*
“Break it down.”
Chief Superintendent Francoeur nodded at the door to the old train station.
Beauvoir strolled up, turned the handle and swung the door open. “No one locks their doors around here.”
“They should pay more attention to the news,” said Francoeur. The two large S?reté officers followed Tessier into the building.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir stepped aside. Disengaged. He watched as though it was a film and nothing to do with him.
“Just a fire truck and some equipment,” said Tessier, coming out a minute or two later. “No sign of anything else.”
Francoeur examined Beauvoir closely. Was he screwing with them? “Where else could they be?”
“The bistro, I suppose.”
They drove back over the stone bridge and parked outside the bistro.
“You know these people,” Francoeur said to Beauvoir. “Come with me.”
The place was all but empty. Billy Williams sat by the window, sipping a beer and eating pie. Ruth and Rosa were in a corner, reading.
Fireplaces at both ends of the bistro were lit, and maple and birch logs were burning and snapping.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir took in the familiar room, and felt nothing.
He met Olivier’s eyes, and saw them widen in surprise.
And Olivier was indeed surprised. Shocked to see Beauvoir, in such company and in such condition. He looked hollowed out, as though a breeze or nasty word would knock him over.
Olivier put a smile on his face but his heart was pounding furiously.
“Inspector Beauvoir,” he said, coming around the long polished bar. “The Chief Inspector didn’t mention you were coming down.”
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.