Olivier spoke heartily and warned himself to dial it back.
“Chief Inspector Gamache?” The other man spoke and, despite himself, Olivier felt the attraction of the man, the immense charisma that came with confidence and authority. “Have you seen him?”
Here was a man used to commanding. He was in his early sixties, with gray hair and an athletic build. His eyes were searching, sharp, and he moved with casual grace, like a carnivore.
Beside this vibrant man, Beauvoir seemed to diminish even further. He became carrion. A carcass, that hadn’t yet been devoured but soon would be.
“Sure,” said Olivier. “The Chief Inspector’s been here for…” he thought, “… almost a week, I guess. Myrna called him when her friend Constance went missing.”
Olivier lowered his voice and looked around, leaning closer to Beauvoir. “Don’t know if you heard, but Constance was one of the Ouellet Quints. The last one. She was murdered.”
Olivier looked as though nothing could have pleased him more.
“Gamache has been asking questions. Showed us a film, an old newsreel of the Quints. Did you—”
“Where is he now?” the other man interrupted Olivier’s babbling.
“The Chief Inspector? I don’t know. Isn’t his car here?”
Olivier looked out the window. “He was at the B and B for breakfast. My partner Gabri made—”
“Was he alone?”
“Well, yes.” Olivier looked from the older man who’d spoken to Beauvoir. “He’d normally have you with him, but he said you were on another assignment.”
“There was no one else with him?” Once again, the other man had spoken.
Olivier shook his head. He was a great liar, but he knew he was staring into the eyes of an even better one.
“Did the Chief Inspector set up an Incident Room?” the man asked.
Olivier shook his head and didn’t dare speak.
“Where did he work?”
“Either in here or over at the B and B,” said Olivier.
The man looked around the bistro, skimming past the old woman with the duck, and landing on Billy Williams. He walked toward him.
Olivier watched with growing anxiety. Billy Williams was likely to tell him everything.
“Bonjour,” said Francoeur.
Billy Williams raised his beer glass. In front of him he had a huge wedge of lemon meringue pie.
“Do you know Chief Inspector Gamache?”
Billy nodded and picked up his fork.
“Can you tell me where he is?”
“Norfolk and chance.”
“Pardon?”
“Norfolk and chance,” said Billy, clearly.
“I’m trying to find Chief Inspector Gamache.” Francoeur switched from French to English and spoke very, very slowly to this rustic. “I’m a friend of his.”
Billy paused, and spoke equally slowly. “Whale oil beef hooked.”
Francoeur stared at Billy, then turned away.
“Does he speak French or English?” Francoeur asked.
Olivier watched as Billy took a huge mouthful of pie, and quietly blessed him. “We’re not sure.”
“Do you know the B and B?” Francoeur asked Beauvoir, who nodded. “Take me there.”
“Can I get you a coffee before you go? Have you had lunch?”
But Olivier was talking to their backs. He walked around the bar, not letting his guard down. Not daring to show how shattered he was.
Olivier Brulé knew he’d looked into the eyes of a man who could kill him, if need be. And maybe, Olivier knew, without need. But just because.
“Whale oil beef hooked,” he whispered.
*
An accident just off the bridge had backed up the traffic. A little fender-bender had caused a massive tie-up.
But Gamache cleared it, and watched as Danny, his sister and parents peeled off the highway, toward Brossard. Safe.
But other Dannys were just approaching the bridge. Other parents and grandparents and happy holiday children. He hoped Isabelle Lacoste would arrive soon.
Chief Inspector Gamache pressed down on the gas. He was an hour away from Three Pines, even on dry pavement. He went as fast as he dared. And then some.
*
Francoeur and Tessier searched the B and B. There was evidence of only one guest, and that was Chief Inspector Gamache. They found toiletries in his bathroom. The walls of the shower and the soap were still damp and clothes were hung in the closet and folded in the drawer. The room smelled slightly of sandalwood.
Francoeur looked out the window to the village green and the road that circled it. A few cars were parked, but not Chief Inspector Gamache’s Volvo. But they knew that already. He’d been tracked to the penitentiary, then the Villeneuve home in Montréal. And then came word he’d emailed a large file to Inspector Lacoste, from the home next to Villeneuve.
Agents were on their way, to Lacoste’s home, and to Villeneuve and his neighbor. And the search was on to find Gamache. They had his cell phone and the tracking device in his car, and they’d have him any moment now.
Francoeur turned to Beauvoir, who was standing in the middle of the room like a mannequin.