All the Devils Are Here (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #16) - Louise Penny Page 0,125
thoughts.
What did they know?
For one thing, Claude Dussault had let slip that he knew that they’d talked about Patagonia in the subbasement of the George V.
Which meant he knew everything they’d discussed. Which meant there was an informant in their midst.
And that could be only one person. Séverine Arbour.
What had Dussault said? That the deaths Gamache knew about weren’t even the tip of the iceberg. GHS was responsible for many, many more. On a scale almost unimaginable.
Gamache stopped, realizing he was standing across from the hôpital Hôtel-Dieu. Where Annie was busy giving birth, and Stephen was busy dying.
He took a step off the curb, toward the entrance. Then he stepped back.
No. He couldn’t give in to the nearly overwhelming temptation to go in.
In an act so painful he was trembling, Armand Gamache turned his back on them and walked on, sparing a glance at Notre-Dame.
Then he turned his back on that, too, though he allowed his thoughts to linger on the heroics of the men and women who’d run in to save the artifacts. Who’d fought the fire at risk to themselves.
Hell might be empty, but there was evidence of the divine in their midst, too. The trick, as Stephen had taught him in the garden of the Musée Rodin so many years ago, was to see both.
Dreadful deeds were obvious. The divine was often harder to see.
And which, he heard Stephen’s voice and still felt the tap on his chest, would have more weight with you, garçon?
He was essentially alone now, on the Pont des Coeurs. The Bridge of Hearts.
He stopped to peer over the edge. To cool and calm his thoughts. Reaching out, he felt the old stone, the cold stone, wall and looked down at the dark water.
Claude Dussault had suggested he make a wish. And perhaps he should have also thrown a coin into the Fontaine des Mers. It was ironic, of course. To call a site where the Terror had taken so many lives the Place de la Concorde. The Place of Agreement.
How many wishes, how many fervent prayers, had gone unanswered? Unless the slide of the guillotine was the answer. He wondered now what Dussault had wished for.
Gamache turned toward Place de la Concorde. His mind finally settling. Coming to a halt.
Why had Dussault asked to meet him there, of all places? In front of that fountain? In front of the famous column. That marked the guillotine.
Armand went over what Dussault said. What Dussault did.
Gamache’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, my God,” he whispered.
He hailed a taxi. He had to get back to the Place de la Concorde, but on the way he stopped at the Hôtel Lutetia.
Alain Pinot was no longer in bar Joséphine. Nor was he in any of the other bars or restaurants of the grand hotel.
The front desk called Pinot’s room, but there was no answer.
Gamache approached the concierge. “Has Monsieur Pinot asked for a restaurant reservation for tonight?”
“Non, monsieur.”
Armand knew that might not be true. Discretion was a vital part of a concierge’s job.
“I’d very much appreciate your help in finding a restaurant for this evening,” he said, sliding a hundred-euro note across the marble top.
“Most of our guests belong to private clubs.”
“I’ve always wanted to join one. Any suggestions?”
He walked out of there with a short list. Any the concierge’s fingerprint smudging one name.
Cercle de l’Union Interalliée. What General de Gaulle had called the French embassy in Paris.
“May I help you, monsieur?” the well-dressed woman asked in a hushed voice as he entered the private members club.
Gamache had heard about this place but had never been in it.
The Cercle, in the Eighth Arrondissement, was a hub for diplomats, political leaders, industrialists. The elite of Paris.
In other words, the boards of directors of most of the major corporations in Europe.
Armand quickly, instinctively, took in his surroundings.
The high ceilings. The opulent décor unchanged from a century earlier. And yet there was nothing faded about its grandeur.
It whispered power and glory.
Decisions that changed the world, for better or worse, had been made within these walls for a hundred years.
The woman at the door expertly sized up the man in front of her. Well-groomed. Good coat, classic cut. No tie, but crisp white shirt and well-tailored jacket beneath the overcoat.
An elegant man. Clearly used to a certain authority. But then, everyone who came through that door had authority. Or they wouldn’t get past her.
“Oui, merci. I’m looking for one of your guests. Monsieur Pinot. Alain Pinot.”