All the Devils Are Here(37)

Where other patrons were clearly wealthier, more powerful, this one had an assurance. As though he belonged.

And then there’d been the tip. Slipped into his pocket.

Three hundred francs. As much as he’d make in a week.

At the time, though Jacques didn’t know it, Stephen wasn’t yet rich. But he recognized, and rewarded, a hard worker. A worker who cared.

Besides, Stephen Horowitz knew the courage it took to bus tables for difficult, even scary, patrons. Courage must always be rewarded.

The other thing Jacques remembered was looking down the long corridor as Monsieur Horowitz paused at the mosaic in the tile floor by the entrance to the H?tel Lutetia. It was the symbol of the hotel, and also the ancient symbol of Paris.

The city had originally been called Lutetia. And her emblem was a ship in peril on a stormy sea.

That symbol was imbedded in the hotel floor.

Monsieur Horowitz had turned to young Jacques and said, “Fluctuat nec mergitur.”

Every schoolchild in Paris learned those words. It was the motto of the ancient settlement of Lutetia. And of Paris.

“Reminds me of The Tempest,” Monsieur Horowitz had said, nodding to the mosaic.

Jacques had looked around at the hushed corridor. A place less like a storm would be hard to find.

“We are such stuff as dreams are made on,” quoted Monsieur Horowitz. He’d turned his clear, clear crystal-blue eyes on the puzzled busboy. “And sometimes nightmares, eh, young man?” He gazed around before returning to Jacques. “Who knows where we’re going to find the devil?”

“Oui, monsieur.” Though Jacques had no idea, at the time, what the man could possibly be talking about.

That had been almost fifty years earlier.

Now young Armand, for Jacques couldn’t help thinking of this man that way, stood before him. With news.

Jacques was no fool. Monsieur Horowitz was elderly. Getting frailer. He expected, one day, to receive bad news. But he had not expected it to be this bad.

“He’s in the H?tel-Dieu hospital. A hit-and-run.” No need to say more, thought Gamache.

“Merde,” whispered Jacques. “Désolé,” he quickly added, shocked at himself for swearing in front of a patron. He’d have fired a waiter on the spot for doing the same thing.

“You’re right,” said Armand. “It is merde. We’re trying to work out where he was yesterday, and who he met with.”

“I see.”

If Jacques really did see, Armand couldn’t tell. The ma?tre d’s professional mask was back.

“He came here at three thirty and ordered his usual peppermint ice cream.”

Armand almost smiled. “With hot fudge?”

“Of course.”

Three thirty, thought Armand. The time he’d walked Stephen back there. That fit.

He’d sat here, alone, eating his ice cream. And?

Was he expecting someone? Monsieur Plessner maybe? But was he already lying dead across the street?

Why would Stephen be waiting here and not in his own apartment?

He heard Jean-Guy on his phone to Isabelle Lacoste, back at the S?reté headquarters in Montréal. He was asking her to find out all she could about Alexander Francis Plessner.

“Oui, Canadian citizen, probably living in Toronto.”

“Did Monsieur Horowitz meet anyone here in the last ten days?” Gamache asked.

“Ten days? I assumed he’d just arrived.”

Armand brought up a photo on his phone. “Does this man look familiar?”

It was a close-up of Plessner’s face. He appeared asleep. Except for the pallor.

“Is he dead? He looks dead.”

“Please, just tell me if he’s been here recently, or ever. Do you recognize him?”

“No.”

Armand nodded. “Bon. Merci, Jacques. Oh, what time did Stephen leave yesterday?”

“I’d say just after four.”

“He met us at eight,” said Jean-Guy. “Four hours unaccounted for.”

“For now,” said Armand.

“May I visit him?” Jacques asked.

“I’m afraid not. But I’ll let him know you were asking after him.”

“Yes, please. And can you tell him, Fluctuat nec mergitur?”

“What does it mean?” Jean-Guy asked.

“‘Beaten by the waves,’” said the ma?tre d’. “‘But never sinks.’”

Armand and Jacques stared at each other, then nodded. And went about their jobs. Jacques to command the army of staff in the bar and restaurant, and young Armand to find a murderer.





CHAPTER 13




May I help you, madame?” a young man asked.

“I’m trying to find a cologne. I smelled it recently but don’t know the name,” Reine-Marie said. “I’m sorry. That’s not much help.”

“Not to worry,” he said. “I love this sort of thing. Now, are you sure it was a man’s cologne and not a woman’s eau de parfum?”

“Absolutely.”

“Bon,” he said. “That helps. We can ignore all those.” He waved toward the archipelago of women’s scents. And then asked the question she’d been dreading. “Can you describe it?”