“He was that,” said Gamache, taking a bite of his digestive cookie. “Did you like him?”
“He was a good client. Never argued about price, but then I never tried to take advantage.”
“But did you like him?” It was funny, Gamache had asked this question of all the used-bookstore owners and all had been evasive.
“I didn’t know him but I’ll tell you something, I had no desire to get to know him better.”
“Why not?”
“He was a fanatic and they scare me. I think he’d do just about anything if he thought it would get him an inch closer to Champlain’s body. So, I was civil, but kept my distance.”
“Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”
“He had a knack for annoying people, but you don’t kill someone just because they’re annoying. The place would be littered with bodies.”
Gamache smiled and took a leisurely sip of his strong tea, thinking.
“Do you know if Renaud had a current idea? Some new theory about where Champlain might be buried?”
“You mean the Literary and Historical Society?”
“I mean any place.”
Monsieur Doucet thought then shook his head.
“Did you buy books from them?”
“The Lit and His? Sure. Last summer. They had a big sale. I bought three or four lots.”
Gamache put his mug down. “What was in them?”
“Frankly? I don’t know. Normally I’d go through them but it was the summer and I was too busy with the flea market. Lots of tourists, lots of book collectors. I didn’t have time to go through the boxes, so I just put them out at my stall. Renaud came by and bought a couple.”
“Books?”
“Boxes.”
“Did he go through them before buying?”
“No, just bought. People are like that, especially collectors. They want to go through them privately. I think that’s part of the fun. I got another couple of lots from the Lit and His later, sometime this past fall, before they decided to stop the sale. I called Renaud and asked if he was interested. At first he said no then he showed up about three weeks ago asking if I still had them.”
“Hmm.” The Chief Inspector sipped and thought. “What does that tell you?”
Alain Doucet looked surprised. He had clearly thought nothing of it but now he did.
“Well, I guess it might mean he found something in that first lot and thought there might be more.”
“Why the delay, though? If he bought the first couple boxes in the summer, why wait until after Christmas to contact you?”
“He’s probably like most collectors. Buys loads of books meaning to go through them but they just sit there for months until he gets around to it.”
Gamache nodded, remembering the rabbit warren that was Renaud’s home.
“Do these numbers mean anything to you?” He showed Doucet the catalog numbers found in Renaud’s diary. 9-8499 and 9-8572.
“No, but used books come in with all sorts of strange things written on them. Some are color-coded, some have numbers, some have signatures. Screws up their value, unless the signature is Beaudelaire or Proust.”
“How’d he seem when he came by for the other lot?”
“Renaud? As always. Brusque, anxious. He was like an addict before a fix. Book freaks are like that, and not just old guys. Look at kids lining up for the latest installment of their favorite books. Stories, they’re addictive.”
Gamache knew that was true. But what story had Augustin Renaud stumbled on? And where were the two books? Not in his apartment, not on his body. And what happened to the other books in the lot? They weren’t in the apartment either.
“Did he bring any books back?”
Doucet shook his head. “But you might ask the other used bookstores. I know he went to all of us.”
“I’ve asked. You’re the last, and the only one who bought the Literary and Historical Society books.”
“Only one stupid enough to try to sell English books in old Quebec City.”
The Chief’s phone vibrated and he took it out. It was a call from émile.
“Do you mind?” he asked and Doucet shook his head. “Salut, émile. Are you at home?”
“No, I’m in the Lit and His. Amazing place. I can’t believe I’ve never been before. Can you meet me here?”
“Have you found something?”
“I found Chiniquy.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Gamache rose and Henri rose with him, ready to go wherever Gamache went.
“Does the name Chiniquy mean anything to you?” he asked as they walked to the front of the store. It was almost four P.M. and the sun had set. Now the shop looked cozy, lit by lamps, the books merely suggestions in the shadows.
Doucet thought about it. “No, sorry.”
Time, thought Gamache as he stepped once more into the darkness, it covered over everything eventually. Events, people, memory. Chiniquy had disappeared beneath Time. How long before Augustin Renaud followed?
And yet Champlain had remained, and grown.
Not the man, Gamache knew, the mystery. Champlain missing was so much more potent than Champlain found.
Picking up his pace, he and Henri wove between the revelers carrying their hollow plastic canes filled with Caribou, wearing their Bonhomme pins on their down-filled parkas. They wore smiles and huge mittens and joyful fluffy, warm toques, like exclamation marks on their heads. In the distance he heard the almost haunting blast on a plastic horn. A call to arms, a call to party, a call to youth.
Gamache heard it, but the call wasn’t for him. He had another calling.