Kingdom of the Blind

CHAPTER 38

“So.” Ruth’s voice, querulous, stalked in from the living room to the kitchen, where Armand and Reine-Marie were preparing warm hors d’oeuvres. “The idea is to run around the village green at minus twenty, in our bathing suits, wearing snowshoes?”

“Yes,” said Gabri. “It was Myrna’s idea.”

“Was not.”

“Was too.”

“I think it’s brilliant,” said Ruth. “Count me in.”

“We’re doing this at night, right?” Clara whispered to Gabri.

“Now we are.”

“Have you heard from Justin Trudeau yet?” Myrna asked. “Is he coming?”

“Oddly, the Baroness Bertha Baumgartner here has not yet heard back from the Prime Minister’s office,” said Olivier.

“You used her name?” asked Ruth.

“It was Myrna’s idea,” said Gabri.

“Was not.”

“Was too.”

“That’s … that’s…” Ruth struggled to find the right word. “Brilliant too. She’d have liked that. But I can’t believe Justin Trudeau isn’t keen to strip down and race around a tiny village. He’s taken his shirt off for less. He once did it for a bag of Cheetos. I think.”

“We still have time,” said Gabri. “He’ll reply. The winter carnival isn’t until the weekend.”

“If there was a ribbon for faint hope, he’d win,” said Olivier with pride.

“Okay, here’s a question,” said Ruth. “One that philosophers have been asking for centuries. Which would you rather have? A numb skull or a numb nut?”

“Dear God,” whispered Reine-Marie, peering around the corner of the kitchen at their assembled guests. “What’ve we done?”

“Ahh, the age-old question,” said Stephen Horowitz, sitting beside Ruth on the sofa. “I believe Socrates asked his students the same thing.”

“It was Plato,” said Ruth.

“Was not.”

“Was too.”

“I think,” Armand said to Reine-Marie, “we should keep an eye out for two more Horsemen.”

“Well, he’s your godfather,” she said. “And it was your idea to invite him down to meet Ruth.”

“I kind of thought they might cancel each other out.”

“More like Godzilla meets Mothra,” said Gabri, walking into the kitchen and taking a grilled parmesan on baguette off the tray they were preparing. “Tokyo is not safe. We, by the way, are Tokyo.”

“There you are, Armand,” said Stephen when they returned to the living room. “I have some questions for you.”

“Numb skull,” said Armand.

“No, not that. Though that is the right answer.” The elderly man looked at the hors d’oeuvre platter and asked, “Caviar?”

“They’re provincial,” said Ruth. “Come over to my place later. I have a little jar and a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon.”

“Taken from us on New Year’s Eve,” muttered Olivier, still fuming.

“The jar of caviar was open,” said Clara. “By now it’ll probably kill her.”

“That’s the one you took,” said Myrna. “We ate it the next day, with chopped egg on toast.”

“Oh right. Never mind.”

Stephen held out his glass, and Armand refreshed it. “You know what I’m going to ask.”

“I’ll let Jean-Guy explain,” said Armand, correctly guessing what was on Stephen Horowitz’s mind. “He’s the head of homicide. He figured it out.”

Jean-Guy looked uncomfortable, and not just because Rosa was sitting on his lap. Beside him, in the crook of his arm, Honoré was staring at Rosa, transfixed by the duck, who was muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Then Jean-Guy heard another voice repeating the same word.

His eyes widened, and he looked at Annie, who was staring at their son.

His first word.

Not “Mama.” Not “Papa.”

“Shhh,” said Jean-Guy, but by now others had noticed the odd echo coming from the armchair.

“I think,” said Annie, going over and scooping up their son, “it’s time for a bath.”

And that’s when Honoré let loose. One great, long “Fuuuuck!”

Even Rosa looked startled, but then ducks often did.

“Ahh,” said Reine-Marie and looked at the fire, while Armand raised his eyes to the ceiling, suddenly finding the plaster fascinating.

Ruth hooted with delight, and Stephen said, “Attaboy, Ray-Ray. You tell ’em.”

Armand dropped his eyes and looked at his godfather. “Nice. Merci.”

“Only you, my dear boy, could have a grandson whose greatest influence is a mallard.”

“Is she a mallard?” Clara asked Ruth, who shrugged and took a long swig of Stephen’s drink.

“Okay, off we go,” said Annie while Honoré, in her arms and noticing the reaction his first word got, wailed it all the way down the hall.

“Good God,” sighed Reine-Marie.

“Good lungs,” said Stephen.

Beauvoir tried not to notice the tightly pressed lips of Clara, Myrna, Gabri, and Olivier. Even Armand and Reine-Marie looked amused.

“You have some questions, sir?” Jean-Guy asked Stephen.

It had been a day since the arrests of Bernard Shaeffer and Hugo Baumgartner. One for embezzlement, one for murder.

“Hugo. What happened? I can follow the scheme,” said Stephen. “But I don’t know the details. He wasn’t just my employee. A senior vice president. I trusted him. I must be getting old.”

“You’re already there,” said Ruth.

“I can tell you most of what happened,” said Jean-Guy.

Everyone leaned forward.

Even Myrna, who already knew. Armand had told her. And she, in confidence, had told Clara. Who had told Gabri in confidence, who immediately told Olivier, swearing him to secrecy. Who then spilled it to Ruth in exchange for the crystal water jug she’d also lifted on New Year’s Eve.

“Yes,” said Clara. “Please, tell us.”

“The idea started when Anthony turned Shaeffer in. Shaeffer was fired, and Anthony Baumgartner had his license to trade taken away,” said Jean-Guy.

“The original embezzlement,” said Stephen.

“Yes. Hugo knew Anthony wasn’t to blame, but he also knew his reputation had been damaged. The street, as you call it, believed Anthony Baumgartner was also in on it and that only his senior position in the firm had saved him. They believed he was as dirty as Shaeffer. Hugo saw his opportunity. He approached Bernard Shaeffer, who was clearly a crook, and offered to get him a job in the Caisse Populaire, in exchange for certain favors.”

“Hugo was the one who wrote the letter of recommendation to the Caisse,” said Myrna. “Not his brother.”

“And what were the favors?” asked Olivier. They knew the broad outlines of the crime, but not the details.

“Shaeffer would use the facilities and connections of the bank to set up an account in Anthony’s name.”

“Don’t you mean Hugo’s name?” asked Clara.

“No, that was the brilliance of what Hugo did. He was setting Anthony up. If anyone clued in to what was happening, they’d only find Anthony’s name, on a numbered account in Lebanon.”

“They put seven million into it,” said Stephen. He was listening closely. So far this wasn’t anything he didn’t already know.

“Merde,” said Olivier. “Wish he’d incriminated me.”

“That was nothing,” said Beauvoir. “The real money was going into a numbered account in Singapore. Not even Shaeffer knew about that. He had no idea of the scope of the embezzlement.”

He looked at Gamache, inviting him to join in. Armand leaned forward, his glass of scotch between his hands.

“It worked well for a few years,” said Armand. “As with most things, it started small. A little money from one or two. But when Hugo realized they weren’t questioning, as long as they got their dividend checks, he increased the amounts and the number of clients.”

“He got greedy,” said Clara.

“Greed, yes. But I’ve seen this sort of thing before,” said Stephen. “It becomes a game. A thrill. A sort of addiction. They have to keep increasing the hit. No one needs three hundred million. He could’ve stopped at fifty and been safe and comfortable for the rest of his life. No, there was something else at work. And I didn’t see it.”

He looked not just upset but drained.

Despite her kidding, Reine-Marie knew perfectly well why Armand had invited his godfather out for a few days. And introduced him to Ruth.

It was so he wouldn’t be alone with his thoughts. With his wounds.

Things were pretty dire when Ruth was the healing agent.

“So what went wrong?” asked Gabri.

“Anthony ran into one of the so-called clients on the street last summer,” said Beauvoir. “The man thanked Anthony for the great job he was doing. Baumgartner didn’t think much of it until he started going through his client list and realized this fellow wasn’t on it. He contacted the man and asked for the financial statement.”

“So he knew someone was stealing, and using his name,” said Stephen. “I got that. But how did he figure out it was his brother?”

Ruth, sitting between Gabri and Stephen, had fallen asleep and was snoring softly. Her head lolling on Stephen’s shoulder. A bit of spittle landing on his cashmere sweater.

But he didn’t push her away.

“He didn’t. Not at first,” said Beauvoir. “When we got into his laptop and uncovered his search history, we found that he seemed to be searching for something. At first we assumed he was looking around for places to put the money, but then we checked the timelines and realized it wasn’t that.”

“He was trying to retrace someone’s steps,” said Armand. “To figure out who was responsible.”

“He started with his own company,” said Jean-Guy. “With Madame Ogilvy, in fact. Then spread it out. When all else failed, he began looking further afield.”

“Or closer to home, really,” said Armand. And not, he thought, in a field but in a garden. Apparently healthy but actually choked with bindweed.

He tried to imagine Anthony Baumgartner’s shock when he realized who was stealing. And setting him up.

Matthew 10:36.

Armand sometimes wished he’d never paused on that piece of Scripture. And he certainly wished he didn’t know the truth it contained.

“What I don’t understand is how Anthony Baumgartner even found that trail,” said Stephen. “Hugo would’ve hidden it well.”

“Let me ask you this,” said Armand. “If you were going to embezzle, would you use your own computer?”

Stephen’s face opened, and he gave a small grunt. “No. I’d use someone else’s and take the opportunity to implicate them while I’m at it, in case it’s ever caught. Smart Hugo.”

“Smart Hugo,” said Beauvoir. “He and Anthony got together once a week for meals. While Tony cooked, Hugo used his brother’s laptop, supposedly to get caught up on the markets.”

“But actually to transfer money,” said Stephen.

“But wouldn’t it be obvious?” asked Olivier. “I do our accounting online, and it’s all right there.”

“Not hard to bury it,” said Beauvoir. “Especially if you want to. And Hugo wanted to. But not too deep. He also wanted people to be able to find it, if need be. And we eventually did. And yes, it made it look like Anthony was the one doing it. Why wouldn’t it? Without the password for the numbered account in Singapore, there’d be no proof it was anyone other than Anthony.”

“But Anthony found it?” said Clara.

“Oui,” Beauvoir continued. “We found Anthony’s searches. He’d made no attempt to hide those. They were more and more frantic, it seems. And then, in September of last year, they stopped.”

“He had what he was looking for,” said Armand.

“He knew then, months ago, that Hugo was stealing?” said Stephen. “Why didn’t he stop it then? Why wait until now to say something? Denial?”

“Maybe,” said Armand. “But I think it might’ve been something else.”

“His mother,” said Clara. “He waited until his mother died.”

“Yes,” said Armand.

“I can see why Hugo would need someone else to blame, but why not use Shaeffer for that too?” asked Olivier. “Why drag his own brother into it?”

“Hard to tell,” said Jean-Guy. “There was the convenience of the laptop and the fact Anthony was already tarred by the street. Hugo isn’t admitting anything.”

“I think there was something else,” said Myrna. “Jealousy. And can you blame him?”

“For killing his brother?” asked Clara. “I think I can.”

“No, I mean for being jealous. Resentful. One tall, handsome, respected, decent. Married with children. The other squat, physically unattractive, even slightly repulsive. Imagine growing up together?”

“But lots do,” said Gabri. “I have a younger brother who’s not nearly as attractive as me. It hasn’t led to murder.”

“Early days,” said Olivier.

“But there was more,” said Myrna. “Who was the Baroness’s favorite? Who understood Clara’s painting? Hugo might’ve looked like his mother, but Anthony was more like her in every way that mattered. That’s why Hugo dragged Anthony’s name into it.”

“‘The sins I was told were mine from birth,’” said Stephen, looking down at the woman drooling on his sweater, “‘and the Guilt of an old inheritance.’”

Ruth woke up with a snort. “Guilt? Sin?”

“You were singing her song,” said Gabri.

“Wait a minute,” said Stephen. “I know about these numbered accounts. You got the number for the one in Lebanon from that Shaeffer fellow, but what about the other?”

“We found it behind Clara’s painting,” said Beauvoir.

“Yes, yes, but how did Anthony Baumgartner find it and put it there? These codes are closely guarded. The bank only sends them out over secure, encrypted emails. There’s no way Anthony could’ve just stumbled on it and then written it behind that painting. By the way,” he said to Clara. “I’d like to see the original. Is it for sale?”

“Ten bucks and she’s yours,” said Gabri, pointing to Ruth.

“We can talk,” said Clara.

“You’re right,” said Jean-Guy. “Anthony could never find the code. It’s the one thing that Hugo knew would incriminate him. The only place where he needed his real name. On the account in Singapore that had three hundred seventy-seven million in it.”

Olivier groaned.

“So how did Anthony find it and get into the account?” asked Stephen.

“He didn’t.”

They stared at Jean-Guy.

Armand crossed his legs and sat back. Marveling at Jean-Guy. His protégé, who now no longer needed any protection. He was soaring on his own.

“Anthony Baumgartner didn’t write the access code there,” said Jean-Guy. “Hugo did.”

“And Anthony found it?” asked Myrna.

“No. He didn’t. When he confronted Hugo that night at their old farmhouse, he didn’t have the final proof. I think he must’ve begged Hugo to explain, but when Hugo couldn’t, Anthony told him he’d have to turn him in.”

“And that’s why Hugo killed him,” said Ruth.

“Oui.”

“Do you think Hugo meant to kill him?” asked Gabri.

“How should I know?” asked Ruth.

“I was asking the head of homicide,” said Gabri. “Not the demented poet.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, go on, numbnuts.”

“Hard to tell,” said Jean-Guy. “He was a man who planned. He must’ve had some sort of exit strategy, in case the embezzlement was found out. But I doubt his plan was to kill his brother.”

“He was cornered,” said Armand. “And when Anthony refused to turn a blind eye, he lashed out.”

“You see what comes of integrity, Armand?” said Stephen. “Of decency?”

“Some godfather,” said Myrna.

“Decency didn’t kill him,” said Armand. “Indecency did. Jealousy. Greed. Resentment.”

“We were looking at one feud when it was another that did the damage,” said Myrna.

They were quiet for a moment, until Gabri broke the silence.

“Is it rude to say I’m hungry?”

“So’m I,” said Stephen. “What’s for dinner? Lobster?”

“Stew,” said Olivier.

“Eh,” said Stephen. “Let’s call it boeuf bourguignon.”

“I see you’re reading the book I gave you,” Ruth said to Jean-Guy as they got up. She pointed to the coffee table.

“You gave him The Gashlycrumb Tinies?” asked Stephen. “By Edward Gorey? Oh, I think I really do love you,” he said to Ruth.

While Stephen read the book out loud, Jean-Guy took Myrna aside.

“We found the letter,” he said.

“In the wreck of the farmhouse?”

“Yes. Torn and dirty. It was exactly what Katie Burke described. Written in her hand, though the envelope looked like it was written by the Baroness. In it she asked Anthony to share the fortune should it come their way. Which it did.”

“Thank you for telling me,” said Myrna.

Annie caught her husband’s eye. Jean-Guy took a deep breath, and then, excusing himself from Myrna, he approached his father-in-law.

“I’m going to say good night to Honoré. Want to come? Gets us out of preparing dinner.”

“After dinner to avoid the dishes would be better,” said Armand, but he followed Jean-Guy to their room.

As he left, he noticed Annie taking Reine-Marie into the study and closing the door.

“Why didn’t you accept the job you were offered?” asked Jean-Guy, once in the bedroom with the door closed.

After calling Reine-Marie the day before, about his meeting with the Premier and the decision of the disciplinary committee, he’d called Jean-Guy. And told him he’d been asked to resign as Chief Superintendent.

Which he’d done. He’d had the letter prepared and in his breast pocket.

“You told me about resigning,” said Jean-Guy in a whisper so as not to wake up his son. “But you didn’t tell me you were offered your old job back. As head of homicide.”

“True,” said Gamache. “It was academic. I was never going to accept.”

“Because of Lacoste?”

“Non. I made it a condition of my resignation that Isabelle was offered the post of Superintendent in charge of Serious Crimes. It’ll be held for her until she’s ready. Did you know they’ve started the paperwork to foster the little girl?”

“No, I hadn’t heard. That’s terrific.”

Beauvoir sat on the side of the bed and looked at the crib where Honoré was sound asleep. He gave a deep sigh.

“I hope she accepts,” said Armand, joining him. “The Sûreté needs her.”

“It needs you, patron. So if not because of Isabelle, then why turn down Chief Inspector of Homicide? Ego?”

Gamache laughed and tapped Beauvoir’s knee. “You know me better than that, old son.”

“Then why?”

“You know why. It’s your job. Your department. You’re more than ready. You’re Chief Inspector Beauvoir, the head of Homicide for the Sûreté. And I couldn’t be more pleased.” His smile faded, and he looked serious. “Or proud.”

“Take the job.”

“Why?” asked Armand, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Jean-Guy.

“Because I’m leaving.”

He saw his signature, scribbled quickly before he could change his mind, on the papers that had been pushed across the polished desk.

“I’ve accepted a position with GHS Engineering. As their Head of Strategic Planning.”

There was a long silence finally broken by “I see.”

“I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you sooner but couldn’t find the right time.”

“No, no. I understand. I really do, Jean-Guy. You have a family, and it comes first.”

“It’s more than that. These last few years have been brutal, patron. And then to be suspended and investigated by our own people? It was just too much. I love my job, but I’m tired. I’m tired of death. Of killing.”

They sat quietly, looking at the sleeping child. Hearing his soft breathing. Inhaling the scent of Honoré.

“Time to live,” said Armand. “You’ve done more than anyone could ever ask. More than I could ever ask or expect. You’re doing the right thing. Look at me.”

Jean-Guy dragged his eyes from the crib to look at Armand. And he saw a smile that started at his mouth and coursed along the laugh lines. Up to the deep brown eyes.

“I’m happy for you. This is wonderful news.”

And Jean-Guy could see there was genuine happiness there. “One more thing,” he said.

“Oui?”

“The job’s in Paris.”

“Ahhh,” said Armand.

“So that’s the famous picture,” said Stephen, taking a seat beside Ruth and gesturing toward Clara’s painting.

“No, that’s of the Three Graces,” said Ruth. “The one the Baroness had is of me.”

“The Virgin Mary,” said Clara.

“The Virgin Mary as me,” said Ruth.

“Other way around,” said Clara.

“There you are,” said Gabri as Jean-Guy returned. “Our little boy learned any new words? ‘Merde’? ‘Tabernac’?”

“No, he’s sleeping. Papa’s just tucking him in,” said Jean-Guy, serving a portion of stew and creamy mashed potatoes and handing it to Annie.

“And Mama’s gone to help,” said Annie, taking it and catching his eye.

“You okay?” Armand asked Reine-Marie.

She’d closed the door behind her and put a hand on Armand’s back as he held the sleeping infant.

It was a good thing, thought Armand, putting his face close to the child’s head and inhaling, that the scent was uniquely Honoré. If he ever came across it unexpectedly—on a walk, in a restaurant, from a passing infant—he’d be overwhelmed with the grief he felt now.

And yet there was happiness there too.

It was wonderful and terrible. Joyous and devastating.

And there was relief.

Jean-Guy was out. He was safe. And so were Annie and Honoré. Safe and far away.

He handed Honoré to his grandmother, then put his arms around them both, smelling again the scent of the child mixing with the subtle perfume of old garden roses. He closed his eyes and thought, Croissants. The first log fire in autumn. The scent of fresh-cut grass. Croissants.

But it would take a very long list of things he loved to overcome this.

Reine-Marie held her grandson and breathed in the scent of Honoré and sandalwood. And felt Armand’s embrace and the very slight tremble of his right hand.

She never thought Paris would break their hearts.

After dinner Stephen took Armand aside.

“I have some news for you.”

“But first I want to thank you. Jean-Guy’s accepted the job,” said Armand. “And he’ll be good at it. Strategic planning’s what he’s been doing for years at the Sûreté.”

“Only now no one will be shooting at him,” said Stephen.

“Exactly. But he must never know it came from you or me.”

“I’m a cipher.”

“You didn’t tell me the job was in Paris.”

“Would it have mattered?”

Armand considered for a moment before answering. “Non. It just would’ve been nice to have had warning.”

“Désolé. I should have told you.”

“What’s your news?”

“Remember I told you that I had an idea and would do some digging around about that will thing?”

“I do remember, but you don’t need to anymore. It’s been decided in favor of the Baumgartners.”

“Yes, I heard. I asked colleagues in Vienna to look into it. That Shlomo Kinderoth was a piece of work. He must’ve known the trouble it would cause, leaving the estate to both sons.”

“Maybe he just couldn’t decide,” said Armand.

“Or maybe he was a numbskull. A hundred and thirty years of acrimony. My people tell me there’s no money left. What didn’t go in legal fees was stolen by the Nazis.”

Armand shook his head. “Not a surprise, but tragic.”

“Yes, well, there’s more. Besides the money, the Baroness left a large building in the center of Vienna.”

“Yes.”

“But, unlike the money, that building is real. It’s still there and actually did once belong to the family. She wasn’t totally delusional. It’s now the head office of an international bank.”

Armand nodded, but Stephen kept looking at him. Waiting for more.

“What is it?” Armand asked.

“The Nazis. There’s reparation, Armand. The Austrian government is paying billions to families who can prove that the Nazis took their property. There’s clear title.”

“What’re you saying?”

“That building’s worth tens of millions. Maybe more. If the Baumgartners and Kinderoths can get together and file a joint claim, the money will be theirs.”

“My God,” said Armand. He was silent for a moment, thinking of the young couple in the basement apartment. “My God.”

After dinner Ruth invited Stephen back to her place.

“To look at her prints,” said Stephen with a gleam in his eye and a duck under his arm.

“Don’t be late,” said Armand. “I’ll be waiting up.”

“Don’t,” said Ruth.

Myrna had left with Clara.

“Nightcap?” asked Clara at the door to the bistro.

“No, I can’t.”

Clara was about to ask why not when she saw why not.

Billy Williams, all scrubbed and shaved and in nice clothes, was sitting by the fire. Two glasses of red wine and a pink tulip on the table in front of him.

“I see,” said Clara.

After giving her friend a hug, she walked back to her home. Smiling and humming.

Pausing at the door, Myrna tilted her head back and looked up into the night sky. At all the dots of light shining down on her.

Then Myrna stepped forward.