“Like what?”
Beauvoir stared at him for a moment, then stood up.
“I’ll let you think about that. Excuse me.”
Beauvoir nodded to Agent Cloutier, and they went out, leaving Shaeffer to stare at the slowly closing door. Then at the blank wall across from him.
The ice fog that looked pretty when stuck like crystals to branches was a lot less attractive when it settled onto the roads. And then was covered by the soft snow falling.
Benedict and Gamache made small talk, as Benedict drove carefully back to Three Pines, watching for black ice on the highway.
They talked about their day. About the weather.
Benedict asked about Gamache’s eyes.
“Better, thank you. I’m seeing much more clearly.”
They’d lapsed into what appeared to be companionable silence.
But appearances deceived.
Once again Chief Inspector Beauvoir introduced himself and Agent Cloutier, then sat down in the interview room.
“You are Louis Lamontagne?”
“I am.”
“And you work for Taylor and Ogilvy as a broker?”
“I do.”
He was forty-five, maybe slightly older, thought Beauvoir. Plump but not heavy. Just a little soft. “Comfortable” was the word that came to mind. His hair was trimmed and graying.
He looked upright. Intelligent. Conservative in every way. If “trustworthy” had a poster child, it would be the man across the table, thought Beauvoir.
And he wondered if he was looking at another numbered print. Close, but not the real thing.
“You did Anthony Baumgartner’s trades for him, I understand.”
“Yes.”
“How does that work?”
“Well, Tony was a wealth manager, so he created portfolios for his clients. Given their age, their needs, their tolerance for risk, he’d decide which vehicles to put them into. Then he’d ask me to do the actual buying and selling.”
“And that was fine with you?”
“Absolutely. More than fine. He was a brilliant investment adviser. To be honest, if he bought a stock, I’d often put my own clients into it. He had a knack for seeing how apparently unconnected elements came together and could affect the market. It’s a terrible loss. A really sad thing to happen to a fine man. Do you have any ideas who did it?”
“We’re hoping you can help.”
“Anything.”
Beauvoir slid the statements across the table and watched as Monsieur Lamontagne picked them up.
After a minute or so, Beauvoir saw his brows rise, then draw together in concentration and consternation. His blue eyes blinked behind his glasses, and his head leaned to one side. Just a little. Perplexed.
“None of these people are on Tony’s client list. I didn’t do any of these trades.” He looked at Beauvoir over the papers. “I don’t understand.”
“I think you do.”
Lamontagne went back to the statements, going from one to another and rereading the cover letter.
“I can guess,” he said, finally putting them back down on the table. “But I can’t explain.”
“Try.”
Louis Lamontagne held Beauvoir’s eyes, in a look that was smart, assessing.
“I think you already know,” the broker said.
Beauvoir held the gaze but said nothing and saw Lamontagne’s eyes open in surprise.
“You think I had something to do with this.”
“What is ‘this,’ monsieur?” asked Beauvoir.
Watching closely, Agent Cloutier took mental notes. On what the Chief Inspector was saying and not saying. How to imply. How intimating became intimidating. It was subtle, and all the more powerful for it.
In her previous assignment, in the accounting department, she never ended up in interview rooms.
This she found fascinating.
It took nerves, she saw. And intense concentration, while appearing to be completely relaxed. Her instinct was to come out with things. To show how much she knew. Now she could see the value of saying very little. And letting the other person come to their own conclusions about how much was known. Let their fears take hold and take control.
“‘This,’” said the broker, “is a scam. Someone set up a shell and made it appear to be Taylor and Ogilvy business.”
“Someone?”
“I know you want me to say it was Tony, but it could’ve been anyone.”
“Including yourself?” It was said casually, with a touch of humor.
Lamontagne smiled, but his color betrayed him. “I supposed I could have, but I didn’t.”
Beauvoir waited.
“All right, I admit, it looks like it was Tony. His name’s on the statement and the cover letter.”
“With Taylor and Ogilvy letterhead,” said Beauvoir. “The clients would think their money was being managed through the company, but in fact he was stealing it and paying out generous dividends to keep them from asking questions.”
Lamontagne nodded, staring at Beauvoir. “Yes. Exactly.” He picked up the paper again. “Tony must’ve chosen people he knew weren’t plugged into the market. Who almost certainly never read the business pages or the statements.”
“Does this surprise you?” asked Beauvoir.
Lamontagne shifted in his chair.
“I’d have to say it does.”
“But you’ve heard the rumors about Monsieur Baumgartner.”
“I know his license to trade was pulled. That’s why I was asked to do his trading for him. That’s a serious penalty. I’d heard it’s because he was involved in something with clients’ money. But not directly. Apparently it was an assistant who did it, and Tony was the one who blew the whistle. And took some of the blame. The street loves a rumor, and a scandal, and especially loves a fall from a great height, even if it’s unfair. Especially if it’s unfair.”
“You make the street sound like it’s a machine,” said Beauvoir. “And not brokers like yourself.”
“I wasn’t involved in those rumors.”
“But did you do anything to stop them?”
“I didn’t feed them.”
It wasn’t the same as stopping them. As defending Tony Baumgartner.
“Did you think there was truth to the rumors?” asked Beauvoir.
“I saw no reason to believe them,” said Lamontagne.
“Did you see any reason not to believe them?”
“This business is made up of more than its fair share of wide boys.” When Beauvoir looked puzzled, he explained. “Mostly young men desperate to make a killing. Make a mark. They throw money around, they talk loud. They have all sorts of theories about investing that sound good but are bullshit. They genuinely think they’re brilliant. And their confidence convinces clients to invest with them. They’re snake-oil salesmen, and most don’t even realize they have no idea what they’re doing.”
“And Anthony Baumgartner was one of them?”
“No, that’s what I’m saying. He wasn’t. And from what I saw, he didn’t tolerate it. That’s why he turned that young fellow in. He must’ve known there’d be blowback and some of the shit would land on him. And it did. More than he probably realized.”
“So how do you explain this?”
Beauvoir placed his index finger on the statement.
Lamontagne stared at it and sighed. “He was in his mid-fifties. He’d been screwed over by the company. A company he’d helped build. By a woman he’d mentored. He’d been made an example of. Humiliated. It’s possible he saw a bleak future and decided to hell with it. If that’s what came of decency, maybe it was time to be indecent.”
Beauvoir saw another set of documents, pushed toward him. Across a sleek boardroom table. And he saw himself signing. Was he so very different from Anthony Baumgartner? Disillusioned. And now indecent.
“But if that was the case,” Lamontagne went on, “I never saw it. In all the trades I did for him, he was smart and fair. Often brilliant and prescient. He made his clients a lot of money.”
“You’re of course talking about the clients he wasn’t stealing from,” said Beauvoir.
The broker hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. I honestly thought he was one of the good guys.” He smiled. It was more wistful than amused. “There’s a book we’re all told to read when we first get into the business. Tony gave me his copy as a thank-you gift when I agreed to use my license to do his trades. It’s called Extraordinary Popular Delusions and The Madness of Crowds. I guess we’re all deluded at times.”