But while Gamache agreed with the strategy to hurry, he knew from years of testifying in this high court that it was a terrible mistake to rush along and leave questions unanswered. Leave loopholes for the defense to tear wide, through which a guilty person could escape.
Now Armand Gamache found himself performing that high-wire act of clarity and speed.
And there were things even the Crown didn’t know. And must not find out.
“Inspector Beauvoir had spent his Saturday researching the cobrador del frac. When he had what he considered enough information, he drove down.”
“But why drive down? Why not just call or email?”
“He wanted to see the thing for himself. To be sure. He was going on just the photograph I’d sent. He needed to see it in person.”
What Gamache didn’t say was that Jean-Guy also felt the need to give him the information face-to-face. To judge the reaction.
“And?”
* * *
“How much do you know, patron?” Beauvoir asked.
They sat in the living room of the Gamaches’ home in Three Pines. Jean-Guy, Reine-Marie and himself.
“Just what Bissonette told us, and I passed along to you,” said Armand. “The cobrador del frac.”
“The debt collector,” said Beauvoir. “Oui. But not the original.”
He put aside his hot chocolate and brought a file folder from his satchel. From the file he withdrew a few pages, mostly photographs, and spread them on the coffee table, reorganizing them slightly, so that he looked like a street shill playing a shell game.
When he finished, there was a fan of photos in front of the Gamaches.
“This”—Beauvoir picked up the outlier—“is a cobrador del frac.”
It showed the now familiar image of a man in top hat and tails. White gloves. Briefcase. With Cobrador del Frac writ large.
“But this’s what I want to show you,” said Jean-Guy.
He moved the first photo in his lineup closer to Gamache.
“This is from 1841. A village in the Pyrenees. It’s one of the earliest surviving photographs. A daguerreotype.”
The image was gray, blurry. It showed a narrow cobbled street winding between rugged stone buildings. Off in the distance it was possible to make out mountains.
“The people and animals don’t show up,” Beauvoir explained. “The film had to be exposed for ten minutes. Anything that moved in that time disappeared.”
Armand put on his glasses and leaned over the photograph. He grew even more still. Had Monsieur Daguerre photographed him, Armand Gamache would have shown up.
And then he looked up, over his glasses, at Jean-Guy.
And Beauvoir nodded.
“It’s called a cobrador,” said Jean-Guy, almost in a whisper. “The del frac was added much later by some clever marketer. But this is the real thing. The original.”
Reine-Marie leaned in. She could see the buildings, the street, the landscape beyond. But nothing else. Her eyes scanned, moving quickly over the photograph.
Only when she slowed down did she see it.
It came to her, emerging from the image. Slowly. Resolving. Becoming clearer and clearer.
Darker and darker.
Until it was unmistakable.
There, against one of the walls, stood a man. So still that an exposure of ten minutes or more had captured him. And only him.
All other living things, the horses, dogs, cats, people, had disappeared, as though they’d abandoned their village. Leaving just the thing in the dark cape and hood, with the black expressionless face.
It looked like one of those horrific images from the bombing of Hiroshima, where people were vaporized, but their essence was seared onto a wall. A permanent shadow. But no longer a human.
There, in this small Spanish village, a shadow stood. There was no anger, or sorrow, no joy, or pity, or triumph. No judging. The judgment had already been passed.
A collector. There to collect.
“It was only recently, when an exhibition in Paris was being put together of Louis Daguerre’s work, that someone noticed the image,” said Beauvoir. “This one”—he pointed to the next photograph, somewhat clearer—“is from the 1920s, and this”—he picked up the next one—“is from 1945. The week after the war in Europe ended.”
It showed the robed figure standing in front of a middle-aged man, who was vehemently protesting while others looked on.
“The man was dragged away and hanged as a collaborator,” said Jean-Guy. “He’d informed on friends and neighbors. Offered hiding places to Jews, then turned them in in exchange for favors from the Nazis.”
Looking at the terror in the man’s face, his hollow, unshaven cheeks, pleading eyes, his wild hair and disheveled clothes, it was hard not to feel some sympathy for him. Until they thought of his victims. The