The crane operator saw their confusion.
‘Yeah, up there.’ He stalked across the floor, his muddy boots thudding on the concrete. Stopping at the statue he pointed.
‘I can’t see anything,’ said Beauvoir to Gamache, who also shook his head.
‘You got to be close to see it,’ said the crane operator, looking around the garage. Spotting a ladder he brought it over and Beauvoir climbed.
‘He’s right. There’s a bird carved here,’ he called down.
Gamache sighed silently. He’d hoped the crane operator had hallucinated. But no. There had to be a bird and it couldn’t be on Morrow’s foot. Beauvoir descended and Gamache stared at the ladder, knowing he had to see for himself.
‘Want a hand?’ smirked Beauvoir with the ease of a man who hadn’t yet found his phobia.
‘Non, merci.‘ Gamache tried to smile, but knew he probably looked maniacal. Eyes bright, hands shaking slightly, lips still trying to form a lie of a smile, he started up the ladder. Two, three, four rungs. Hardly high, but it didn’t have to be. Maybe, like Bean, I’m afraid to leave the ground, he thought with surprise.
He was face to face with Charles Morrow, staring into that grim visage. Then he dropped his eyes and there, etched into the left shoulder, was a tiny bird. But there was something odd about it. Every nerve in his body was begging him to get down. He could feel waves of anxiety wash over him and thought perhaps he’d let go, fling himself off the ladder. Drop onto Beauvoir. Crush him, as Morrow had crushed Julia.
‘You all right up there?’ Beauvoir asked, slightly anxious now.
Gamache forced himself to focus, to see the bird. And then he had it.
No longer trying to appear composed Gamache raced down the ladder, jumping the last two rungs and landing inelegantly at the crane operator’s feet.
‘What kind of a bird is it, do you know?’ Gamache asked.
‘Course I don’t know. It’s a fucking bird. Not a jay, that’s all I know.’
‘Does it matter?’ asked Beauvoir, who knew the chief never asked a question without a reason.
‘It has no feet.’
‘Maybe the guy forgot,’ suggested the operator.
‘Or maybe it was his signature, you know?’ said Beauvoir. ‘The way some artists never do eyes.’
‘Like Little Orphan Annie,’ said the crane operator. ‘Maybe this guy never does feet.’
All three dropped their eyes. Charles Morrow had feet.
They put the ladder away and walked together to the door.
‘Why do you think the bird’s there?’ asked the crane operator.
‘Don’t know,’ said Gamache. ‘We’ll have to ask the artist.’
‘Good luck,’ said the operator, making a face.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Beauvoir asked.
The crane operator looked uncomfortable. What could make a man perfectly willing to admit to a fondness for pixies and fairies uncomfortable, Beauvoir wondered.
The crane operator stopped and looked at them. The younger guy was staring, like a ferret. All eager to pounce. But the older one, the one with the greying moustache and balding head, and the kind, smart eyes, he was quiet. And listening. He squared his shoulders and spoke directly to Gamache.
‘Madame Dubois gave me the address yesterday morning to pick up the statue. Over Saint-Felicien-du-Lac way. I got there in plenty of time. I’m like that. Went to the coffee shop …’
Here we go, thought Beauvoir, and shifted on his feet.
The crane operator paused then plunged. ‘Then I went to the atelier to get him, the statue I mean. Madame Dubois said it was an artist’s studio, but it wasn’t.’
He stopped again.
‘Go on,’ said Gamache quietly.
‘It was a graveyard.’