She smiled at him warmly as they walked to the front hall. “But why do you ask?”
They put on their heavy winter coats, boots, hats and scarves, so that by the time they were finished there wasn’t all that much to distinguish the Chief Inspector of homicide for Québec from the seventy-five-year-old woman.
“There was a case a few months back, in a village called Three Pines. Carole Gilbert lives there now. So does Old Mundin.”
“Really?” But she didn’t seem all that interested. Polite, but hardly riveted. Heading out into the sunshine they walked side-by-side down the middle of the narrow streets. Ahead they could see the young mountaineers strapped and harnessed thirty feet above the ground. They labored all winter shoveling snow from the steep metal roofs. It was harrowing to watch as they swung their axes and picks, hacking away at the feet of ice and snow that had accumulated, threatening to collapse the roofs.
Every winter roofs did collapse and every winter snow and ice slid off to the sidewalk below, crushing unfortunate pedestrians. There was a sound sliding ice made, a sound like no other, a cross between a slow, deep moan and a shriek. Every Québécois knew it, like buzz bombs in the Blitz.
But hearing it, and being able to do anything were two different things. The sound echoed off the old stone buildings, disguising location. It might be right above you, or it might be streets away.
True Québécois walked in the middle of the road. Tourists often thought the Québécois gracious, to cede the sidewalk to them, until the sound began.
“Would they have known each other here in Quebec City?” he asked.
“It’s possible. She might have bought some antiques from Monsieur Mundin, or sold some I suppose. She had marvelous things, as I remember. An old Québec family, you know.”
“The Gilberts?”
“No, Madame Gilbert’s family. The Woloshyns.”
They were approaching the Literary and Historical Society.
“I always liked Carole. Very sensible,” said Elizabeth as she brought out the key, warm from being carried in her glove. “It was a pleasure to play bridge with her. She’d never do anything foolish. Very patient, very calm, great strategist.”
Once inside Gamache helped Elizabeth turn on the lights and turn up the heat, then she went to her office leaving the Chief Inspector alone in the magnificent library. He stood for a moment, like a miser at the bank. Then walking over to the circular iron staircase he hauled himself up. At the top he paused again. It was quiet, as only an old library can be and he was left alone with his thoughts.
“La Grande? Are you fucking kidding me?” Chief Superintendent Francoeur demanded.
Inspector Beauvoir had joined the Chief Inspector in his office, bringing with him the evidence he and Agent Nichol had collected. It was sparse, but enough. They thought. They hoped. Beauvoir had again taken the stairs two at a time, preferring to arrive unannounced, by the back way. From the stairwell door he’d once again seen the Chief Superintendent leading the search operations. Monitoring. Issuing orders. Giving every impression of doing his best.
And he probably was doing his best. But his best was not, Beauvoir knew, good enough.
He could hear over the speakers Chief Inspector Gamache talking about his days at Cambridge University. How he’d arrived with almost no English. Only the phrases he’d picked up off the English television programs beamed into Québec in the 1960s.
“Like what?” Paul Morin asked. His voice dragged, each word forced out.
“Fire on the Klingons,” said the Chief Inspector.
Agent Morin laughed, perking up. “Did you actually say that to anyone?”
“Sadly, I did. It was either that or, ‘My God, Admiral, it’s horrible.’ ”
Now Agent Morin whooped with laughter and Beauvoir saw smiles on the faces of the men and women in the Incident Room, including Chief Superintendent Francoeur. Smiling himself Beauvoir turned his attention to the Chief Inspector.
Through the glass he saw the Chief. His eyes closed, gray stubble on his face. And then Gamache did something Beauvoir had never seen him do before. In all the years, all the cases, all the death and despair and exhaustion of past cases.
Chief Inspector Gamache lowered his head into his hands.
Just for a moment, but it was a moment Inspector Beauvoir would never forget. As young Paul Morin laughed, Chief Inspector Gamache covered his face.
Then he looked up, and met Inspector Beauvoir’s eyes. And the mask reappeared. Confident. Energetic. In command.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir entered the Chief’s office with the evidence. And at Gamache’s request, invited Chief Superintendent Francoeur in and played him the tape.
“Are you fucking kidding?”
“Does it look like I’m kidding?”
The Chief was on his feet. He’d asked Paul Morin to carry the conversation, to keep speaking. And had whipped his headphone off, covering the microphone with his hand.
“Where’d you even get that recording?” Francoeur demanded. In the background Paul Morin was talking about his father’s vegetable garden and how long it took to grow asparagus.
“It’s background sound, from where Morin’s being held,” said Gamache.
“But where did you get it?” Francoeur was annoyed.
“It can’t possibly matter. Are you listening?” Gamache replayed the fragment Agent Nichol had found. “They mention it two or three times.”
“La Grande, yes I hear, but it could mean anything. It could be what they call whoever’s behind the kidnapping.”
“La Grande? As in La Grande Fromage? This isn’t a cartoon.” Gamache took a long breath and tried to control his frustration. On the speakers they could hear that Morin had moved on to a monologue on heirloom tomatoes.
“This is what I think, sir,” said Gamache. “The kidnapping wasn’t done by a frightened backwoods farmer with a marijuana crop. This was planned all along—”
“Yes, you’ve mentioned that before. There’s no evidence.”
“This is evidence.” With a mighty effort Gamache stopped himself from shouting, instead lowering his voice to a growl. “The farmer has not left Morin alone as he said he would. In fact, not only is Morin clearly not alone, there’re at least two, maybe three others with him.”
“So, what? You think he’s being held at the dam?”
“I did at first, but there’re no turbine sounds in the background.”
“Then what’s your theory, Chief Inspector?”
“I think they’re planning to blow the dam and they kidnapped Agent Morin to keep us occupied elsewhere.”
Chief Superintendent Francoeur stared at Gamache. It was a scenario the S?reté had practiced for, had protocols for. Dreaded. A threat against this mighty dam.
“You’re delusional. Based on what? Two words barely heard far in the background. It might even be crossed wires. You think that in what”—Francoeur turned to look at the clock—“six hours someone’s going to destroy the La Grande dam? And yet, they’re not even there? They’re sitting with your young agent somewhere else?”
“It’s misdirection. They wa—”
“Enough,” snapped Chief Superintendent Francoeur. “If it’s misdirection it’s one you’ve fallen for. They want you to hare off after a ridiculous clue. I thought you were smarter than that. And who are this mysterious ‘they’ anyway? Who’d want to destroy the dam? No, it’s absurd.”
“For God’s sake, Francoeur,” said Gamache, his voice low and hoarse with fatigue, “suppose I’m right?”
That stopped the Chief Superintendent as he made for the door. He turned and stared at Chief Inspector Gamache. In the long silence between the men they heard a small lecture on cow versus horse compost.
“I need more evidence.”