All the Devils Are Here (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #16) - Louise Penny Page 0,23

that was a struggle.

Though she did notice a paper bag on the counter. Opening it, she saw one croissant.

Newspapers sat by one of the armchairs, with a book called The Investment Zoo on top of them.

There were signs not just of occupation, but of someone having settled in.

Reine-Marie found Armand in a small upstairs study, rifling through the desk.

“Stephen’s definitely staying here,” he said, looking up briefly. “His things are in the bedroom. But I think someone else is, too. There’s another bedroom with an unopened suitcase. Can you see what you can find?”

The second bedroom was larger than most Paris apartments. She went straight to the bag, really more a carry-on than a suitcase, and quickly went through the contents. Toiletry kit. A suit, silk tie, two clean white shirts, underwear, and black socks. Fine handmade leather shoes. Pajamas, and a book.

She searched for something to identify the owner. Clearly a man. Probably older, judging by the style of suit. Not planning to stay long.

Whoever this belonged to hadn’t had time yet to unpack.

There was an ensuite with hotel toiletries, but nothing else.

She froze as she heard a chime. The doorbell. They’d run out of time.

Armand appeared at the door to the bedroom. “They’re here. Can you stall them?”

“You keep going,” she said, heading down the stairs as the chime sounded again. It was cheerful and discreet, but to her it sounded like a shriek.

She was halfway down when the door opened.

“Bonjour,” a man’s voice called out. “Monsieur Horowitz? It’s the duty manager. Is there anyone here? Is everything all right?”

A middle-aged man stepped into the suite and stopped when he saw her.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Two large men in beautifully tailored suits and wearing earpieces stood behind him.

They looked out of place in the almost effete surroundings. Like street fighters at a tea party.

George V was home to many wealthy and powerful people. Clearly there was need of a security presence. And not a very discreet one.

“My name is Reine-Marie Gamache,” she said, slowly walking down the last few steps. “I’m a friend of Stephen Horowitz. I’m afraid he’s been in an accident.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is he all right?”

“He’s in the hospital.”

“There was a man with you. Where is he?” the manager asked, trying to get around her.

Reine-Marie stood her ground, blocking their way. “I’ve told you who I am. Who are you?”

The man, a little taken aback, said, “I’m the duty manager.”

“Yes, but what’s your name? I’m going to have to see your ID before I let you in.”

He seemed reluctant to give it, then relented. “Auguste Pannier.” He showed her his hotel identity card. Which she studied. At some length.

“I don’t want to be rude,” she eventually said, handing it back. “But what are you doing here?”

Now the manager was really stumped. This woman was clearly a trespasser, yet she acted like she not only belonged but owned the place.

He was, perforce, a judge if not of character, then clothing. He quickly took in her bearing, her good-quality slacks, silk scarf, elegant autumn coat. Her style was classic. Her eyes intelligent.

And yet she was hiding something, he knew. Someone, to be more precise.

He was about to repeat his question when they heard footsteps on the stairs and a man appeared.

Middle-aged. Distinguished. In a good suit, tie. Shoes polished. Well-groomed. He, too, looked like he belonged here.

The only things out of place were the cardboard box he carried and the worn leather satchel over his shoulder.

“Bonjour,” said Armand. “We’re sorry to have just let ourselves in, but as my wife said, Monsieur Horowitz has been in an accident and we wanted to collect some things for him.”

Armand did not offer his hand, preferring to appear cordial but aloof. An attitude he’d observed in his godfather more than once.

But he did offer his name. “My name is Armand Gamache.”

“And who are you to Monsieur Horowitz?”

“A close friend.”

“I see. Shall we continue this conversation in my office?”

“If you wish,” said Armand.

“I hope you understand,” said Monsieur Pannier, once in his large mahogany-paneled office behind reception. “But I would like to see what you’ve taken from the suite.”

Armand placed the satchel on the desk and unzipped it.

Inside were pajamas, a dressing gown. Toiletries.

Satisfied, the manager then nodded to the box.

“Unfortunately, I can’t show you this,” said Armand. “It’s from the hospital and contains Monsieur Horowitz’s belongings. As you see, it’s sealed, and we need to keep it like that so that when he recovers he knows nothing has