A Great Reckoning (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #12) - Louise Penny Page 0,11

waiting for Leduc to invite him in. To voluntarily step aside.

Because then the defeat would be absolute.

Anyone could take something by force, but not many could get someone to surrender without a fight.

So far, Armand Gamache had taken the academy without a fight. And this was the last hill.

Professor Leduc moved his left arm, so that his wrist felt the butt of the handgun through his jacket. As he did that, he lifted his right hand and shook Gamache’s. Holding the man’s hand and his eyes. Both of which were steady, and displayed neither anger nor challenge.

It was, Leduc realized, far more threatening than any overt show of force could ever be.

“Come in,” said Leduc. “I’ve been expecting you. I know why you’re here.”

“I wonder if that’s true,” said the new commander, closing the door behind him and leaving the Sûreté agents in the corridor.

Leduc was confused, but he remained confident. Gamache might have his plans, his charm, even a degree of courage. But Serge Leduc had a gun. And no amount of courage could stop a bullet.

Serge Leduc knew that he did not care all that much about the academy. What he hated was someone taking what was his. And this office, this school, belonged to him.

Leduc waved toward the visitor’s chair and Gamache took it, while Leduc sat at his desk. He was about to speak. His hand, unseen below the desk, had moved over to the holster and removed the handgun.

He would be arrested. He would be tried. He would be found guilty, because he would be guilty. But Leduc knew he would be considered a martyr by many former students. Better that than going quietly, as everyone else had. And besides, he had nowhere to go except out into the cold.

But before Leduc could say anything, Gamache placed a manila file on the large desk. His hand rested on it for a moment, as though giving it final consideration, then he wordlessly pushed it toward the professor.

Despite himself, Leduc was curious. Resting the gun on his lap, he pulled the dossier toward him and opened it. The first page was simple, clear. In bullet form it listed his transgressions.

Leduc was not surprised to see the ones from his days at the Sûreté. Old news. Francoeur had promised to destroy the files, but Leduc hadn’t believed that for a moment. But he was surprised to see the others. From the academy. From the land appropriations. The building contracts. The negotiations no one else knew about, supposedly.

Clear, concise, easy to read and easy to understand. And Serge Leduc understood.

Closing the folder, he once again lowered his hand to his lap.

“You’re predictable, monsieur,” he said. “I was expecting this.”

Gamache nodded, but still didn’t speak. His silence was unsettling, though Leduc tried not to show it.

“You’re here to fire me.”

And now Gamache did something completely unexpected. He smiled. Not broadly. Not smugly. But with some amusement.

“I can see how you’d expect that,” he said. “But in fact, I’m here to ask you to stay on.”

The handgun hit the floor with a thud.

“I believe you’ve dropped something,” said Gamache, getting to his feet. “You will not be my second-in-command, of course, but you will continue as full professor, teaching crime prevention and community relations. I’d like your course outline by the end of the week.”

Serge Leduc sat there, unable to move or to speak, long after Commander Gamache’s footsteps had stopped echoing down the hall.

And in the silence Leduc realized what Gamache exuded. It wasn’t force. It was power.

CHAPTER 4

“What’ve you found?”

“Piss off,” said Ruth, and turned her bony back to protect what was in her hands. Then she shot a sly glance over her shoulder. “Oh, it’s you. Sorry.”

“Who did you think it was?” asked Reine-Marie, more amused than annoyed.

She’d been sitting beside Ruth every afternoon for almost two months, going through the documents in the blanket box, as Olivier had asked. Most afternoons, like this one, Clara and Myrna also came over and helped, though it never felt like a chore.

The four women sat around the fireplace, sipping cafés au lait and Scotch, eating chocolatines and examining the mass of papers Olivier and Gabri had pulled from the walls of the bistro twenty years earlier, while renovating.

Reine-Marie and Ruth, and Rosa, her duck, shared the sofa, while Clara and Myrna took armchairs across from each other.

Clara was taking a break from her self-portrait, though privately Reine-Marie wondered if when Clara said she was painting herself, she didn’t mean it