All the Devils Are Here(42)

She explained.

“It was a good try,” he said as he shoved a few inches away from her and gestured to Jacques to bring their bill. Quickly.

From a distance, Jacques waved the suggestion, or something, away.

Their food and drink were on the house.

As Reine-Marie and Beauvoir stepped into the fresh air and sunshine on boulevard Raspail, they noticed that Armand was still inside.

He’d paused at the entrance and was, once again, staring down at the mosaic in the floor.

Jostled and shoved by impatient guests, Armand stood his ground and contemplated the ancient symbol of Paris before it was Paris.

Jacques had quoted the Latin motto. Fluctuat nec mergitur.

Beaten by the waves, but never sinks.

For the first time, despite seeing it for decades, Armand realized the mosaic looked like a scene from The Tempest. Shakespeare’s play opened with a terrible storm, and a ship in peril.

As a young man leaped from a sinking ship to almost certain death, he screamed, “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.”

Armand raised his head and looked around.

Here, here? In the H?tel Lutetia?





CHAPTER 14




Beauvoir sat on the Paris métro as it rumbled out of the center of the city to the area known as La Défense, where he worked.

The district sounded more romantic than it actually was.

When Jean-Guy heard that’s where he’d be working, he’d been excited. The very name, La Défense, conjured childhood images of chivalry. Of bold and brave deeds. Of towers erected to defend the City of Light.

There were indeed towers in La Défense. Incredible numbers of them. But they wouldn’t repel a rock, never mind an army. They were made of glass.

There was barely a tree, barely any grass to be seen. Just concrete. And glass. With helicopters droning overhead, ferrying presidents and CEOs to important meetings.

Beauvoir wondered if their feet ever actually touched the ground.

It was a place of industry, of finance, of unimaginable wealth.

Of inconceivable power.

And that, he suspected as the train approached his stop, was what they were defending.

As he got off, he looked around.

This man, born and raised in inner-city Montréal, was beginning to yearn for a tree. Or two. Or maybe even three.

*

Reine-Marie parted with Armand at the Quai des Orfèvres, but not before giving him the paper bag with her purchase from Le Bon Marché.

While she went home to take a long, long, hot, hot shower, he approached the old building overlooking the Seine.

The 36, as it was known, had once been the bustling headquarters of the Paris police. How many cops, how many criminals, had walked through that archway?

Most of the operations had been moved to more modern facilities, leaving just the BRI. The Brigade de recherche et d’intervention. The serious crimes squad.

It was also where the Prefect chose to have his main office.

As Gamache approached the door, his phone vibrated.

Before he even had a chance to bring it to his ear, he heard a gravelly voice say, “Is it Mr. Horowitz? Has something happened?”

It was Agnes McGillicuddy.

“He’s alive, but he was hit by a van last night.”

“Is he all right?”

He could hear the fear, and delusion, in that question.

How could a ninety-year-old man be all right after that?

“He’s in a coma,” Armand went on. His voice gentle. Though he knew nothing could soften the blow he was about to deliver to an eighty-year-old woman who also loved Stephen. “He might not recover.”

As he spoke, Armand walked away from the 36, down the stone ramp to the walkway along the Seine.

“How could you let this happen?” Mrs. McGillicuddy demanded.

Armand opened and closed his mouth. Surprised by the accusation and trying to work out an answer. Should he have, could he have, prevented it?

“I’m sorry,” was all he could think of to say. “I didn’t see it coming. Mrs. McGillicuddy, do you know why Stephen was in Paris?”

“To see you, of course. And because of the baby. He wants to be there to support you all.”

“He isn’t here just for that. Stephen’s also in Paris for a board meeting.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“We found the annual report on his desk. For the engineering company GHS. It’s in his agenda.”

“Not in the one I have.”

“His personal agenda.”

“Mr. Horowitz isn’t on any boards anymore. He gave them all up.”

“Why?”

“Most corporations have bylaws saying board members must step down at a certain age. Mr. Horowitz passed all those ages. And then some.”

Bikers pedaled by. Kids on scooters passed. Pedestrians walking dogs glanced at the man staring into the river.

“Why would he have the annual report then?”

“He liked reading annual reports, like others like reading celebrity magazines.”

“Was he ever on the board of GHS Engineering?”

“No.”

“Does he own shares in the company?”

“I’d have to check.” He heard clicking as she looked it up on her laptop. “No. It’s privately owned. Not publicly traded on the stock exchange.”