All the Devils Are Here(17)

Instead she said, “That cop didn’t believe that the van meant to hit Stephen.”

“Non.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” It would not occur to Beauvoir to doubt Gamache. “The question is, will this Claude Dussault believe it?”

It was the middle of the night, though they couldn’t tell in the windowless, airless corridor.

The activity just down the hall, where emergency cases first arrived, had not let up. Accidents. Coronaries. Strokes. Victims of violence.

There were screams of pain, and shouts for assistance by medical personnel.

Armand was beginning to recognize voices. There was the overwhelmed intern. The harried paramedics. The firm nurse. The cool senior doctor and the janitor with his almost eerie whistle.

The noise and activity had gone from a cacophony, jangling Armand’s nerves and bringing back deeply unpleasant memories, to almost soothing in their familiarity.

Armand found his eyelids heavy and his head falling back against the wall.

It was two thirty in the morning, and he hadn’t slept for two days, since the overnight Air Canada flight from Montréal.

Claude had found a vending machine and bought them coffee. Wretched but welcome. But even that weak shot of caffeine couldn’t keep him alert.

Armand’s head hit the wall, and he jerked awake. Wiping his face with his hands, he felt the beginning of stubble, then looked over at Claude, who was reading.

“You can go, you know. You have to be at work soon.”

Dussault looked up. “It’s Saturday. The boss gave me the day off.”

“You’re the boss.”

“Convenient, that. I’m staying.” He lifted the tablet and said, “The report from the responding officer mentions alcohol on your breath, and that your eyes were bloodshot.”

“I’d had two glasses of wine with dinner. I wasn’t drunk.”

“But with jet lag, it’s possible it affected you more than you realized.”

“It’s been a while since I was drunk, but believe me, I know what it feels like. I was, and am, completely sober. And I know what I saw.”

“You think that van meant to hit Stephen Horowitz.”

“Not just hit, kill. Not just think, but know.”

Dussault took a deep breath and nodded. “Then I believe you. But it does raise some questions.”

“Really?” said Gamache and saw Dussault smile.

“I’ve assigned this to my second-in-command. She works out of the Quai des Orfèvres,” said Dussault.

“She? I thought your number two was Thierry Girard.”

Dussault shook his head. “Like your second-in-command, mine has also jumped ship. I think they just might be smarter than us, Armand. They’re not getting shot at, and they’re managing to make more in a year than I do in five.”

“Ahhh, but we have a dental plan,” said Armand.

“Unfortunately, we need it. Still, I have an excellent replacement in Irena Fontaine. I’ll arrange a meeting tomorrow morning.”

“Merci.”

“We’ll keep the details, and our suspicions, quiet of course. I had no idea you knew Stephen Horowitz.”

“Know him,” Armand corrected. He knew he was being pedantic, but he needed to keep Stephen alive, even if it was just grammatically. “He practically raised me, along with my grandmother.”

Dussault was familiar with that part of Armand’s life, so didn’t need to dredge it up again. But he did have more questions.

“How did you meet him?”

“He was a friend of my father’s. They met at the end of the war. Stephen was acting as an interpreter for the allies.”

“He’s German, isn’t he?”

There was, quite naturally, an assumption in that question. “He was born in Germany, but escaped and came to Paris. Worked with the Resistance.”

“Escaped, you say. Is he Jewish?”

“Not that I know of. More of a humanist really.”

Dussault was quiet, and Armand looked over at him. “What is it?”

“Not that I’m doubting you, or him, but my father used to marvel how many men and women suddenly fought with the Resistance when the war ended.”

Armand nodded. “My grandmother used to say the same thing.”

“I’d forgotten that she was from Paris.”

“The Jewish Quarter. Le Marais, yes. Before …” But he left it at that. “Stephen never spoke of the war. She did, but rarely.”

“Then how do you know he was in the Resistance?”

“I heard my mother and father talking about him.”

“You must’ve been just a child.”

“I was. I didn’t completely understand, of course. Later Stephen told me that my father helped him get to Montréal and loaned him the money to start his business. When I was born, they named him as a godparent.”

“Awkward, for someone who doesn’t believe in God.”

“I think maybe he believes, but is just angry. Giving Him the silent treatment.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t get to meet Him soon. I don’t envy le bon Dieu.”

Armand smiled at that and imagined Stephen, whole and strong, standing at the Gates.