Ruth exhaled. “This story you just told me, none of that was in the news.”
She said “story” as though it was a fairy tale, a children’s make-believe.
“No,” agreed Beauvoir. “Only a few know it.”
“Then why’re you telling me?”
“Who’d believe you if you said anything? They’d all just think you’re drunk.”
“And they’d be right.”
Ruth cackled and Beauvoir cracked a tiny smile.
Across the bistro Gabri and Clara watched.
“Should we save him?” Clara asked.
“Too late,” said Gabri. “He’s made a deal with the devil.”
They turned back to the bar and their drinks. “So, it’s between Mauritius and the Greek Islands on the Queen Mary,” said Gabri. They spent the next half hour debating fantasy vacations, while several feet away Jean-Guy Beauvoir told Ruth what really happened.
Armand Gamache and Henri entered the third and last shop on their list, Augustin Renaud’s list. The man while alive haunted the used bookstores in Quebec City buying anything that might have even a remote reference to Samuel de Champlain.
The little bell above the entrance tinkled as they entered and Gamache quickly closed the door before too much of the day crept in with him. It didn’t take much, a tiny crack and the cold stole in like a wraith.
It was dark inside, most of the windows being “booked” off. Stacks of dusty volumes were piled in the windows, not so much for advertisement as storage.
Anyone suffering from claustrophobia would never get three steps into the shop. The already narrow aisles were made all the more cramped by bookcases so stuffed they threatened to topple over, and more books were stacked on the floor. Henri picked his way carefully along behind Gamache. The Chief’s shoulders brushed the books and he decided it might be best to remove his parka before he knocked over all the shelves.
Getting the coat off proved quite an exercise in itself.
“Can I help you?”
The voice came from somewhere in the shop. Gamache looked round, as did Henri, his satellite ears flicking this way and that.
“I’d like to talk to you about Augustin Renaud,” called Gamache to the ceiling.
“Why?”
“Because,” said Gamache. Two could play that game. There was a pause then a clambering of feet on a ladder.
“What do you want?” the bookseller asked, taking small, quick steps out from behind a bookcase. He was short and skinny, his fisherman’s sweater was pilled and stained. An almost white T-shirt poked out of the collar. His hair was gray and greasy and his hands were dark from dust. He wiped them on his filthy pants and stared at Gamache then he noticed Henri looking out from behind the large man’s legs.
Hiding.
Though Gamache would never say it to Henri’s face, they both knew he wasn’t the most courageous of dogs. Nor, it must be said, was Henri very bright. But he was loyal beyond measure and knew what mattered. Din-din, walks, balls. But most of all, his family. His heart filled his chest and ran to the end of his tail and the very tips of his considerable ears. It filled his head, squeezing out his brain. But Henri, the foundling, was a humanist, and while not particularly clever was the smartest creature Gamache knew. Everything he knew he knew by heart.
“Bonjour,” the shopkeeper knelt in a totally involuntary movement and reached out to Henri. Gamache recognized it. He had it himself, as did Reine-Marie, when in the presence of a dog. The need to kneel, to genuflect.
“May I?” the man asked. It was the sign of an experienced dog owner, to always ask. Not only was it respectful, it was prudent. You never knew when a dog might not want to be approached.
“You run the risk of him never leaving, monsieur,” smiled Gamache as the shopkeeper produced a biscuit.
“Fine with me.” He fed Henri the treat and rubbed his ears to groans from the dog.
It was then Gamache noticed the cushions on the floor and the name “Maggie” on the side of a food bowl. But no dog.
“How long ago?” Gamache asked.
“Three days,” said the man, standing up and turning away. Gamache waited. He recognized this movement too.
“Now,” the man finally said, turning back to Gamache and Henri. “You said you wanted to talk about Augustin Renaud. Are you a reporter?”
Gamache looked as though he might be, but not for the television or radio or even a daily paper. Perhaps for an intellectual, monthly magazine. One of those obscure university presses or journals specializing in dying ideas and the dead people who’d championed them.
He wore a shirt and tie under a cardigan the color of butterscotch. His slacks were charcoal gray corduroy. If the shopkeeper noticed the scar above Gamache’s left temple he didn’t mention it.
“Non, I’m not a reporter, I’m helping the police but in a private capacity.”
Henri was now leaning against the little shopkeeper, whose hand was down by his side kneading the dog’s head.
“Are you Alain Doucet?” Gamache asked.
“Are you Armand Gamache?” Doucet asked.
Both men nodded.
“Tea?” Monsieur Doucet asked. Within minutes the two men were sitting at the back of the tiny store in a cave of books, of words, of ideas and stories. And Monsieur Doucet, after pouring them fragrant cups of tea and offering his guest a digestive cookie, was telling his own story.
“Augustin came in once a fortnight at least, sometimes more often. Sometimes I’d call if I got in a book I knew he’d be interested in.”
“What interested him?”
“Champlain, of course. Anything to do with the early colony, other explorers, maps. He loved maps.”
“Was there anything he found here that particularly excited him?”
“Well, now, that’s hard to say. Everything seemed to excite him, and yet he said almost nothing. I knew him for forty years but we never sat down like this, never had a conversation. He’d buy books and be animated and enthusiastic, but when I tried to ask him about it he’d get quiet, defensive. He was a singular man.”