Olivier looked at Gamache, whose thoughtful brown eyes never wavered.
“And that’s how it started. I agreed to take the painting in exchange for a few bags of groceries.”
“And what was it worth?”
“Not much.” Olivier remembered carefully taking the miniature from its frame, and seeing the old lettering on the back. It was some Polish count. With a date. 1745. “I sold it for a few dollars.”
He held Gamache’s eyes.
“Where?”
“Some antique place along rue Notre Dame in Montreal.”
Gamache nodded. “Go on.”
“After that the Hermit brought stuff to the shop every now and then and I’d give him food. But he became more and more paranoid. Didn’t want to come into the village anymore. So he invited me to his cabin.”
“Why did you agree to go? It was quite an inconvenience.”
Olivier had been afraid of that question.
“Because the things he was giving me turned out to be quite good. Nothing spectacular, but decent quality and I was curious. When I first visited the cabin it took me a few minutes to realize what he had. It all just looked like it belonged, in a strange sort of way. Then I looked closer. He was eating off plates worth tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of dollars. Did you see the glasses?” Olivier’s eyes were gleaming with excitement. “Fantastique.”
“Did he ever explain how he came to have items that were priceless?”
“Never, and I never asked. I was afraid to scare him off.”
“Did he know the value of what he had?”
That was an interesting question, and one Olivier had debated himself. The Hermit treated the finest engraved silver the way Gabri treated Ikea flatware. There was no attempt to coddle anything. But neither was the Hermit cavalier. He was a cautious man, that much was certain.
“I’m not sure,” said Olivier.
“So you gave him groceries and he gave you near-priceless antiques?”
Gamache’s voice was neutral, curious. It held none of the censure Olivier knew it could, and should.
“He didn’t give me the best stuff, at least not at first. And I did more than take him groceries. I helped dig his vegetable garden, and brought the seeds to plant.”
“How often did you visit?”
“Every two weeks.”
Gamache considered, then spoke. “Why was he living in the cabin away from everyone else?”
“Hiding, I guess.”
“But from what?”
Olivier shook his head. “Don’t know. I tried to ask but he was having none of it.”
“What can you tell us?” Gamache’s voice wasn’t quite as patient as it had been. Beauvior looked up from his notebook, and Olivier shifted in his seat.
“I know the Hermit built the cabin over several months. Then he carried all the stuff in himself.” Olivier was studying Gamache, eager for his approval, eager for the thaw. The large man leaned forward slightly and Olivier rushed on. “He told me all about it. Most of his things weren’t big. Just the armchairs, really, and the bed. The rest anybody could’ve carried. And he was strong.”
Still, Gamache was silent. Olivier squirmed.
“I’m telling the truth. He never explained how he got all those things, and I was afraid to ask, but it’s kind of obvious, isn’t it? He must have stolen them. Otherwise, why hide?”
“So you thought they were stolen and you didn’t say anything?” asked Gamache, his voice still without criticism. “Didn’t call the police.”
“No. I know I should have, but I didn’t.”
For once Beauvoir didn’t sneer. This he found completely natural and understandable. How many people would, after all? It always amazed Beauvoir when he heard about people finding suitcases full of money, and turning it in. He had to wonder about the sanity of such people.
For his part Gamache was thinking about the other end of the deal. The people who’d owned the things. The fabulous violin, the priceless glassware, the china and silver and inlaid wood. If the Hermit was hiding in the woods someone had chased him there. “Did he say where he was from?” Gamache asked.
“No. I asked once but he didn’t answer.”
Gamache considered. “What did he sound like?”
“I’m sorry?”
“His voice.”
“It was normal. We spoke in French.”
“Quebec French, or France French?”
Olivier hesitated. Gamache waited.
“Quebec, but . . .”
Gamache was still, as though he could wait all day. All week. A lifetime.
“. . . but he had a slight accent. Czech, I think,” said Olivier in a rush.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. He was Czech,” said Olivier in a mumble. “I’m sure.”
Gamache saw Beauvoir make a note. It was the first clue to the man’s identity.
“Why didn’t you tell us you knew the Hermit when the body was found?”
“I should have, but I thought you might not find the cabin.”
“And why would you hope that?”
Olivier tried to take a breath, but the oxygen didn’t seem to reach his lungs. Or his brain. His compressed lips felt cold and his eyes burned. Hadn’t he told them enough? But still Gamache sat across from him, waiting. And Olivier could see it in his eyes. He knew. Gamache knew the answer, and still he demanded Olivier say it himself.
“Because there were things in the cabin I wanted. For myself.”
Olivier looked exhausted, as though he’d coughed up his insides. But Gamache knew there was more.
“Tell us about the carvings.”