Once again Armand felt the body of the young man on his back. As Benedict protected him from falling debris.
And then, when the worst was over and he could straighten up, Armand had looked, through grit-clogged eyes, at the young man in the silly hat. With blood streaming down his face. From a chunk of concrete that would almost certainly, Armand knew, have struck him.
It was an act of extreme selflessness. And instinct. It spoke of Benedict’s good heart, though it was no use denying that his brain was perhaps not the sharpest.
Gamache got up. “I’ve got to go meet him. He’s giving me a lift back to Three Pines. I’m probably late already.”
“Can I drive you over?” Jean-Guy asked as they walked to the front door.
“If you don’t mind.”
Beauvoir went down the outside stairs to start the car.
Gamache thanked Isabelle. And she thanked him.
“What for?” he asked.
“For this. For not leaving me behind.”
“Never.” He kissed her on both cheeks, then walked carefully down the flight of icy steps. But at the bottom he stopped. Dead.
Then, as Beauvoir watched from the warming car, Armand turned and raced back up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Shouting to Isabelle.
Beauvoir got out of the car and was halfway up the stairs himself when Gamache emerged from Isabelle’s home.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Jean-Guy asked.
“What was the name,” Gamache asked, his voice brusque, “of the young woman who was at the top of the contact list for Madame Baumgartner?”
As he spoke, he came down the stairs quickly, faster than he probably should have.
“In the seniors’ home?” asked Beauvoir. “I can’t remember.”
“Can you find it?”
“I can find my notes.”
“Great,” said Gamache as he got into the passenger seat. “Give them to me, please.”
Beauvoir handed them over, then drove as Gamache turned on the reading light and scanned, not even bothering to put on his glasses. After a couple minutes, he lowered the notes, wiped his eyes, and stared out the windshield.
“Katie Burke,” he said.
“Yes, that’s it,” said Beauvoir. He glanced over at Gamache. “What is it?”
Something had happened.
“I asked Isabelle for the full name of Benedict’s girlfriend—”
“Katie Burke,” guessed Beauvoir, and he saw Gamache nod. “Holy shit,” exhaled Beauvoir. “Benedict’s girlfriend not only knew the Baroness but was her first contact?”
He was elated, but as he shot a look at Gamache, he could see that far from being triumphant at finding this unexpected connection, Gamache was subdued.
There was silence as they drove through the now-dark streets of the city, and both men considered what this might mean.
When he pulled over to drop Gamache off, Beauvoir said, “Benedict lied.”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me there when you speak with him, patron?”
“No, that’s not necessary. You have a lot to do. Isabelle said she’d find out all she can about Katie Burke and report back to you.”
“Well, at least we now know how Benedict got onto Madame Baumgartner’s will,” said Beauvoir. “But we don’t know why.”
“We will,” said Gamache, his voice clipped.
It was going to be, Beauvoir thought, a very long drive back to Three Pines, for both Gamache and the young man.
It was never a good idea to lie to the Chief.
Jean-Guy headed off for his interview with Bernard Shaeffer, who even now was waiting in an interview room at Sûreté headquarters.
Gamache stood on the sidewalk, scanning for Benedict. The warmth of the drive over slid off him as the biting cold seeped up the cuffs of his sleeves and down his collar and settled against the exposed skin of his face.
But he felt none of that. He was staring ahead. Thinking. Trying to bridge the chasm between what he knew and what he felt.
“Chief Superintendent” came a familiar voice, and Gamache turned to see Hugo Baumgartner approaching. “You look deep in thought,” said the ugly little man.
A thick winter coat, a tuque, and cheeks ruddy with cold did nothing to improve Baumgartner’s appearance.
But his eyes were bright and his deep voice warm.
“I was.”
“Can I help you with anything?”
“No, I’m just waiting for my lift, merci.”
“Would you like to wait inside?” Hugo waved behind him, toward the office building he’d just come from. The head office of Horowitz Investments.
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
But Hugo didn’t leave. He stood beside Gamache, shifting from cold foot to cold foot. And thumping his gloved hands together. He looked like a lug, a pug, a failed boxer who made a living being beaten up by his betters in practice rounds.
Gamache turned to him. Clearly Hugo had something to say.
“I hear you had lunch with Mr. Horowitz.”
“I did,” said Gamache. “How’d you know about that?”
“Ahh, the street. Everyone knows everything. For instance, I know that during lunch Stephen approached that moron Filatreau and told him he was dumping his stock.”
“True. Do you know what Monsieur Filatreau had for lunch?”
It was meant as a joke, but Hugo answered, “Sweetbreads. And you had sea bass.”
Gamache’s smile faded, and he nodded. The street, it seemed, was well informed.
“What else do you know, Monsieur Baumgartner?”
“I know you asked about my brother and that Stephen said he was a crook. Mr. Horowitz is a financial genius and a good judge of character. But he isn’t always right. He likes to imagine the worst in people. His worldview is that everyone’s a crook. Or about to be.”
“He spoke highly of you.”
“Well, maybe I have him fooled,” said Hugo. “My brother was a good man. He wouldn’t steal. Word’s spreading that that’s why he was killed. You have to find out who did this, please. It’s bad enough what happened. Anthony’s reputation can’t be ruined too.”
“What do you know about the will?”
“My mother’s? Just what you do. That she believed the hokum about some long-lost family fortune that was really ours. It was amusing to us as kids but grew tiresome.”
“And yet when we were reading the will, and your brother and sister seemed embarrassed by it, you defended your mother.”
“Her, yes, but not the will.”
“As I remember, you did defend it, saying you thought maybe she was right.”
Hugo looked around and again shifted from foot to foot. “I loved my mother and hated when anyone mocked her. Even Tony and Caroline.”
“You’re a loyal man.”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
“Not at all. I admire it. But loyalty can blind us to the truth about people. Though, as it turns out, your mother might’ve actually been right.”
“What do you mean?”
Hugo had stopped shifting and stared at Gamache.
“I think you know exactly what I mean, monsieur. Think about it, and call me when you decide you do know.”
He gave Hugo a card.
Just then Gamache saw Benedict draw up in his Volvo. It was rush hour and dark, and it didn’t take long for other cars to start honking at Benedict, who was gesturing at Gamache to hurry.
“There’s one more thing,” said Gamache. “Who’s Katie Burke?”
“Who?”
“It’s cold, and my ride is about to be murdered by other drivers, so just tell me. You know I know.”
“Then why ask?”
“To see just how truthful you decide to be. So far you’re not doing well.”
“I’ve told you the truth about my brother.”
“Did you?”
There was a pause, and all they could hear were more horns joining in, a veritable shriek of rage from rue Sherbrooke. Directed at Benedict.
“Who is Katie Burke, Monsieur Baumgartner?”
“She used to visit the Baroness in the nursing home.”