“What it is they’re collecting,” said Matheo. “A collection agency here will repossess a car or a home or furniture. A cobrador del frac takes away something else entirely.”
“What?” asked Armand.
“Your reputation. Your good name.”
“How does he do that?” asked Reine-Marie.
“He’s hired to follow the debtor. Always keeping a distance, never speaking to the person, but always there.”
“Always?” she asked, while Armand listened, his eyebrows drawing together in unease.
“Always,” said Lea. “He stands outside your home, follows you to work. Stands outside your business. If you go to a restaurant or a party, he’s there.”
“But why? Surely there’re easier ways to collect on a bad debt?” said Reine-Marie. “A lawyer’s letter? The courts?”
“Those take time, and the Spanish courts are clogged with cases since the meltdown,” said Matheo. “It could be years, if ever, before someone pays up. People were getting away with terrible things, taking clients and partners and spouses for all they were worth, knowing they’d almost certainly never be made to pay it back. Scams were proliferating. Until someone remembered—”
He looked down at the photograph. Of a man in a top hat and tails. Only now did the Gamaches notice the man in the crowd, a distance ahead, hurrying forward but glancing back. A look of dread dawning.
And the cobrador del frac following. His face rigid, expressionless. Remorseless.
A corridor was opening through the crowd to let him pass.
“He shames people into paying their debts,” said Matheo. “It’s a terrible thing to see. At first it looks comical, but then it becomes chilling. I was in a restaurant in Madrid recently with my parents. A very nice one. Linens and silverware. Hushed tones. A place where high-level business is discreetly conducted. And a cobrador was standing out front. First the maitre d’ then the owner went out and tried to shoo him away. Even tried to shove him. But he just stood his ground. Holding that briefcase. Staring through the window.”
“Did you know who he was staring at?” Reine-Marie asked.
“Not at first, but the man eventually gave himself away. Got all flustered and angry. He went outside and screamed at him. But the cobrador didn’t react. And when the man stomped off, he just turned and quietly followed. I can’t tell you exactly why, but it was terrifying. I almost felt sorry for the man.”
“Don’t,” said Lea. “They deserve what they get. A cobrador del frac is only used in the most extreme cases. You’d have to have done something particularly bad to bring that on yourself.”
“Can anyone hire a cobrador?” asked Myrna. “I mean, how do they know there is a legitimate debt? Maybe they just want to humiliate.”
“The company screens,” said Matheo. “I’m sure there’re some abuses, but for the most part if you’re being followed by a cobrador, there’s good reason.”
“Armand?” Reine-Marie asked.
He was shaking his head, his eyes narrow.
“It feels like vigilante action,” he said. “Taking justice into their own hands. Condemning someone.”
“But there’s no violence,” said Lea.
“Oh, there’s violence,” said Gamache. And put his finger on the face of the terrified man. “Just not physical.”
Matheo was nodding.
“The thing is,” he said, “it’s very effective. The people almost always pay up, and quickly. And you have to remember, innocent people aren’t targeted. This isn’t the first action, it’s the last. It’s what people resort to when all else fails.”
“So,” said Gamache, looking at Matheo. “Are you considering bringing the cobrador del frac to Québec? Are you asking me if it would be legal?”
Matheo and Lea stared at Gamache, then Matheo laughed.
“Good God, no. I’m showing you this because Lea and I think that that”—he pointed out the window—“is a cobrador del frac.”
“A debt collector?” asked Gamache, and felt a slight frisson. Like the warning before a quake.
Lea was all eyes now, glancing swiftly from Armand to Reine-Marie to Myrna and back. Examining them for any hint of amusement. Or agreement. Or anything. But they were almost entirely expressionless. Their faces as blank as the thing on the village green.
Armand sat back in his chair and opened his mouth, before closing it again, while Reine-Marie turned and looked at Myrna.
Finally Armand leaned forward, toward Matheo, who leaned toward him.
“You do know that that”—he inclined his head toward the village green—“doesn’t look anything like this.” He nodded at the photograph.
“I know,” said Matheo. “When I was researching the article, I heard rumors of something else. Something older. Dating back centuries.” He also glanced over, then looked away, as though it was folly to stare at the