The Nature of the Beast (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #11) - Louise Penny Page 0,61

it wanted.”

That was followed by silence.

“So what’s it doing here?” Gamache asked.

More silence, until Rosenblatt finally spoke, quietly. “I don’t know.”

“Guess.”

“I won’t guess. I’m a scientist. Guessing isn’t part of what I do.”

Gamache smiled. “Of course it is. Scientists come up with theories all the time. What are they except best guesses? Try. It’s not as though you haven’t been sitting here wondering the same thing.”

Professor Rosenblatt took a deep breath. “It could be a prototype, something to show buyers. That might explain why the firing mechanism is missing. It’s not meant to be fired. It’s meant as a sort of mock-up. A sales tool.”

“Or?”

“Or it’s meant to be fired. Did you notice where it’s pointed?”

“Into the United States,” said Gamache. “Which theory do you think is most likely? A mock-up, or built to be used?”

Rosenblatt shook his head. “The missing firing mechanism is a puzzle. Was it never made? Was it removed?” He looked into Gamache’s face. “I honestly don’t know.”

Armand Gamache wasn’t sure he believed the scientist, but he knew he would not, at this point, get a clearer answer.

“The good news is we found the Supergun before it could be fired, if that was the intention,” said Gamache. “Unfortunately, it cost Laurent Lepage his life.”

Professor Rosenblatt looked closely at his companion. “You’re retired. What’s your interest in this?”

“Laurent was my friend.”

Rosenblatt nodded. The statement was simple. Elegant. And as powerful as the gun.

“And now you’re out for revenge?” asked Rosenblatt.

Gamache tilted his head slightly. “I hope that’s not it.”

Now it was Rosenblatt’s turn to tilt his head. “But you’re not sure.”

“Anything interesting in the papers you borrowed?” Gamache asked, his voice clipped.

Rosenblatt looked at him for a moment, then dropped his gaze to the pages.

“A shame about the blacked-out bits, but I don’t think there’s really anything in here that isn’t common knowledge.”

“Common?”

“Since Bull’s death and with the passage of time, some information has come out about his work,” said Rosenblatt. “I’m sure you’ve found some yourselves now that you know the key words. But there’re still some things only people in the field know, or guessed.” Rosenblatt paused a moment. “Theorized.”

“And what field would that be?”

Rosenblatt realized, too late, that his initial impression had been right. Here was a dangerous man. And he’d led him into dangerous territory.

Rosenblatt’s formidable mind raced, but kept coming back to the same place.

He could lie, but it would be found out eventually.

“The field of armament design,” said Professor Rosenblatt, and noticed that Gamache showed absolutely no surprise.

“It would have to be, wouldn’t it?” said Gamache, being equally open with Rosenblatt. “After all, why else would you be here?”

The two men stared at each other. Not challenging, not threatening each other. There was no power struggle. Just the opposite.

There was recognition.

Here was someone else best in his field. And that field was pitted, and weedy, and pocked with land mines. You didn’t get to the other side without some wisdom, and without some wiles. And without some scars.

“What are you asking me, monsieur?”

“I’m asking if you worked with Gerald Bull.”

Gamache saw the eyes flicker, wanting to drop, to break contact. But they held, and Michael Rosenblatt gave one curt nod.

“As I told your young colleague, Inspector Beauvoir, we worked at McGill at the same time, but I’m afraid I wasn’t completely honest. We did work together, not in the same department but on some of the same projects. Though no one really worked with Gerald Bull. It might start out that way, but eventually you found yourself working for him.”

“Were you working for him when he came up with the plans for the Supergun?”

“No. I left when he began using the Soviets as a back door to sell his arms. He wasn’t very smart.”

“Is that why you left? Fear you’d get caught?”

“No. I left because it was wrong. It’s one thing to design weapons for your own country, it’s another to sell them to the highest bidder. Gerald Bull was the consummate salesman, and completely without a conscience.”

“Why did you just say that he wasn’t very smart?” asked Gamache.

“He made some stupid choices, like cozying up to the Soviets. He had an outsized ego that told him he was smarter than other people.”

“The ego lied?” asked Gamache.

“Shocking, I know. Dr. Bull was bombastic. The perfect personality for a man who sold cannons and Bull was, as I said, a great salesman.”

“Why would he have the Whore of Babylon etched into the cannon? Was it a sort of calling card? A signature?