All the Devils Are Here (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #16) - Louise Penny Page 0,77

not even the font, was chosen without intense scrutiny.

Reine-Marie also studied the photograph. She saw a woman in her early fifties. Elegant, warm. Kindly even. Not at all intimidating or formidable. In fact, as she looked closer, Reine-Marie saw there was a very small eyelash on Madame Roquebrune’s cheek.

It was almost unnoticeable, except as a tiny human flaw.

It was actually quite endearing. She wanted to brush it away.

And that, Reine-Marie knew, was the trap. Even as she felt herself drawn into it.

Could this, she found herself wondering, really be one of the most powerful people in France? In Europe?

But then, her own husband was often mistaken for a college professor. Not a man who hunted killers.

The GHS president was not kindly and benign, and its board was not oversight. It was a façade, a stamp of legitimacy. The men and women on the board gave the corporation access, and cover, should anything go wrong.

“Claude, do you know this Eugénie Roquebrune?” Armand asked.

“No,” he said. “Though that’s some impressive board. I wonder if Monsieur Horowitz really did have anything on GHS. Hard to believe people like that could be taken in.”

“People believe what they want to believe,” said Reine-Marie. “It’s just human nature.”

“Reminds me of the story of the oilman who went to Heaven,” said Claude. “He shows up at the Pearly Gates and Saint Peter says, ‘I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is, you’ve got into Heaven.’

“‘Fantastic,’ says the oilman. ‘But what’s the bad news?’

“‘I’m afraid the part of Heaven reserved for oilmen is full.’

“‘Well, I know how to solve that,’ says the oilman. ‘ Take me to them.’

“When Saint Peter does, the oilman calls for their attention and announces, ‘Exciting news. They’ve struck oil in Hell.’

“And with that, the place empties out.

“Saint Peter turns to the oilman and says, ‘ That was amazing. You can go in now.’

“‘Are you kidding?’ says the oilman. ‘I’m going to Hell. I hear they’ve struck oil there.’”

The other three laughed.

“It’s true what you say, Reine-Marie,” said Claude. “People believe what they want to believe. Beginning with their own lies.”

“Hell is the truth seen too late,” said Reine-Marie as she poured out more coffee. “Thomas Hobbes.”

For a moment, Armand could feel Stephen’s steely grip on his wrist, and see his laser-blue eyes, staring at him as they sat in the garden of the Musée Rodin. In front of The Gates of Hell.

I’ve always told the truth, Armand.

Jean-Guy glanced around to see if he could spot anyone watching.

But he was alone in the park.

He walked along the path, unconsciously clasping his hands behind his back. As he strolled, Jean-Guy Beauvoir went over what he’d found. And what it could mean.

And, equally disturbing, what Annie had told him. And what that could mean.

Jean-Guy stopped. Supposedly to stare into the duck pond. But actually, he’d picked up the fact he wasn’t alone. Someone was quietly watching from the shadows.

A thief? Was he about to be robbed?

It is a mystery, he hummed as he slowly circled the pond. It is a big mystery.

Then, turning quickly, his hand shot out, but the man had lightning reflexes and jumped out of his grasp, then turned and took off.

Jean-Guy ran after him, and while the man was younger and had the advantage of age, Jean-Guy had the advantage of rage.

The man ran out into the traffic along rue de Bretagne. Horns sounded and curses followed them down rue du Temple, the distance between the men growing. The man turned down an alley, knocking over bins to slow his pursuer.

While all his survival instincts, all his training, told Jean-Guy it was a mistake to follow a suspect into a dark alley, his instincts as a husband and father were stronger.

The man disappeared around a corner.

Skidding around the corner, Beauvoir saw a brick wall at least ten feet high blocking their way. It was a dead end.

The man didn’t slow down. Didn’t hesitate. He ran full tilt at it, leaping and grabbing the top. Pulling himself up, he went over the other side.

At the very top, he twisted and looked back.

Directly at Beauvoir.

Then he dropped from sight.

Beauvoir got to the wall and jumped. Clutching for the top. His fingers scraping the bricks. Clawing at them for purchase. But he skidded down. Once, twice, three times he tried. Then stopped. Bending over, holding his knees. Gasping for breath.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered, pounding the wall with each word.

Then he turned and jogged back to the apartment, picking up