All the Devils Are Here (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #16) - Louise Penny Page 0,24
been tampered with. It’s for his protection, and ours.”
Armand made it clear the “ours” now included the duty manager.
There was a moment’s awkward silence.
In fact, as well as Stephen’s things from the hospital, Armand had swept the contents of the desk, including the laptop, into the box. As Reine-Marie stalled them down below, he’d resealed it, then quickly gone into the bedroom and thrown clothes into the satchel.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist,” said Monsieur Pannier.
“And I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Is there a problem?” a new voice came from the door.
Pannier practically shot to his feet. “Non. Not at all.”
A woman stood partway into his office, and Gamache knew he was now looking at the real boss.
She stepped forward, her hand out. “Jacqueline Béland. I’m the General Manager.”
They introduced themselves, and Monsieur Pannier briefly explained the situation.
Madame Béland listened quietly, waiting until he’d finished, then turned to the Gamaches.
“I’m so sorry to hear about Monsieur Horowitz. I expect Monsieur Pannier here has extended the sympathies of the hotel.”
The Gamaches looked at him. Then Reine-Marie turned back to the General Manager. “Yes, thank you. He’s been most gracious.”
They could hear Monsieur Pannier exhale.
There was a slight arch of surprise, and appreciation, to Madame Béland’s brow, but that was all. “You’re a relation of Monsieur Horowitz’s?”
“His godson,” said Armand.
Her eyes dropped to the box. “I’m afraid Monsieur Pannier is right. We’ll need to see what’s inside there, too. I hope you understand.”
And, to be fair, Armand did. Thieves took all shapes and sizes. At luxury hotels they were more likely to look like the Gamaches than a street thug.
“It’s sealed by the hospital,” Armand said. “And I want to keep it that way. But if you’d feel better calling the Préfecture, you might try”—Armand handed her a card—“him.”
Gamache decided there was no need to specify his territory.
“Armand,” said Reine-Marie. “We should get his things over to him.”
“I’m afraid there is,” the General Manager said, “a small issue of his bill.”
Armand almost smiled. It was a brilliant move on Madame Béland’s part. If they were thieves, they would not be at all happy about handing over a credit card.
“Of course.” Armand placed a credit card on the duty manager’s desk. “I believe he checked in two nights ago.”
“Non, monsieur,” said the manager, consulting his computer to confirm. “Monsieur Horowitz arrived ten days ago. He was supposed to leave this coming Wednesday.”
“Are you sure?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Positive. Should we hold the room for him?”
“If you don’t mind,” said Armand.
“The suite,” said the manager, “is three thousand five hundred euros.”
Reine-Marie and Armand exchanged a glance. They could certainly cover that.
“A night.”
Reine-Marie’s face remained composed, though she could feel her blood, and her children’s inheritance, draining away.
Two weeks … that would come to …
“It comes to forty-nine thousand euros,” said Monsieur Pannier. “So far. That is, of course, before tax and any other charges. Monsieur Horowitz often had meals in his room.”
Reine-Marie did a rough conversion in her mind. About seventy-five thousand Canadian dollars.
So far.
“Given the circumstances,” said Madame Béland, “all we’d need is a ten percent deposit.”
“Avec plaisir,” said Armand, as though they’d expected it to be more. “I understand someone else is staying there. Can you tell us who that is?”
The manager frowned. “Non. Monsieur Horowitz was alone in the suite.”
“Are you sure?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Quite sure.”
“I’d like you to cancel the old keys,” said Armand, handing back the key he had. “And have new ones issued, please.”
They did.
As they left, Reine-Marie whispered to Armand, “You’re going to have to get a paper route.”
“You’re going to have to sell a kidney.”
She smiled. “Should we at least stay here, if we’re paying?”
“Would you like to?”
She thought about it. “Non. I prefer our apartment.”
“Moi aussi.”
“Where to now?” she asked and got the answer as Armand gave the taxi driver the address.
“Cinq rue Récamier, s’il vous plaît. It’s in the Seventh Arrondissement. Across from the Hôtel Lutetia.”
Stephen’s apartment.
Armand sat back, the box on his knees, the satchel sitting on the seat between them.
The magnificent Haussmann buildings glided past, but he was lost in thought.
While he definitely liked the finer things, Stephen was notoriously careful with his money. Some might even say stingy.
There was no way he would have paid for a suite at the George V when he had a perfectly good, even luxurious apartment in Paris.