All the Devils Are Here (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #16) - Louise Penny Page 0,145
on the board.”
“He does not. I never sold him my place,” Pinot repeated.
“Then what’s this?” Daniel put a paper onto the table. “Stephen put this in that file with the rest of the evidence.”
Pinot looked at it and felt light-headed.
Stephen had told him it was a customs and excise form, to allow the transfer of that much money out of Canada and into France.
Alain Pinot had trusted Stephen. Alain Pinot had underestimated Stephen.
The old man had tricked him into signing over his seat after all.
“Even if this was legitimate,” said Pinot, scrambling, “the shares would belong to Horowitz, not you. And he’s in a coma.”
“True. And while he is, my father has power of attorney. And he’s delegated me to take his place. So if you’ll stand up.”
“You idiot,” snarled the CEO as Pinot blanched.
The Prefect of Police faced the head of Agence France-Presse.
“Alain Pinot, you’re under arrest for the murder of Alexander Plessner and the attempted murders of Stephen Horowitz, Allida Lenoir, Judith de la Granger, and Séverine Arbour.”
Then he turned to Eugénie Roquebrune. And slowly, carefully, listed the charges against her.
CHAPTER 43
Armand and Reine-Marie sat on either side of Stephen’s bed, each holding one of his thin hands.
The monitors beeped. The ventilator rose and fell with soft whooshes for every breath. Lights blinked with medical messages the Gamaches didn’t understand and didn’t try to.
They understood only one thing.
It was time.
For all humane reasons, it was time.
“We found the evidence you hid in the file,” Armand told him. “Daniel’s at the board meeting right now.”
Armand paused, as though he expected a reply. Then went on.
“Nails in Calais,” he said, with a small laugh. “Very clever. Joseph Migneret. The Agence France-Presse notes by the murdered reporter. The links you and Monsieur Plessner made from the neodymium mine, to GHS’s manufacturing plants, to supermagnets and those accidents. It’s all there. And the final evidence. The hard evidence. I almost missed it. You were almost too clever for me.”
“You have it, Armand?” asked Reine-Marie.
He shook his head. “But I’m pretty sure I know where it is. You got them, Stephen. You and Monsieur Plessner did it.”
Finding the truth had cost Stephen his fortune. It had cost him his life. To save the lives of strangers. But it was done. If the seat on the board didn’t sink those giants, the hostile takeover of those two GHS subsidiaries would.
It had fallen to Armand to release that torpedo. Which, as Stephen’s guardian, he had done just before entering the hospital room.
At the start of trading on the Paris Bourse, Stephen’s buyout of the refinery and the tool and die manufacturer would go through. Giving him, or his heirs, the right to examine GHS’s books.
And then it would all become public.
Stephen had sunk everything he had into taking over those companies. Knowing in doing that, he himself would be sunk.
The doctor hovered behind Reine-Marie and caught Armand’s eye.
“Monsieur Gamache?”
“Just another minute, please,” said Armand. “We’re waiting for someone. Oh, here she is.”
Jean-Guy entered, holding the baby.
“This is your great-granddaughter,” said Armand.
Jean-Guy stood beside Armand. His mentor. In many ways, his own father. And wondered if he’d be able to do what Armand was about to.
Armand stood up, still holding Stephen’s hand, and said, “It’s time. Let him go.”
Then he sat back down, his legs weak.
If this was the right thing to do, why did it feel so wrong?
But no, it didn’t feel wrong. It felt wretched. Horrific. A nightmare.
But sometimes “right” felt like that.
When the ventilator was removed, and all the IVs and tubing and equipment taken away, the room grew very quiet.
What remained was Stephen.
Jean-Guy bent down and placed the child in the crook of Stephen’s arm.
“Her name’s Idola,” Armand whispered. “Named after Idola Saint-Jean, who fought for equal rights. She never gave up. She never gave in.”
“Her name means ‘inner truth,’” said Jean-Guy.
He looked into the irregular eyes and the flat facial features of their daughter with Down syndrome.
They’d known since early in the pregnancy. And had made a choice. For life. Just as Armand had just made a choice. To end a life.
There was, at that moment across Paris, a chorus of pings as, one after the other, board members received urgent messages.
Daniel looked at Claude Dussault, who nodded.
It was done.
The buy order Daniel had discovered at the bank had gone through.
The pings were the sound of a torpedo rapidly approaching the great conglomerate.
Armand brought out Stephen’s favorite book of poetry and began reading.