“So you create it in such a way that it can’t be stolen?”
“No, I just do the programming. Someone else worries about security. Why? Wait. Let me guess.” He studied the two officers in front of him, no longer amused. “You’re wondering about the academy’s security system and if I could break in. Perhaps, but I doubt it. I’m sure their system is very sophisticated. You’re welcome to take my computer and see what I’ve been up to. Any porn you find is my wife’s.”
Even Deputy Commissioner Gélinas smiled at that.
“You must be quite good at what you do,” said Chief Inspector Lacoste.
The mayor looked around. “Does this look like the office of a successful man? If I was that good, don’t you think I’d be in Montréal or Toronto?”
“I think this looks like the office of a very successful man,” said Lacoste.
Mayor Florent held her gaze. “Merci.”
The investigators got up and shook hands with the mayor, who told them they were always welcome back. As they walked down the scuffed hall toward the door and the bright March morning, Lacoste said to Gélinas, “Actuarial tables. They try to predict—”
“When a person will die.”
*
Classes were back in session at the academy. Jean-Guy Beauvoir saw to that on Commander Gamache’s orders.
Not simply to maintain structure and discipline, but also to try to keep the cadets from doing their own investigations. Beauvoir had found them snooping in the halls outside the Duke’s rooms. He found them hanging around the dead man’s office, taking fingerprints from the door handle as though the homicide investigators might have failed to do that.
He found them in the weight room, where Leduc worked out, searching the lockers. For clues. Though, of course, they didn’t have a clue what they were looking for.
It was natural and would have been endearing even, if it wasn’t so extremely annoying. This was the problem with having a building crammed full of partly trained investigators. And a murder.
Once the eight a.m. classes had started, Inspector Beauvoir picked up the phone. He’d been hoping for a reply to his email, but there was none.
He punched in a long line of numbers and listened to the unusual ring tone. The two throbs instead of the one long one he was used to.
“McDermot and Ryan,” came the cheerful voice, as though she were selling teddy bears or flowers, and not guns.
“Yes,” said Jean-Guy, struggling to keep his Québécois accent under control. “I’m calling from Canada. I’m with the S?reté du Québec and we’re investigating a homicide.”
“One moment, please.”
Hold? he thought. She put me on hold? Could there possibly be a lineup of calls from police around the world, investigating murders?
Maybe they had a department dedicated to it.
Jean-Guy sighed and listened to the classical music, but it didn’t take long for a less cheerful voice to pick up the phone.
“Inspector Beauvoir?” she said.
“Oui.”
“My name is Elizabeth Coldbrook. I’m the vice president in charge of public affairs here at McDermot. I received your email and was just writing a response. I’m sorry it’s taken so long, but I wanted to be sure of my facts.”
Her voice was brusque, and somehow Beauvoir had the feeling he’d done something wrong. He often had that feeling when speaking with people in Paris or London.
“Can you send me the email anyway,” he asked, “so I have a written record? But I’d like to speak to you now, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. It’s a terrible thing that’s happened. Your email said a death. An accident?”
“Non. Deliberate. A single shot to the temple.”
“Ahhh,” she said, with some sadness but without surprise.
When you make handguns, thought Beauvoir, what exactly do you think will happen?
Instead he asked, “Have you found anything?”
“Yes. We have an order here for a .45 McDermot MR VI. It was picked up by Serge Leduc on September 21, 2011.”
“Picked up? In England?”
“No, at our distributer in Vermont. I can send you the order number and information.”
She was sounding less brusque. Or he was getting used to it.
She was certainly being helpful, but then, he suspected, she had a lot of experience speaking with the police about handguns.
“S’il vous pla?t. Is this a popular gun?”
“Not much anymore. A few police forces still use it, though they’re turning more and more to automatic pistols, of course.”
“You make those too?”
“We do. The one you’re interested in, the McDermot .45, is a very old design. A six-shooter.”
“Like the Wild West?”
She laughed in a semiautomatic manner. “I guess so. Colt based their design on ours. At least, we like to think that. The height of the McDermot’s popularity was during the Great War. We also supplied quite a few in the Second World War, but then demand fell off.”
“So why would someone order one today?”
“Collectors like them. Was your man a collector?”
“Non. He was a professor at an academy that trains police officers here in Québec.”
“Then he was interested in weapons.”
“Yes, but modern ones. Not antiques.”
“It might be antique, but it does the job.”
“The job being to kill?”
There was a pause. “Not necessarily.”
Beauvoir let that sit there, the pause elongating.
“Well, yes. Sometimes. Or to prevent bloodshed. We don’t sell handguns into Canada. They’re banned, of course. Which is why Mr. Leduc ordered from the United States. I’m not sure how he got it across the border.”
“It’s not that hard.”
The border was more porous than anyone cared to admit.
“If he wasn’t a collector, can you think why else he’d want this particular make?” asked Beauvoir.
“Well, it’s sturdy, and there’s not as much kickback as with other revolvers. And it’s very accurate.”
“Accuracy was not an issue,” said Beauvoir. “And it’s not like he was heading for the trenches. Why would anyone want a six-shooter when they could have an automatic weapon?”
He could almost hear her shrug. Not out of disinterest, but because she didn’t have the answer any more than he did.
Beauvoir decided to take another tack.
“Why would he order from you, all the way from England, and not get a Colt, if they were so similar?”
“History. And quality. Gun people know our make.”
“But a Colt or a Smith and Wesson are still good and would be cheaper, non? They’re made right in the States.”
“Yes, they would be less expensive.”
“But maybe they don’t make silencers,” said Beauvoir.
“We don’t either.”
“You must. The revolver had one. I mentioned that in the email.”
“I thought that was a typo, or a mistake on your part.”
“You thought I didn’t know what a silencer was?” he asked.
“Well, it didn’t make sense to me,” she said. “Revolvers don’t have silencers. They don’t work.”
“This one did.”
It seemed one had attached itself to Madame Coldbrook. The quiet became uncomfortable.
“Who made the silencer?” Beauvoir finally asked.
“I don’t know.”
“If not McDermot, then who?” he pushed. “If someone asks for one, where do you send them?”
“To the automatic weapons department. Revolvers do not have silencers.” The imperious voice had surfaced yet again. Like Jaws. And then the voice softened. “It’s tragic when someone commits suicide, and this company takes it very much to heart. I take it to heart.”
And for some reason, he believed her. How many calls in a month, a week, a day did this woman receive from police around the world, a body behind the conversation?
“It wasn’t a suicide,” said Beauvoir. He didn’t know if that made it better or worse.
“You said accuracy wasn’t an issue. I assumed…” There was a pause. “It was murder?”
“Yes. A single shot to the temple,” he repeated.
And now the pause elongated. Stretched. On and on. But it wasn’t empty. Even down the phone line, across the miles, across the ocean, he could hear her thinking. Considering.