.

“And there’s still the issue of the liquidators of Madame Baumgartner’s will,” he said.

“Very suspicious lot,” Beauvoir said to Lacoste, who nodded agreement.

Gamache smiled patiently. “We don’t know why Myrna and I were on it, but we at least have some connection through Three Pines, where the Baroness worked. But are we any closer to knowing why Benedict was a liquidator?”

“Not at all,” said Lacoste, who’d been charged with finding out. “There seems absolutely no connection. He never worked in the area. He never met her. How Madame Baumgartner even knew he existed, never mind trusted him enough to put him on the will, is a mystery.”

“Dead end?” asked Beauvoir, needling her.

“Never,” said Lacoste. “There’s a reason, and I’ll find it. I plan on speaking with his ex. This Katie might know something or remember something he’d forgotten. I’ve never met him, but by your description Benedict does seem pretty scatterbrained.”

Once again Armand felt the body of the young man on his back. As Benedict protected him from falling debris.

And then, when the worst was over and he could straighten up, Armand had looked, through grit-clogged eyes, at the young man in the silly hat. With blood streaming down his face. From a chunk of concrete that would almost certainly, Armand knew, have struck him.

It was an act of extreme selflessness. And instinct. It spoke of Benedict’s good heart, though it was no use denying that his brain was perhaps not the sharpest.

Gamache got up. “I’ve got to go meet him. He’s giving me a lift back to Three Pines. I’m probably late already.”

“Can I drive you over?” Jean-Guy asked as they walked to the front door.

“If you don’t mind.”

Beauvoir went down the outside stairs to start the car.

Gamache thanked Isabelle. And she thanked him.

“What for?” he asked.

“For this. For not leaving me behind.”

“Never.” He kissed her on both cheeks, then walked carefully down the flight of icy steps. But at the bottom he stopped. Dead.

Then, as Beauvoir watched from the warming car, Armand turned and raced back up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Shouting to Isabelle.

Beauvoir got out of the car and was halfway up the stairs himself when Gamache emerged from Isabelle’s home.

“What is it? What’s happened?” Jean-Guy asked.

“What was the name,” Gamache asked, his voice brusque, “of the young woman who was at the top of the contact list for Madame Baumgartner?”

As he spoke, he came down the stairs quickly, faster than he probably should have.

“In the seniors’ home?” asked Beauvoir. “I can’t remember.”

“Can you find it?”

“I can find my notes.”

“Great,” said Gamache as he got into the passenger seat. “Give them to me, please.”

Beauvoir handed them over, then drove as Gamache turned on the reading light and scanned, not even bothering to put on his glasses. After a couple minutes, he lowered the notes, wiped his eyes, and stared out the windshield.

“Katie Burke,” he said.

“Yes, that’s it,” said Beauvoir. He glanced over at Gamache. “What is it?”

Something had happened.

“I asked Isabelle for the full name of Benedict’s girlfriend—”

“Katie Burke,” guessed Beauvoir, and he saw Gamache nod. “Holy shit,” exhaled Beauvoir. “Benedict’s girlfriend not only knew the Baroness but was her first contact?”

He was elated, but as he shot a look at Gamache, he could see that far from being triumphant at finding this unexpected connection, Gamache was subdued.

There was silence as they drove through the now-dark streets of the city, and both men considered what this might mean.

When he pulled over to drop Gamache off, Beauvoir said, “Benedict lied.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me there when you speak with him, patron?”

“No, that’s not necessary. You have a lot to do. Isabelle said she’d find out all she can about Katie Burke and report back to you.”

“Well, at least we now know how Benedict got onto Madame Baumgartner’s will,” said Beauvoir. “But we don’t know why.”

“We will,” said Gamache, his voice clipped.

It was going to be, Beauvoir thought, a very long drive back to Three Pines, for both Gamache and the young man.

It was never a good idea to lie to the Chief.

Jean-Guy headed off for his interview with Bernard Shaeffer, who even now was waiting in an interview room at Sûreté headquarters.

Gamache stood on the sidewalk, scanning for Benedict. The warmth of the drive over slid off him as the biting cold seeped up the cuffs of his sleeves and down his collar and settled against the exposed skin of his face.

But he felt none of that. He was staring ahead. Thinking. Trying to bridge the chasm between what he knew and what he felt.

“Chief Superintendent” came a familiar voice, and Gamache turned to see Hugo Baumgartner approaching. “You look deep in thought,” said the ugly little man.

A thick winter coat, a tuque, and cheeks ruddy with cold did nothing to improve Baumgartner’s appearance.

But his eyes were bright and his deep voice warm.

“I was.”

“Can I help you with anything?”

“No, I’m just waiting for my lift, merci.”

“Would you like to wait inside?” Hugo waved behind him, toward the office building he’d just come from. The head office of Horowitz Investments.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

But Hugo didn’t leave. He stood beside Gamache, shifting from cold foot to cold foot. And thumping his gloved hands together. He looked like a lug, a pug, a failed boxer who made a living being beaten up by his betters in practice rounds.

Gamache turned to him. Clearly Hugo had something to say.

“I hear you had lunch with Mr. Horowitz.”

“I did,” said Gamache. “How’d you know about that?”

“Ahh, the street. Everyone knows everything. For instance, I know that during lunch Stephen approached that moron Filatreau and told him he was dumping his stock.”

“True. Do you know what Monsieur Filatreau had for lunch?”

It was meant as a joke, but Hugo answered, “Sweetbreads. And you had sea bass.”

Gamache’s smile faded, and he nodded. The street, it seemed, was well informed.

“What else do you know, Monsieur Baumgartner?”

“I know you asked about my brother and that Stephen said he was a crook. Mr. Horowitz is a financial genius and a good judge of character. But he isn’t always right. He likes to imagine the worst in people. His worldview is that everyone’s a crook. Or about to be.”

“He spoke highly of you.”

“Well, maybe I have him fooled,” said Hugo. “My brother was a good man. He wouldn’t steal. Word’s spreading that that’s why he was killed. You have to find out who did this, please. It’s bad enough what happened. Anthony’s reputation can’t be ruined too.”

“What do you know about the will?”

“My mother’s? Just what you do. That she believed the hokum about some long-lost family fortune that was really ours. It was amusing to us as kids but grew tiresome.”

“And yet when we were reading the will, and your brother and sister seemed embarrassed by it, you defended your mother.”

“Her, yes, but not the will.”

“As I remember, you did defend it, saying you thought maybe she was right.”

Hugo looked around and again shifted from foot to foot. “I loved my mother and hated when anyone mocked her. Even Tony and Caroline.”

“You’re a loyal man.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“Not at all. I admire it. But loyalty can blind us to the truth about people. Though, as it turns out, your mother might’ve actually been right.”

“What do you mean?”

Hugo had stopped shifting and stared at Gamache.

“I think you know exactly what I mean, monsieur. Think about it, and call me when you decide you do know.”

He gave Hugo a card.

Just then Gamache saw Benedict draw up in his Volvo. It was rush hour and dark, and it didn’t take long for other cars to start honking at Benedict, who was gesturing at Gamache to hurry.

“There’s one more thing,” said Gamache. “Who’s Katie Burke?”

“Who?”

“It’s cold, and my ride is about to be murdered by other drivers, so just tell me. You know I know.”

“Then why ask?”

“To see just how truthful you decide to be. So far you’re not doing well.”

“I’ve told you the truth about my brother.”

“Did you?”

There was a pause, and all they could hear were more horns joining in, a veritable shriek of rage from rue Sherbrooke. Directed at Benedict.

“Who is Katie Burke, Monsieur Baumgartner?”

“She used to visit the Baroness in the nursing home.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But Mom liked her, and it sort of relieved us of some responsibility, I’m ashamed to say.”

“She was at the top of your mother’s contact list.”

“Was she?”

“You didn’t know?”

By now Benedict had lowered the window of the Volvo and was pleading with Armand to get in.

Hugo shook his head. “Does it matter?”

“Would I ask if it didn’t?” Armand gestured toward the card in Hugo’s gloved hand. “Your mother’s will, Monsieur Baumgartner. Give me a call when you decide to tell the whole story. Don’t wait too long.”

He walked to the car and waved at the line of cars behind Benedict. More than one driver raised a finger in return.

“Thank God,” said Benedict, exhaling and pulling into traffic. “Who was that? Looked like you were speaking with something from Lord of the Rings.”

“Hugo Baumgartner.”

“Oh right. I didn’t recognize him.”

Armand buckled up, and as they headed over the Champlain Bridge, he found himself humming under his breath.

“‘Edelweiss, Edelweiss…’”