A Great Reckoning (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #12) - Louise Penny Page 0,72
had rung as they were interviewing the last of the faculty.
Professor Charpentier sat with his hands in his lap. Completely contained. Except for the sweat pouring out of him. He was drenched. His face was so slick it glistened, and Jean-Guy was worried he’d pass out from dehydration.
“Water?”
He poured a glass from the pitcher and shoved it toward the professor, who shook his head.
Up to and including that moment, the professor had been monosyllabic. Not, it was felt, because he was trying to hide anything. In fact, the few damp syllables they’d squeezed out of him showed his acute willingness to help.
Had he seen anything?
A brisk shake of his head.
Had he heard anything?
Another shake.
Did he know Serge Leduc well?
A shake.
“What does he teach?” Deputy Commissioner Gélinas whispered to Beauvoir while Gamache was on the phone. “His file is empty.”
He motioned toward the dossier, open in front of him.
“He’s a tactician,” said Beauvoir. “Commander Gamache hired him. He has the title of professor, but he only teaches one class. Advanced tactics to the graduating cadets.”
“He could teach water sports.”
Professor Charpentier sat absolutely still, like some wild animal startled. The only thing that moved was a large drip that was making its way to the end of his nose, and then hung there.
Lacoste, Beauvoir, and Gélinas stared at it, transfixed.
“Why’s he here if he doesn’t really teach?” Gélinas asked, once the drip dropped. In the background, they could hear Gamache still on the phone with his wife.
“He designs tactical exercises for the cadets,” whispered Beauvoir. “A series of ‘what ifs.’ For the freshmen, it starts as written examples and tests, but then they progress to the role-playing and mock-ups. We’ve built scale models for the exercises, but it goes beyond that, to questions of how to handle different situations. It’s new.”
“Commander Gamache brought that in?”
“Oui. And the man with it. The idea is to teach the cadets other ways of handling situations besides force. But if they have to use force, they need to know the most effective way to do it.”
Deputy Commissioner Gélinas nodded approval.
“Had the Commander ever met this Charpentier before hiring him?”
“Oh, yes, Hugo Charpentier was one of Monsieur Gamache’s own recruits into the Sûreté, years ago.”
“He’s a Sûreté officer?” asked Gélinas.
“Was.”
“One of Monsieur Gamache’s protégés?”
“At first, but then someone else took him under his wing,” said Beauvoir. “When Charpentier showed a knack for tactics.”
“Really? Who?”
“Superintendent Brébeuf.”
Gélinas nodded, tucking that information away. He looked at Charpentier’s wheelchair. “Wounded?”
“No. He’s got a condition like Parkinson’s, I believe,” said Beauvoir. “Some days he can walk with canes, but most of the time he gets around in the chair. Easier and faster.”
“Did you work with him at the Sûreté?”
“Non, he didn’t stay long. He left and set up his own company. Works as a consultant. He must be very good,” said Beauvoir, “or Monsieur Gamache wouldn’t have brought him here.”
“He looks terrified.”
“Yes, he always does.”
“But how can a man who is permanently afraid teach attack techniques and strategies?”
“Who knows airplanes better than someone afraid to fly?” asked Beauvoir, and had the pleasure of seeing the Deputy Commissioner’s brow rise.
“I’d like to see it for myself,” said Gamache. “I’ll be home later tonight and will bring the original map.”
Gamache hung up and returned to the table.
“My apologies.”
“Everything all right at home?” Lacoste asked.
“Oh, yes.”
“They found a map?”
All eyes turned to Professor Charpentier. Sweat was now pooling at his collar, and as he spoke it overflowed down the sodden shirt.
The words seemed wrung out of him.
At that moment, Gélinas sat forward as though someone had punched the back of his chair.
“Wait a minute. You’re H. E. Charpentier?”
Professor Charpentier ignored him and continued to look at Gamache, who nodded.
“Actually, the map was found a few months ago in the wall of an old building in a little village in the Eastern Townships,” said Gamache. “My village, as it turns out. But now they’ve also found an image of it in a stained-glass window in the local chapel.”
“Really?” said Lacoste, who was familiar with the church and the memorial window. “That’s strange. The same map we found—”
“In the wall, yes,” said Gamache, cutting her off.
Another plump drip was making its way down Charpentier’s cheek. And into the crevice of his smile.
“That Charpentier?” Gélinas whispered to Beauvoir, who nodded. “But he’s a recluse. Good God, I’ve hired him as a consultant in tactics, but he won’t even talk on the phone. Only by email. I thought he was older. And bigger.”