Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(129)

Barry Zalmanowitz was nodding. While others might not understand that obsession, he did. If his daughter had died, he’d have spent his lifetime getting justice. In whatever form it took.

*

The Premier Ministre du Québec listened to the explanation, without comment, without question.

Then he turned to Judge Corriveau.

“How much of this did you know?”

It was time. To link arms with Gamache and cross the bridge at Selma.

To stand in front of a home, and refuse entry to those who would deport, who would hang, who would beat and bully.

The knock was at the door. The Jews in the attic.

It was her time, her turn. To stand up.

“I knew none of it,” she heard herself say.

Beside her in the Premier’s office, Gamache was silent.

“This was all you, Armand?” the Premier asked.

“Oui.”

“But your people went along with it. The Chief Crown went along with it.”

“Yes.”

It was no use saying they were just following his orders, Gamache knew. That was no defense, nor should it be.

“You know what I have to do,” said the Premier. “Breaking the law, perjuring yourself, crossing the border and killing a citizen of another country, no matter how deserving that person was, cannot go unanswered.”

“I understand.”

“You will, of course, be—”

“I knew,” said Maureen Corriveau. She turned to Gamache. “Forgive me, I should’ve admitted it earlier.”

“I understand,” he said. And then, under his breath he said to her, “You’re not alone.”

“Explain,” said the Premier Ministre.

“I didn’t know the specifics, but I did know that something was happening in the trial. Something unusual. I suspected perjury and called Messieurs Gamache and Zalmanowitz into my chambers. They all but admitted it. Enough to have had them arrested, certainly detained. But I let them go.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew there must have been a very good reason. And if they were willing to risk so much, it seemed the least I could do.”

The Premier nodded. “Thank you for that. You do know that if you had detained Monsieur Gamache, all this would have fallen apart. His plan would’ve collapsed, and the cartel would have really and truly won.”

“I do.”

He turned to Gamache.

“You will be relieved of duty. You’ll be on suspension, pending an investigation. As will your second-in-command, Inspector Jean-Guy Beauvoir. I believe you were the leaders?”

“Yes.”

“Superintendent Madeleine Toussaint will be promoted to acting head of the S?reté. She’s certainly been implicated and will be investigated, but someone has to take over, and thanks to you, Armand, all the senior officers are now compromised. That means I either appoint Toussaint, or the janitor.”

“And Chief Inspector Lacoste?” asked Gamache.

“She will stay as head of homicide.”

Armand nodded his thanks. It was a battle he was prepared to fight, but relieved he didn’t have to.

“And me?” asked Judge Corriveau.

“You’re the judge,” he said. “What do you think I should do?”

Maureen Corriveau appeared to think for a moment, then said, “Nothing.”

The Premier lifted his hands. “Sounds reasonable to me. Nothing it is.”

“Pardon?” asked Corriveau. She’d been kidding when she said “nothing.”

“I spoke to the Chief Justice yesterday and told him what I thought might have happened. He agreed that while technically improper, you acted in the best interest of the province. Of the people. You used great judgment.”

The Premier Ministre du Québec stood up and put out his hand.

Judge Corriveau stood and shook it.

“Merci,” he said.

Then he turned to Gamache, also on his feet now.

“I’m sorry, my dear friend, that any punishment should come your way. We should be giving you a medal—”

Gamache leaned away from that suggestion.

“—but I can’t,” continued the Premier. “I can, though, promise you and Inspector Beauvoir a fair investigation.”

He walked them out, then the Premier Ministre closed the door, and closed his eyes. And saw again the charming bistro, and the kindly man with the knife.





CHAPTER 35

“Well,” said Clara. “What do you think?”

In the wake of the attacks, she’d canceled her art show. The vernissage would have been that very day, at the Musée des beaux-arts in Montréal. But instead, she’d hung her latest works in the bistro.

“Certainly covers up the holes,” said Gabri.

It was the best that could be said of the paintings. They couldn’t cover all the huge pockmarks in the plaster walls, but the worst were now hidden behind these strange portraits.

Gabri was not completely convinced it was an improvement.

The debris had been cleaned up. The shattered glass and wood and broken furniture thrown into bins.

The injured were healing. Olivier stood beside him, his arm bandaged and in a sling.

The insurance people had been and gone. And been again, and gone again. And were returning. They could not quite believe the claim that said the damages came from automatic weapons fire. Until they saw. And still, they needed to return.