“Now there’s a good question.”
“And he’s hardly Leduc’s match, physically. Leduc could knock him down with a look. Unless Charpentier’s condition isn’t as bad as it looks.”
“It is,” said Gamache. “I’ve seen his medical records. It is, in fact, worse than it looks.”
Jean-Guy ate the chocolate cake and thought. “Then he might be a man with nothing to lose. And we know how dangerous they can be. Will Madame Coldbrook really be able to tell me why Leduc was killed?”
“I think she knows more, or suspects more, than she’s willing to volunteer.”
*
When the phone rang three hours later, Armand was still up. Sitting in the kitchen by the woodstove. A single light on. Staring ahead of him.
On his lap was a box. But not the one from the basement of the Royal Canadian Legion.
This one came from his own basement.
The phone did not ring a second time. Jean-Guy had obviously grabbed it.
A few minutes later, Armand heard footfalls on the stairs, soft and rapid. Slippered feet hurrying down.
It took Jean-Guy a moment to find Armand, looking first in the bedroom, then coming downstairs and checking the study. And finally, seeing the glow from the kitchen, he hurried in.
Gamache had placed the box on the floor and was just shoving it between the armchair and the wall when Jean-Guy arrived. He took in the furtive action but was too overwhelmed by what he’d heard from the UK to question it.
He stood in the doorway, his eyes wide.
Armand stood up and turned, and the two men faced each other.
“She confirmed it?”
Jean-Guy nodded, barely able to breathe, never mind speak.
Armand also nodded, a single, curt movement. It was confirmed.
Then he sank into the chair and he stared ahead. Out the windows, into the night.
“How did you know?” Jean-Guy asked quietly, taking the armchair across from him.
“The revolver,” said Gamache. “There was no reason someone like Leduc would have one. Except there must have been a reason. A purpose. Last night, while everyone else watched Mary Poppins, Olivier came in here and watched The Deer Hunter.”
Armand refocused on Jean-Guy. “Did you ever see the movie?”
“Non.”
“Neither had I. That’s why we missed it when she added Clairton to her name. It meant nothing to us. Only to someone who knew The Deer Hunter well and had seen that scene. Did you have to say the name of the film to Madame Coldbrook?”
“Oui. I asked her about Clairton, but she just repeated that it was a mistake. It was only when I said Deer Hunter that it all came out.”
Their conversation was seared into his brain.
“What did you say?” Madame Coldbrook had asked.
“The Deer Hunter,” Beauvoir repeated. “The movie.”
He prayed she wouldn’t ask him why, because he had absolutely no idea.
“Then you know the scene, with the revolver. What they make Robert De Niro do.”
“Yes,” Beauvoir had lied.
There was a long pause.
“When did you know?” he asked.
“Not at first. Not from your email or even the beginning of our conversation. And I still don’t know, for sure.”
“But you suspect. Enough to send us that hint. You wanted me to ask, and I’m asking.”
“Let me ask you a question, Inspector. Was there a special case made for the revolver?”
Now it was Beauvoir’s turn to be silent, for a moment.
“Yes,” he finally said.
“Then it’s almost certainly true.” He heard the long sigh all the way from England. “We get a lot of calls from police forces saying our handguns had been used in a crime. Most are street violence, gangs. Revolvers aren’t common these days, but neither are they uncommon. It was only when you said that it was uncharacteristic for the victim to have a revolver and he was killed by a single shot to the temple—”
“You knew then,” said Beauvoir.
“I wondered. I thought it was something you should consider.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me during our call?” he asked. “Why that vague hint?”
“It’s against company policy to admit our revolvers are used for something that cruel. I could be fired. But I needed you to know. I realize it wasn’t the most obvious of hints, but it was the best I could do. I was hoping you’d know that scene from the film.”
“I didn’t, but a colleague saw it last night and put it together. Why did you ask about the special case for the revolver?”
“From what I gather, a ritual is often created. A special case is made. It becomes a sort of ceremony.”
He could hear the disgust in her voice.
“I could be wrong,” she said.
“But you don’t think you are, do you?”
Beauvoir was still lost, but one answer had appeared on the very edges of his mind. An outlier. A terrible monster of an idea. Lurking, pacing, just beyond his reason.
And with the next thing Madame Coldbrook said, it raced across the border, clawing its way to the very front of his mind.
“Only a revolver can be used. The barrel has to spin for the game to work. Was he killed playing it, do you think?”
The game.
The blood raced from Beauvoir’s extremities so quickly he almost dropped the phone.
The game.
They now knew why Leduc had a revolver.
In the single light of the kitchen, Jean-Guy looked at his father-in-law.
Gamache was staring at the floor and shaking his head slightly.
“You can’t have known, patron. It must’ve been going on for years.”
Jean-Guy immediately regretted that last statement, as Gamache winced.
Then he looked up and met Jean-Guy’s gaze.
“Can you imagine?” he said quietly. “Their terror? And no one did anything to stop it. I did nothing to stop it.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I could have fired him. I should’ve fired him. I kept him on to keep an eye on him while I gathered more information on his corruption. I was looking in that direction and completely missed the worst thing Leduc was doing.”
“No one saw it.”
“Oh, someone saw it,” said Gamache, his rage bursting out.
He managed to rein it in, but it roiled just below his skin. Turning it red.
“You’re right,” said Jean-Guy. “Someone knew what was happening. They put a gun to Leduc’s head and pulled the trigger.”
He saw a look on the older man’s face. A primitive, primal, savage moment. Of satisfaction. And then it was gone.
“Was that the motive?”
“Oui,” said Gamache. “I think so.”
Madame Coldbrook had asked if Leduc had died playing the game. He hadn’t. Never did. But still, it killed him. He’d been murdered. Executed. Not in the game, but because of it.
“Whoever killed him tried to implicate you,” Beauvoir said. “By placing your fingerprints on the revolver. Making it look like you’d murdered Leduc. It was Charpentier, wasn’t it?”
Gamache looked at the kitchen clock. Three thirty in the morning.
“We need to get some sleep,” he said. “We have a big day ahead of us.”
But sleep eluded Jean-Guy. He lay staring at the ceiling. Gamache had asked if he could imagine. He lay there and tried to imagine what it was like for those cadets, who were not just cadets. They were someone’s sons and daughters. Someone’s children.
And he imagined his own child, in that situation. With no one doing anything to stop it. To help them. And Jean-Guy began to understand that look of savagery on his father-in-law’s face.
But he also, then, remembered something else. The subtle movement of Gamache’s foot as he shoved something between the chair and the wall.
Unable to sleep, Jean-Guy got up and tiptoed down the stairs, into the kitchen. Turning on the lamp, he found the box and picked it up. And held it, staring at the lid. There were fingerprints on it. One set, and one set only, he knew.
Gamache’s.
He stared at the shoe box. It wasn’t one of the ones from the historical society. He knew that. This one was private and personal.
And in it sat the answer to so many questions.
Then he slowly bent down and replaced it.
Turning around, he almost fainted. There in the doorway stood Gamache.
“Did no one tell you, Jean-Guy, if you’re going to do a clandestine search, never turn the light on?”