All the Devils Are Here (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #16) - Louise Penny Page 0,47

to be puzzled, trying to work something out.

“Oui. Can I help you?” Beauvoir asked, looking up from his laptop, as though interrupted.

“No, sir. I’m just checking.”

“Checking what?”

“To make sure everything’s as it should be.”

“Well, it’s not. I should be outside, playing with my son. Instead I’m here.” He smiled and got up.

“Why are you here, sir?”

Beauvoir had never had a guard ask him that. It wasn’t any of his business. And yet the guard seemed to think it was. And maybe, thought Beauvoir with some unease, it was.

“I have a baby coming any day now. Little girl.” He picked up his mug, and the guard stepped aside to let him pass. “When she’s born, I’ll be on leave. I just need to get some of the crap out of the way before the blessed event.”

He’d remembered that the coffee maker was on the wall farthest from the copier. He walked over there now.

“Coffee?”

“No, sir.”

The guard did as Beauvoir had hoped. He followed him to the espresso machine.

“You have children?” Beauvoir peered at the guard’s nametag. “Monsieur Loiselle?”

“No.”

Not a big talker. Now Loiselle began to turn around.

“I was a cop once, you know,” said Beauvoir, desperate to stop the man from turning completely. And possibly seeing the papers the printer had coughed up. “In Québec, as you can probably hear.” Jean-Guy had intentionally broadened his accent, giving his words a twang. He’d been in Paris long enough to know that they viewed the Québécois as slightly thick country cousins.

While this was insulting and ignorant, he now found it useful.

“Got tired of being shot at,” Jean-Guy continued. “And with a family coming …” He left it at that.

The guard’s stare was now intense. Scrutinizing him. Practically, Jean-Guy felt, dissecting him.

Beauvoir could see past Loiselle, into Arbour’s office. Something was happening. The computer had come back to life, and images were flashing across the screen.

Even from a distance, he could see what it was. Emails. Schematics. Being erased.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck, thought Beauvoir. Shit.

But his face remained placid, and his eyes returned to the guard.

“You don’t happen to know how this works?” he said, pointing to the espresso machine. “Trust them to have something you need an engineering degree to work. All I’ve managed to figure out in five months is how to grind the beans.”

“Sorry. Can’t help,” Loiselle said.

With one final look around, he turned away.

Jean-Guy pretended to play with the machine while watching the guard walk back to the elevator.

Come on, come on. Hurry up.

When the elevator doors opened and finally closed, Beauvoir sprinted across the room, bringing out his phone as he ran. He knew he couldn’t stop the files from being erased, so he did the next best thing.

He recorded the messages as they flashed up and disappeared.

CHAPTER 16

Merci,” said Gamache when Claude Dussault’s assistant put the espresso in front of him.

“Je vous en prie,” said the young man, and withdrew from the office.

Armand had been in the famed 36 many times, and in this very office quite often. With its grimy old windows, long since painted shut. No doubt with lead-based paints. The coal-burning fireplace thankfully no longer worked. And there was probably asbestos in the ceiling.

It smelled musky, as though there might be dead things mummified in the walls.

The building was damp and chilly in winter, and stifling in summer. And yet it contained so much history, it thrilled Gamache every time he entered.

He could understand the need to modernize, and that meant moving to a new location, but he’d been glad to hear the Prefect had maintained an office here.

Claude’s desk had framed pictures of his wife and children. And dog. The walls were covered with photos of colleagues, though not one, he noticed, of Dussault’s predecessor, Clément Prévost.

Dussault accepted his espresso with thanks, then dismissed his assistant with a nod. Leaning forward, he asked, “How’re you doing, Armand?”

“I’m holding it together.”

“Are you?”

Dussault could see the strain around his friend’s eyes and the slight pallor that came from little sleep and a lot of worry.

Does he know Horowitz is going to die?

Does he know why?

What exactly does Gamache know?

Armand took a long sip of his espresso. It was rich and strong and exactly what he needed.

He regarded the man in front of him and wondered, What exactly does Claude Dussault know?

“I just spoke to Stephen’s assistant,” he said, leaning back and crossing his legs. “Agnes McGillicuddy. I’ll give you her coordinates. She’s probably someone you’d like to connect with. But it was …” Armand paused to gather