They looked blank.
“The king would take a wife at night and kill her in the morning,” said the Chief Inspector. “One night he chose Sheherazade. She knew his habits and knew she was in trouble so she came up with a plan.”
“Kill the king?” asked Gabri.
“Better. Every night she told him a story, but left it unfinished. If he wanted to know the ending he had to keep her alive.”
“Was the Hermit doing it to save his life?” asked Beauvoir, confused.
“In a way, I suppose,” said the Chief. “Like the Mountain, he longed for company, and perhaps he knew Olivier well enough to realize the only way to get him to keep coming back was to promise more.”
“That’s not fair. You make me sound like a whore. I did more than take his things. I helped him garden and brought supplies. He got a lot out of it.”
“He did. But so did you.” Gamache folded his large hands together and looked at Olivier. “Who was the dead man?”
“He made me promise.”
“And secrets are important to you. I understand that. You’ve been a good friend to the Hermit. But you have to tell us now.”
“He was from Czechoslovakia,” said Olivier at last. “His name was Jakob. I never knew his last name. He came here just as the Berlin wall was falling. I don’t think we understood how chaotic it was. I remember thinking how exciting it must have been for the people. To finally have freedom. But he described something else. Every system they knew collapsed. It was lawless. Nothing worked. The phones, the rail service. Planes fell out of the air. He said it was horrible. But it was also a perfect time to run. To get out.”
“He brought everything in that cabin with him?”
Olivier nodded. “For American money, hard currency he called it, you could arrange anything. He had contacts with antiques dealers here so he sold them some of his stuff and used the money to bribe officials in Czechoslovakia. To get his things out. He put them on a container ship and got them to the Port of Montreal. Then he put them all in storage and waited.”
“For what?”
“To find a home.”
“He first went to the Queen Charlotte Islands, didn’t he?” said Gamache. After a pause Olivier nodded. “But he didn’t stay there,” Gamache continued. “He wanted peace and quiet, but the protests began and people came from all over the world. So he left. Came back here. Close to his treasures. And he decided to find a place in Quebec. In the woods here.”
Again Olivier nodded.
“Why Three Pines?” Beauvoir asked.
Olivier shook his head, “I don’t know. I asked, but he wouldn’t tell me.”
“Then what happened?” Gamache asked.
“As I said before, he came down here and started to build his cabin. When it was ready he got the things out of storage and put them there. It took a while, but he had the time.”
“The treasures that he got out of Czechoslovakia, were they his?” Gamache asked.
“I never asked, and he never told me, but I don’t think they were. He was just too afraid. I know he was hiding from something. Someone. But I don’t know who.”
“Do you have any idea how much time you’ve wasted? My God, what were you thinking?” demanded Beauvoir.
“I just kept thinking you’d find who’d killed him and none of this other stuff needed to come out.”
“Other stuff?” said Beauvoir. “Is that how you think of it? As though it was all just details? How’d you think we’d find the murderer with you lying and letting us hare off all over the place?”
Gamache raised his hand slightly and with an effort Beauvoir pulled back, taking a deep breath.
“Tell us about Woo,” Gamache asked.
Olivier lifted his head, his eyes strained. He was pale and gaunt and had aged twenty years in a week. “I thought you’d said it was that monkey that belonged to Emily Carr.”
“I thought so too, but I’ve been thinking about it. I think it meant something else to the dead man. Something more personal. Frightening. I think it was left in the web, and carved, as a threat. Something maybe only he and his murderer understood.”
“Then why ask me?”
“Because Jakob might have told you. Did he, Olivier?”
Gamache’s eyes bored into Olivier’s, insisting on the truth.
“He told me nothing,” said Olivier at last.
Disbelief met this remark.
Gamache stared at him, trying with his considerable might to look beyond the mist of lies. Was Olivier finally telling the truth?
Gamache got up. At the door he turned and looked back at the two men. Olivier drained, empty. Nothing left. At least, Gamache hoped there was nothing left. Each lie was like ripping off a piece of Olivier’s skin, until finally he sat in the bistro, torn to pieces.
