All the Devils Are Here(23)

Reine-Marie stood her ground, blocking their way. “I’ve told you who I am. Who are you?”

The man, a little taken aback, said, “I’m the duty manager.”

“Yes, but what’s your name? I’m going to have to see your ID before I let you in.”

He seemed reluctant to give it, then relented. “Auguste Pannier.” He showed her his hotel identity card. Which she studied. At some length.

“I don’t want to be rude,” she eventually said, handing it back. “But what are you doing here?”

Now the manager was really stumped. This woman was clearly a trespasser, yet she acted like she not only belonged but owned the place.

He was, perforce, a judge if not of character, then clothing. He quickly took in her bearing, her good-quality slacks, silk scarf, elegant autumn coat. Her style was classic. Her eyes intelligent.

And yet she was hiding something, he knew. Someone, to be more precise.

He was about to repeat his question when they heard footsteps on the stairs and a man appeared.

Middle-aged. Distinguished. In a good suit, tie. Shoes polished. Well-groomed. He, too, looked like he belonged here.

The only things out of place were the cardboard box he carried and the worn leather satchel over his shoulder.

“Bonjour,” said Armand. “We’re sorry to have just let ourselves in, but as my wife said, Monsieur Horowitz has been in an accident and we wanted to collect some things for him.”

Armand did not offer his hand, preferring to appear cordial but aloof. An attitude he’d observed in his godfather more than once.

But he did offer his name. “My name is Armand Gamache.”

“And who are you to Monsieur Horowitz?”

“A close friend.”

“I see. Shall we continue this conversation in my office?”

“If you wish,” said Armand.

“I hope you understand,” said Monsieur Pannier, once in his large mahogany-paneled office behind reception. “But I would like to see what you’ve taken from the suite.”

Armand placed the satchel on the desk and unzipped it.

Inside were pajamas, a dressing gown. Toiletries.

Satisfied, the manager then nodded to the box.

“Unfortunately, I can’t show you this,” said Armand. “It’s from the hospital and contains Monsieur Horowitz’s belongings. As you see, it’s sealed, and we need to keep it like that so that when he recovers he knows nothing has been tampered with. It’s for his protection, and ours.”

Armand made it clear the “ours” now included the duty manager.

There was a moment’s awkward silence.

In fact, as well as Stephen’s things from the hospital, Armand had swept the contents of the desk, including the laptop, into the box. As Reine-Marie stalled them down below, he’d resealed it, then quickly gone into the bedroom and thrown clothes into the satchel.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist,” said Monsieur Pannier.

“And I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Is there a problem?” a new voice came from the door.

Pannier practically shot to his feet. “Non. Not at all.”

A woman stood partway into his office, and Gamache knew he was now looking at the real boss.

She stepped forward, her hand out. “Jacqueline Béland. I’m the General Manager.”

They introduced themselves, and Monsieur Pannier briefly explained the situation.

Madame Béland listened quietly, waiting until he’d finished, then turned to the Gamaches.

“I’m so sorry to hear about Monsieur Horowitz. I expect Monsieur Pannier here has extended the sympathies of the hotel.”

The Gamaches looked at him. Then Reine-Marie turned back to the General Manager. “Yes, thank you. He’s been most gracious.”

They could hear Monsieur Pannier exhale.

There was a slight arch of surprise, and appreciation, to Madame Béland’s brow, but that was all. “You’re a relation of Monsieur Horowitz’s?”

“His godson,” said Armand.

Her eyes dropped to the box. “I’m afraid Monsieur Pannier is right. We’ll need to see what’s inside there, too. I hope you understand.”

And, to be fair, Armand did. Thieves took all shapes and sizes. At luxury hotels they were more likely to look like the Gamaches than a street thug.

“It’s sealed by the hospital,” Armand said. “And I want to keep it that way. But if you’d feel better calling the Préfecture, you might try”—Armand handed her a card—“him.”

Madame Béland’s eyes widened. “You know Monsieur Dussault?”

“I do. Clearly you do, too.”

“He was here just yesterday. A friend of yours?”

“And a colleague, oui. I’m the head of homicide.”

Gamache decided there was no need to specify his territory.

“Armand,” said Reine-Marie. “We should get his things over to him.”

“I’m afraid there is,” the General Manager said, “a small issue of his bill.”

Armand almost smiled. It was a brilliant move on Madame Béland’s part. If they were thieves, they would not be at all happy about handing over a credit card.