All the Devils Are Here(46)
“Sorry. Can’t help,” Loiselle said.
With one final look around, he turned away.
Jean-Guy pretended to play with the machine while watching the guard walk back to the elevator.
Come on, come on. Hurry up.
When the elevator doors opened and finally closed, Beauvoir sprinted across the room, bringing out his phone as he ran. He knew he couldn’t stop the files from being erased, so he did the next best thing.
He recorded the messages as they flashed up and disappeared.
CHAPTER 16
Merci,” said Gamache when Claude Dussault’s assistant put the espresso in front of him.
“Je vous en prie,” said the young man, and withdrew from the office.
Armand had been in the famed 36 many times, and in this very office quite often. With its grimy old windows, long since painted shut. No doubt with lead-based paints. The coal-burning fireplace thankfully no longer worked. And there was probably asbestos in the ceiling.
It smelled musky, as though there might be dead things mummified in the walls.
The building was damp and chilly in winter, and stifling in summer. And yet it contained so much history, it thrilled Gamache every time he entered.
He could understand the need to modernize, and that meant moving to a new location, but he’d been glad to hear the Prefect had maintained an office here.
Claude’s desk had framed pictures of his wife and children. And dog. The walls were covered with photos of colleagues, though not one, he noticed, of Dussault’s predecessor, Clément Prévost.
Dussault accepted his espresso with thanks, then dismissed his assistant with a nod. Leaning forward, he asked, “How’re you doing, Armand?”
“I’m holding it together.”
“Are you?”
Dussault could see the strain around his friend’s eyes and the slight pallor that came from little sleep and a lot of worry.
Does he know Horowitz is going to die?
Does he know why?
What exactly does Gamache know?
Armand took a long sip of his espresso. It was rich and strong and exactly what he needed.
He regarded the man in front of him and wondered, What exactly does Claude Dussault know?
“I just spoke to Stephen’s assistant,” he said, leaning back and crossing his legs. “Agnes McGillicuddy. I’ll give you her coordinates. She’s probably someone you’d like to connect with. But it was …” Armand paused to gather his thoughts. “Difficult. Emotional. She’s in her eighties and has been with Stephen almost since the beginning.”
“Did you tell her everything?”
“I told her I thought it was deliberate, yes. And about Monsieur Plessner.”
“We haven’t released the news about Monsieur Plessner, but Stephen Horowitz is making headlines.”
“You put it out as an accident. A hit-and-run. Best thing to do,” said Armand.
“Still, the press will be onto her. She’ll need to be careful about what she says.”
“She’ll say nothing.”
Dussault looked skeptical.
“I can guarantee it,” said Gamache. “Stephen chose her for that reason, and kept her for that reason.”
“Even under torture, Mrs. McGillicuddy wouldn’t reveal anything,” Stephen used to say. And Armand knew he wasn’t joking.
Stephen Horowitz knew who would crack, and who would not. It was how he measured people. Most, of course, came up short. But not Agnes McGillicuddy.
Fortunately, the press in Canada, though capable of tormenting, hadn’t yet stooped to actual torture.
Gamache, while often in their crosshairs, had a great deal of respect for journalists.
He now filled the Prefect in on everything Mrs. McGillicuddy had said.
“So she claims not to know why Monsieur Horowitz was in Paris,” said Dussault.
“If she says it, it’s true.”
“She did admit Monsieur Horowitz knew Alexander Plessner,” said Dussault. “That’s something.”
Gamache uncrossed his legs and placed the demitasse on the table. “Monsieur Plessner was an engineer.”
“C’est vrai?” said Dussault.
He sounded as though this was news, and yet he didn’t look surprised. Not by the information, at least. Perhaps slightly by the fact Gamache knew.
“Oui. My second-in-command, Isabelle Lacoste, passed along the information a few minutes ago. Trained as a mechanical engineer. Worked in the field for several years before making a fortune in venture capital.”
Dussault was taking notes. “Merci.”
It seemed incredible, and unlikely, to Gamache that Dussault’s own people hadn’t found this out themselves.
“I’d like to go through the box of Stephen’s things again,” he said. “I didn’t get a good look the first time.”
“I don’t have it. Handed it over to Commander Fontaine. I’ll ask her to give you what you want. But that reminds me. Monsieur Horowitz’s laptop is in there. We need the password and any codes he might’ve used. Do you know them?”
“No, but I can ask Mrs. McGillicuddy.”
“That’s okay, I’ll ask.”
“I doubt she’d give them to you.”