All the Devils Are Here(27)

Claude Dussault sighed. “People coming and going. Mistaken identity. We appear to be looking at two different mises-en-scène. I’m seeing an émile Zola tragedy, while you see a farce straight out of Molière.”

It was not unlike what Gamache himself had been thinking a few moments earlier. Though Dussault’s description, while said with humor, held an implied criticism. And some mocking.

“Could be,” said Armand, with equanimity. “Fortunately, truth is on the march and nothing will stop it.”

Dussault laughed and clapped Armand on the arm. Clearly recognizing the Zola quote.

“Touché, mon ami.”

Dussault turned and they continued down the hall.

“Is this the way you came, following the intruder?”

“Yes.”

“He obviously knew there was a back stairway through the kitchen,” said Dussault.

“Exactly. He’d had plenty of time to get to know the apartment. It’s unfortunate. I thought I’d trapped him.”

“How did you even know there was someone else here?” asked Dussault.

“We heard a sound.”

Dussault was shaking his head. “And what would you do, Armand, if one of your agents, unarmed, chased a murderer with a gun down a narrow hallway?”

Armand gave a small laugh. “I’d have them on the carpet for sure.”

“You’d probably be scraping them off the carpet. Not very smart of you. He could’ve shot you, too.”

“Interesting that he didn’t. Though I am grateful.”

“As am I,” said Dussault, with a smile. “But I am also a little surprised.”

They were standing in the kitchen. Like most older apartments in Paris, it was small. Not much more than a galley, though there was a large window that looked out over the rooftops.

Cereal, sugar, coffee had been shaken out. The cupboards emptied.

It had become obvious, as they’d moved deeper into the apartment, that a methodical search had turned to panic, had turned into a sort of frenzy.

The back door was ajar, untouched from when Armand had followed the intruder through it less than half an hour earlier.

Once it was clear the killer had been swallowed by the Saturday morning crowd, Armand had joined Reine-Marie and waited for Claude Dussault and the rest of the gendarmes.

When they arrived just minutes later, Reine-Marie had taken the box of Stephen’s things into bar Joséphine, where she was now waiting.

“I’ll show you where he went,” said Armand, opening the back door with a gloved hand. “Let’s go down.”

Just as they stepped into the stairwell, a voice called from the apartment, “Patron?”

“Here, Irena,” said Dussault, stepping back into the kitchen. “What is it?”

Irena Fontaine stood beside the Prefect. As she’d stood beside and slightly behind him for years. Since she was a junior agent.

When Claude Dussault had been promoted to Prefect after the death of his predecessor, he’d elevated her to head the brigade criminelle.

At thirty-eight, she was the youngest to do so. And only the second woman.

From there, when his longtime second-in-command left the Préfecture, Dussault had promoted her to his number two.

And now, once again, she took her natural place beside him. Tall, blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, she emanated competence. The sort of person, Gamache thought, you’d want piloting any plane you were flying in.

“The coroner’s here. We’re ready to turn him over.” She looked from the Prefect to his companion.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced you. Commander Irena Fontaine is my second-in-command. Chief Inspector Armand Gamache is the head of homicide with the S?reté du Québec. He’s a friend and trusted colleague.”

They shook hands, and Fontaine said, “Québec?”

The slight condescension in the tone had long since stopped bothering Gamache. Her attitude was, after all, not his problem.

“Oui.”

“What’ve you found?” Dussault asked as they walked back down the corridor.

“Shot twice, once in his back, once in the head. Looks like a robbery. The victim returned home, surprised the intruder, and was shot.”

“And yet,” said Gamache, a step behind, “nothing was taken.”

Fontaine stopped and turned. “How do you know that?”

“You can see. The artwork alone is worth a fortune. The intruder took the time to take it off the walls, even tearing the framing paper, but didn’t then cut the paintings out.”

“He was looking for ready cash, jewelry,” said Fontaine. “The victim’s wallet is missing.”

“A little early to come to that conclusion, surely,” said Gamache. “With all this mess, it could be anywhere. It looks more like a search than a robbery, non?”

While annoyed at being contradicted by this stranger, Irena Fontaine couldn’t quite suppress a smile. The Québécois accent always amused her. It was like talking to a bumpkin.

“Non,” she said. “It looks to me like a robbery. Not everyone, monsieur, wants to wander the streets with oil paintings under their arms, trying to fence them.”

“There’s something I’ve failed to tell you, Irena,” said Dussault. “Monsieur Gamache isn’t here in his professional capacity, though that is helpful.” He gave her a stern look. Of reproach, Gamache wondered, or warning? “He knows the owner of this apartment. He and his wife found the body.”