The Long Way Home(20)

“Mmmmmm.”

Gamache watched, pleased to see Jean-Guy’s appetite so strong.

Then he picked up a round shrimp and cilantro dumpling with his chopsticks and ate it.

Beauvoir watched and noted that the Chief’s hand didn’t tremble. Not much. Not anymore.

The hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Chinatown was filling with customers.

“Some din,” said Jean-Guy, raising his voice over the lunch noise.

Gamache laughed.

Beauvoir wiped his chin with a thin paper napkin and looked over at his notebook, splayed open on the laminate table beside his bowl.

“Okay, here’s the thing,” he said. “I did a quick search on Peter’s credit cards and his bank card. When he left Clara, he stayed in a hotel in Montréal for a week or so. A suite at the Crystal.”

“A suite?” asked Gamache.

“Not the largest one, though.”

“So he packed his hair shirt after all,” said Gamache.

“Well, yes. Is cashmere considered hair?”

Gamache smiled. By Morrow standards the elegant Hotel Le Crystal was probably the equivalent of the rack. It wasn’t the Ritz.

“And then?” asked Gamache.

“Air Canada to Paris. A geographical?” asked Beauvoir.

The Chief thought about that. “Perhaps.”

The investigators knew that people who took off were running from unhappiness. Loneliness. Failure. They ran, thinking the problem was one of location. They thought they could start fresh somewhere else.

It rarely worked. The problem was not geographical.

“Where did he stay in Paris?”

“The Hotel Auriane. In the 15th arrondissement.”

“Vraiment?” asked Gamache, a little surprised. He knew Paris well. Their son Daniel, his wife, Roslyn, and their grandchildren lived in Paris, in the 6th arrondissement in an apartment the size of a pie plate.

“Not what you expected, patron?” asked Jean-Guy, who, at dinner parties, pretended to know Paris, but didn’t. He also pretended not to know east-end Montréal. But did.

With Gamache he’d long since given up the pretense.

“Well, the 15th is nice,” said Gamache, thinking about it. “Residential. Lots of families.”

“Not exactly the artistic hub.”

“No,” said Gamache. “How long did he stay?”

Beauvoir consulted his notes. “At the hotel? A few days. Then he rented a furnished apartment, for four months. He left just before his lease was up.”

“And from there?”

“His credit card shows a TGV ticket, one way, to Florence. Then, after a couple of weeks, on to Venice,” said Beauvoir. “He was covering a lot of territory.”

Yes, thought Gamache. The hounds were nipping at Peter Morrow’s heels. Gamache caught a whiff of desperation in this flight across Europe. There didn’t seem to be a plan.

And yet it couldn’t be a complete coincidence that the cities Peter chose were famous for inspiring artists.

“All I have so far are the credit card and bank records,” said Beauvoir. “We know that he flew from Venice to Scotland—”

“Scotland?”

Beauvoir shrugged. “Scotland. From there he came back to Canada. Toronto.”

“Is that where he is now?”

“No. Guess where he went from Toronto.”

Gamache gave Beauvoir a stern look. After his visit with Peter’s mother and stepfather, he wasn’t in the mood for guessing games.

“Quebec City.”

“When was that?” Gamache asked.

“April.”

Gamache did a quick calculation. Four months ago. Gamache put down his cup of green tea and stared at Beauvoir.

“In Quebec City he took three thousand dollars from his bank account.”

Beauvoir looked up from his notebook and slowly closed it.

“And then, no more. He disappeared.”

* * *

Clara and Myrna sat in the Gamaches’ living room. The fireplace was lit and Gamache was pouring drinks. A cold front had rolled in and brought with it chilly temperatures and a soft drizzle.

The fire wasn’t really necessary. It was more for cheer than heat.

Annie had arranged to have dinner with her friend Dominique at the bistro, leaving her parents and her husband to talk with Clara.

“Here you go,” said Gamache, handing Myrna and Clara glasses of Scotch.

“I think you should leave the bottle,” said Clara.

She had the look of a frightened flier staring at the flight attendants during takeoff. Trying to read their expressions.

Are we safe? Are we going down? What’s that smell?

Gamache sat next to Reine-Marie while Beauvoir dragged the wing chair over from the corner. Closing their small circle.

“This is what we found out,” said Gamache. “It isn’t much yet, and it’s far from conclusive.”

Clara didn’t like the sound of that. The attempt to pacify, to reassure. It meant that reassurance was necessary. It meant something was wrong.

It meant that smell was smoke and the sound was an engine failing.

Armand and Jean-Guy told them about their day. On hearing about the visit to Peter’s mother, Clara took a deep, deep breath.