“No problem. Get me the code to his computer and I can set up a secure channel.”
Beauvoir hesitated, examining her.
“What?” she demanded, then smiled. It was unattractive, and again Beauvoir felt a warning tingle. “You came to me remember. Do you want help or not? Sir?”
“. . . Zora’s a handful, apparently,” came Gamache’s voice. “Teething now. She loves the blanket you and Suzanne sent.”
“I’m glad,” said Morin. “I wanted to send a drum set but Suzanne said maybe later.”
“Marvelous. Perhaps you could also send some caffeine and a puppy,” laughed Gamache.
“You must miss them, sir. Your son and grandchildren.”
“And our daughter-in-law,” Gamache said. “Yes, but they’re enjoying Paris. Hard to begrudge them that.”
“Damn it. He needs to slow down,” snapped Nichol, annoyed. “He has to give me pauses.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Well, hurry up,” said Nichol. “And get that code.” She turned her back on Inspector Beauvoir as he strode out the door.
“Sir,” he muttered as he bounded back up the stairs. “Sir. Shit-head.”
At the eighth floor he wheezed to a stop and gasped for breath. Opening the door a little he could see Chief Superintendent Francoeur not far away. Over the monitors came the familiar voices.
“Has anybody spoken to my parents?” the young man asked.
“We’re giving them regular updates. I’ve sent an agent to be with your family and Suzanne.”
There was a longer pause.
“Are you all right?” Gamache jumped in.
“Fine,” came the voice, though it was thin and struggling. “I don’t mind for myself. I know I’m going to be all right. But my mother—”
There was silence again, but before it could go on too long the Chief Inspector spoke, reassuring the young agent.
Chief Superintendent Francoeur exchanged glances with the Inspector beside him.
Across the room Beauvoir could see the clock.
Sixteen hours and fourteen minutes left. He could hear Morin and the Chief Inspector discussing things they wished had gone differently in their lives.
Neither of them mentioned this.
Ruth exhaled. “This story you just told me, none of that was in the news.”
She said “story” as though it was a fairy tale, a children’s make-believe.
“No,” agreed Beauvoir. “Only a few know it.”
“Then why’re you telling me?”
“Who’d believe you if you said anything? They’d all just think you’re drunk.”
“And they’d be right.”
Ruth cackled and Beauvoir cracked a tiny smile.
Across the bistro Gabri and Clara watched.
“Should we save him?” Clara asked.
“Too late,” said Gabri. “He’s made a deal with the devil.”
They turned back to the bar and their drinks. “So, it’s between Mauritius and the Greek Islands on the
Armand Gamache and Henri entered the third and last shop on their list, Augustin Renaud’s list. The man while alive haunted the used bookstores in Quebec City buying anything that might have even a remote reference to Samuel de Champlain.
The little bell above the entrance tinkled as they entered and Gamache quickly closed the door before too much of the day crept in with him. It didn’t take much, a tiny crack and the cold stole in like a wraith.
It was dark inside, most of the windows being “booked” off. Stacks of dusty volumes were piled in the windows, not so much for advertisement as storage.
Anyone suffering from claustrophobia would never get three steps into the shop. The already narrow aisles were made all the more cramped by bookcases so stuffed they threatened to topple over, and more books were stacked on the floor. Henri picked his way carefully along behind Gamache. The Chief’s shoulders brushed the books and he decided it might be best to remove his parka before he knocked over all the shelves.
Getting the coat off proved quite an exercise in itself.
“Can I help you?”
The voice came from somewhere in the shop. Gamache looked round, as did Henri, his satellite ears flicking this way and that.
“I’d like to talk to you about Augustin Renaud,” called Gamache to the ceiling.
“Why?”
