Olivier had retreated to his kitchen. Havoc, the last of the waiters, took their order then left them to talk.
Gamache broke up a small baguette and told his second in command about his conversation with Olivier.
“So, he still says the Hermit was Czech. Do you believe him?”
“I do,” said Gamache. “At least, I believe Olivier is convinced of it. Any luck with the Caesar’s Shift?”
“None.” They’d given up when they started putting their own names in. Both slightly relieved it didn’t work.
“What’s wrong?” Gamache asked. Beauvoir had leaned back in his seat and tossed his linen napkin onto the table.
“I’m just frustrated. It seems every time we make progress it gets all muddied. We still don’t even know who the dead man was.”
Gamache smiled. It was their regular predicament. The further into a case they went the more clues they gathered. There came a time when it seemed a howl, as though they had hold of something wild that screamed clues at them. It was, Gamache knew, the shriek of something cornered and frightened. They were entering the last stages of this investigation. Soon the clues, the pieces, would stop fighting, and start betraying the murderer. They were close.
“By the way, I’m going away tomorrow,” said the Chief Inspector after Havoc brought their appetizers and left.
“Back to Montreal?” Beauvoir took a forkful of chargrilled calamari while Gamache ate his pear and prosciutto.
“A little further than that. The Queen Charlotte Islands.”
“Are you kidding? In British Columbia? Up by Alaska? Because of a monkey named Woo?”
“Well, when you put it like that . . .”
Beauvoir speared a blackened piece of calamari and dipped it in garlic sauce. “
“No, it doesn’t. The name Charlotte keeps repeating.” Gamache ticked the points off on his fingers. “The Charlotte Bronte first edition,
“But who’s doing the leading? You or the murderer? I think they’re leading you away. I think the murderer is here, in Three Pines.”
“So do I, but I think the murder began on the Queen Charlotte Islands.”
Beauvoir huffed, exasperated. “You’re taking a bunch of clues and putting them together to suit your purpose.”
“What are you suggesting?”
Beauvoir needed to watch himself now. Chief Inspector Gamache was more than his superior. They had a relationship that went deeper than any other Beauvoir had. And he knew Gamache’s patience had its limits.
“I think you see what you want to see. You see things that aren’t really there.”
“You mean just aren’t visible.”
“No, I mean aren’t there. To leap to one conclusion isn’t the end of the world, but you’re leaping all over the place and where does it take you? The end of the fucking world. Sir.”
Beauvoir glanced out the window, trying to cool down. Havoc removed their plates and Beauvoir waited for him to leave before continuing. “I know you love history and literature and art and that the Hermit’s cabin must seem like a candy shop, but I think you’re seeing a whole lot more in this case than exists. I think you’re complicating it. You know I’d follow you anywhere, we all would. You just point, and I’m there. I trust you that much. But even you can make mistakes. You always say that murder is, at its core, very simple. It’s about an emotion. That emotion is here, and so’s the murderer. We have plenty of clues to follow without thinking about a monkey, a hunk of wood and some godforsaken island to hell and gone across the country.”
“Finished?” Gamache asked.
Beauvoir sat upright and took a deep breath. “There may be more.”
Gamache smiled. “I agree with you, Jean Guy, the murderer is here. Someone here knew the Hermit, and someone here killed him. You’re right. When you strip away all the shiny baubles it’s simple. A man ends up with antiquities worth a fortune. Perhaps he stole them. He wants to hide so he comes to this village no one knows about. But even that isn’t enough. He takes it a step further and builds a cabin deep in the woods. Is he hiding from the police? Maybe. From something or someone worse? I think so. But he can’t do it on his own. If nothing else he needs news. He needs eyes and ears on the outside. So he recruits Olivier.”
“Why him?”
“Ruth said it tonight.”
“More Scotch, asshole?”
“Well, that too. But she said Olivier was greedy. And he is. So was the Hermit. He probably recognized himself in Olivier. That greed. That need to own. And he knew he could have a hold over Olivier. Promising him more and better antiques. But over the years something happened.”
“He went nuts?”
“Maybe. But maybe just the opposite. Maybe he went sane. The place he built to hide became a home, a haven. You felt it. There was something peaceful, comforting even, about the Hermit’s life. It was simple. Who doesn’t long for that these days?”
