All the Devils Are Here (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #16) - Louise Penny Page 0,71

if you can,” said Gamache. “The firm who does your security, who is that?”

“SecurForte.”

“That sounds familiar,” said Gamache.

“Stephen’s apartment,” murmured Jean-Guy. “The flic.”

Gamache nodded. Yes, the investigator in charge had asked Jean-Guy if he’d joined SecurForte. It was obviously well-known to the Paris police.

After she left, Gamache looked at the time. Almost six. Far later than he’d thought.

“We need to go,” he said.

“I forgot to ask her one question,” said Beauvoir.

“We can stop in on the way out,” said Armand.

“Not important. I was just surprised that the George V uses Ikea furniture.”

“Why do you say that?”

He looked at his father-in-law with amusement. “Have you never put together an Ikea bookcase or desk?”

“Actually, yes. For both Daniel and Annie when they went away to university. Clever design but almost drove us mad.”

“Then you must’ve recognized the screw and Allen wrench. They’re Ikea.”

“Huh, you’re right. Though others use Allen wrenches.”

They were at the door, but Armand stopped, turned, and walked up the stairs to the office area. Beauvoir followed.

“It’s certainly not Ikea,” said Armand, and even Jean-Guy could see that.

It was a fine original Louis XV desk.

Armand pulled out the drawer and looked under it. But there was nothing there.

“Have you ever actually found anything taped under a drawer?” Jean-Guy asked.

“Non. But wouldn’t it be nice?”

“A note, maybe, saying, The murderer is …”

Gamache laughed. “Seems we’ll have to do this the hard way.”

“You mean I do all the work while you sit on a bench sipping Pernod?”

“Good God, young man. What’ve you been reading? Pernod? Never had one in my life. Now, a nice lager …” He looked at Beauvoir. “Shouldn’t you be doing something useful?”

“Come along, old man. I have to get you home to your wife.”

“And I to yours.”

Beauvoir wasn’t fooled by this. In the taxi back, he could see Armand staring out as the wide boulevards slid past. A slight furrow between his brows.

Thinking. Always thinking. Though it wasn’t the thoughts that had created the lines in his face, Jean-Guy knew. It was the feelings.

Then Armand roused himself and sent off a few emails, including, Jean-Guy noticed, one back home to their neighbor in Three Pines, Clara Morrow. Checking on the dogs and whatever little Gracie was, thought Beauvoir, as he went back to his phone and got caught up on his own messages.

Armand got out at the hospital, while Beauvoir continued on home.

After sitting with Stephen for a few moments, reading the news and telling him about the day, Armand put on his coat, wrapped the scarf around his neck, and walked out into the fresh air and gaiety of Paris on a Saturday evening. He passed young couples, arms linked, on their way to a brasserie. Or to a tiny walk-up apartment. A hot plate, a small table by the window. A bed. And Paris.

All they could possibly need.

Ah, yes, he thought. I remember it well.

Armand paused in front of Notre-Dame, and tried to see beyond the scaffolding to the remarkable face of the cathedral. He could see the huge rose window that had, incredibly, survived the fire. It looked, behind the works, like a giant third eye. Gazing perpetually out at the City of Light and its citizens, while also gazing inward, at their motivations, their characters, their hearts and souls.

He wondered if that was why the great cathedral had burst into flames.

Then he placed the call he was loath to make.

“Mrs. McGillicuddy? No, he’s still with us. Holding on. Yes. But I need to know something. The terms of Stephen’s will.” He listened while she protested, then said quietly, “I agree. It’s an awful thing to ask, but I need to know. Yes. I’ll wait.”

The early evening was growing chilly as the sun set. The spires and monuments and museums were outlined against the soft shifting pinks of the sky.

“Oui, I’m still here.”

He listened. Then, thanking her, he dropped his head and sighed. Before lifting his gaze to the rose window.

Once home, Jean-Guy could see right away that Annie was stressed.

“What is it? The baby?” His voice rose on the last two words.

“No. I think someone’s watching the apartment, Jean-Guy.”

He took three quick strides over to the window. There was no one there. But it was getting dark, and the shadows between the buildings hid all sorts of things. And people.

“A cop has been assigned to protect you. It’s probably them. But I’m going to make sure.”

From the window, Annie saw her husband run across the narrow street, darting in and out of alleys and