How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) - Louise Penny Page 0,68
was the Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté,” she began, giving in, as she knew she would. “The top position, the job Sylvain Francoeur now holds. I’d just joined the Sûreté when it all came to light. I only met him once.”
Jérôme Brunel remembered all too well the day his wife, the head curator at the Musée des beaux-arts in Montréal, came home announcing she wanted to join the provincial police. She was in her mid-fifties and might as well have said she’d signed up for Cirque du Soleil. But he could tell she wasn’t joking, and to be fair, it hadn’t come completely out of the blue. Thérèse had been a consultant for the police on a number of art thefts and had discovered an aptitude for solving crimes.
“As you said, this all happened more than ten years ago,” said Thérèse. “Arnot had held the top post for many years by then. He was well liked. Respected. Trusted.”
“You say you met him once,” said Jérôme. “When was that?”
Her husband’s eyes were sharp. Analytical. She knew this was exactly as he must have been in the hospital, when a particularly urgent case had been wheeled in.
Gathering information, absorbing, analyzing. Breaking it down rapidly so he’d know how to deal with the emergency. Here in Clara’s living room, with the scent of fresh baking and rosemary chicken in the air, some sudden emergency had arisen. And brought with it the mud-covered, blood-covered name of Pierre Arnot.
“It was at a lecture at the academy,” she recalled. “In the class Chief Inspector Gamache taught.”
“Arnot was his guest?” asked Jérôme, surprised.
Thérèse nodded. By then both men were already famous. Arnot for being the respected head of a respected force, and Gamache for building and commanding the most successful homicide department in the nation.
She was in the packed auditorium, just one of hundreds of students, nothing, yet, to distinguish her from the rest, except her gray hair.
As Thérèse thought about it, the living room dissolved and became the amphitheater. She could see the two men below clearly. Arnot standing at the lectern. Older, confident, distinguished. Short and slender. Compact. With groomed gray hair and glasses. He looked anything but powerful. And yet, in that very humility there was force implied. So great was his power he needn’t flaunt it.
And standing off to the side, watching, was Chief Inspector Armand Gamache.
Tall, substantial. Quiet and contained. As a professor he seemed endlessly patient with stupid questions and testosterone. Leading by example, not force. Here, Agent Brunel knew, was a born leader. Someone you’d choose to follow.
Had Arnot been alone at the front of the class, she would have been deeply impressed. But as his lecture went on, her eyes were drawn more and more to the quiet man off to the side. So intently listening. So at ease.
And slowly it dawned on Agent Brunel where the real authority lay.
Chief Superintendent Arnot might hold power, but Armand Gamache was the more powerful man.
She told Jérôme this. He thought for a moment before speaking.
“Did Arnot try to kill Armand?” he asked. “Or was it the other way around?”
* * *
The Movietone newsreel ended with the benign Dr. Bernard holding up one of the newborn Quints and flapping her arm at the camera.
“Bye-bye,” said the announcer, as though announcing the Great Depression. “I know we’ll be seeing a lot more of you and your sisters.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Gamache noticed Ruth raise one veined hand.
Bye-bye.
The screen went blank, but only for a moment before another image, familiar to Canadians, came on. The black and white stylized eye and then the stenciled words, with no attempt at creativity or beauty.
Just facts.
National Film Board of Canada. The NFB.
There was no grim voice-over. No cheerful music. It was just raw footage taken by an NFB cameraman.
They saw the exterior of a charming cottage in summer. A fairy-tale cottage, with fish-scale shingles and gingerbread woodwork. Flower boxes were planted at each window and cheery sunflowers and hollyhocks leaned against the sunny home.
The little garden was ringed by a white picket fence.
It was like a doll’s house.
The camera zoomed in on the closed front door, focused, then the door opened slightly and a woman’s head poked out, stared at the camera, mouthed something that looked like “Maintenant?” Now?
She backed up and the door closed. A moment later it opened again and a little girl appeared in a short, frilly dress with a bow in her dark hair. She wore ankle socks and loafers.