“It’s theirs to keep,” Benedict said. “You did your best. We’ll be fine.”
He hugged her closer.
“The sins I was told were mine from birth / And the Guilt of an old inheritance,” thought Gamache as he left them and headed over the Champlain Bridge toward Reine-Marie and home.
Maybe it stops now, with their child.
Hugo Baumgartner was staring at the laptop, his lower lip thrust out in concentration.
“Are you following?” asked Agent Cloutier.
“Yes, thank you,” he said with a patient smile. And returned to the screen. After a few minutes, he sighed. “So Tony and Shaeffer were working together after all. I was wrong. I’m sorry. I really didn’t think Tony had it in him.”
“I’m afraid that’s what it looks like,” said Beauvoir. He scrolled down as he spoke.
Hugo was studying the screen, nodding. “They’ve taken the usual routes to hide money.”
“You know a lot about it?” asked Beauvoir.
“More than some,” he admitted. “But less than most. Mr. Horowitz asked me to head a committee investigating offshore accounts.”
“To set them up?” asked Beauvoir.
Hugo gave him an amused look. “To make sure we weren’t inadvertently helping clients hide money. Partly moral, but also practical. Mr. Horowitz is wealthy enough, he doesn’t need that money, and he sure doesn’t need the trouble if the regulators and the media find out.”
“Did you find any?” asked Beauvoir.
“More than we expected, Chief Inspector. The wealthy have a way of justifying things. They live in distorted reality. If everyone at the club’s doing it, it must be okay.”
“‘They’?” asked Beauvoir. “You don’t consider yourself one of them?”
“Wealthy? No,” he laughed. “I’m very well off, rich by most standards, but these people have hundreds of millions. I’m not in that club, nor do I wish to be. I’m happy where I am.”
Hugo returned to the screen. “One thing I do know is that we’ll need to find the number of the account in Singapore. Has Shaeffer given it to you?”
“He says he doesn’t have it. In fact, he seemed surprised about this second account.”
“He must be lying,” said Hugo. “Unfortunately, the bank in Singapore won’t tell you, and they can’t be compelled to give out the information. But Tony must’ve written it down somewhere.”
“Well,” said Beauvoir. “You’re right about that. It was written down.”
“You found it?” asked Hugo.
“Behind the painting,” said Agent Cloutier.
“Which painting?” asked Caroline.
“The one in his study,” said Beauvoir. “Above the fireplace.”
“Of the crazy old lady?” said Caroline. “That’s where Anthony hid it?” She thought for a moment, then said, “Smart, actually. It’d be pretty safe there. I can tell you that no one goes near it. God knows what the Baroness saw in that thing. Miserable piece of so-called art. You thought the same thing, didn’t you?”
Hugo nodded.
“Poor Anthony ended up with it,” she said. “Told her he liked it. Something about a white dot in the distance. He was just being polite, and look where it got him. She gave it to him, and he had to hang it up. No matter what you say he did, there was a lot of kindness in him.”
“I haven’t said he did anything,” said Beauvoir. “At least not anything illegal.”
“What do you mean?” She pointed to the laptop. “Isn’t that the proof?”
Beauvoir nodded to Cloutier, who started putting the numbers in.
“After all our high-tech hunting, it was writing on the back of a painting that finally gave us the proof we needed.”
Cloutier hit enter, and up came the account.
Caroline’s eyes widened.
“Three hundred and seventy-seven million,” she whispered.
Then her expression changed, to confusion.
“But I don’t understand. That says Hugo Baumgartner.” She turned to her brother. “Was Anthony trying to make it look like it was you?” And then she understood.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir stood, and Agent Cloutier experienced another first.
Her first arrest for murder.
CHAPTER 38
“So.” Ruth’s voice, querulous, stalked in from the living room to the kitchen, where Armand and Reine-Marie were preparing warm hors d’oeuvres. “The idea is to run around the village green at minus twenty, in our bathing suits, wearing snowshoes?”
“Yes,” said Gabri. “It was Myrna’s idea.”
“Was not.”
“Was too.”
“I think it’s brilliant,” said Ruth. “Count me in.”
“We’re doing this at night, right?” Clara whispered to Gabri.
“Now we are.”
“Have you heard from Justin Trudeau yet?” Myrna asked. “Is he coming?”
“Oddly, the Baroness Bertha Baumgartner here has not yet heard back from the Prime Minister’s office,” said Olivier.
“You used her name?” asked Ruth.
“It was Myrna’s idea,” said Gabri.
“Was not.”
“Was too.”
“That’s … that’s…” Ruth struggled to find the right word. “Brilliant too. She’d have liked that. But I can’t believe Justin Trudeau isn’t keen to strip down and race around a tiny village. He’s taken his shirt off for less. He once did it for a bag of Cheetos. I think.”
“We still have time,” said Gabri. “He’ll reply. The winter carnival isn’t until the weekend.”
“If there was a ribbon for faint hope, he’d win,” said Olivier with pride.
“Okay, here’s a question,” said Ruth. “One that philosophers have been asking for centuries. Which would you rather have? A numb skull or a numb nut?”
“Dear God,” whispered Reine-Marie, peering around the corner of the kitchen at their assembled guests. “What’ve we done?”
“Ahh, the age-old question,” said Stephen Horowitz, sitting beside Ruth on the sofa. “I believe Socrates asked his students the same thing.”
“It was Plato,” said Ruth.
“Was not.”
“Was too.”
“I think,” Armand said to Reine-Marie, “we should keep an eye out for two more Horsemen.”
“Well, he’s your godfather,” she said. “And it was your idea to invite him down to meet Ruth.”
“I kind of thought they might cancel each other out.”
“More like Godzilla meets Mothra,” said Gabri, walking into the kitchen and taking a grilled parmesan on baguette off the tray they were preparing. “Tokyo is not safe. We, by the way, are Tokyo.”
“There you are, Armand,” said Stephen when they returned to the living room. “I have some questions for you.”
“Numb skull,” said Armand.
“No, not that. Though that is the right answer.” The elderly man looked at the hors d’oeuvre platter and asked, “Caviar?”
“They’re provincial,” said Ruth. “Come over to my place later. I have a little jar and a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon.”
“Taken from us on New Year’s Eve,” muttered Olivier, still fuming.
“The jar of caviar was open,” said Clara. “By now it’ll probably kill her.”
“That’s the one you took,” said Myrna. “We ate it the next day, with chopped egg on toast.”
“Oh right. Never mind.”
Stephen held out his glass, and Armand refreshed it. “You know what I’m going to ask.”
“I’ll let Jean-Guy explain,” said Armand, correctly guessing what was on Stephen Horowitz’s mind. “He’s the head of homicide. He figured it out.”
Jean-Guy looked uncomfortable, and not just because Rosa was sitting on his lap. Beside him, in the crook of his arm, Honoré was staring at Rosa, transfixed by the duck, who was muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Then Jean-Guy heard another voice repeating the same word.
His eyes widened, and he looked at Annie, who was staring at their son.
His first word.
Not “Mama.” Not “Papa.”
“Shhh,” said Jean-Guy, but by now others had noticed the odd echo coming from the armchair.
“I think,” said Annie, going over and scooping up their son, “it’s time for a bath.”
And that’s when Honoré let loose. One great, long “Fuuuuck!”