All the Devils Are Here

The taxi pulled into the entrance to the luxury hotel.

A man in livery opened the door and escorted them in. Armand gave him a twenty-euro note, and the man bowed and backed away.

The marble lobby was chock-full of fresh flowers, in banks and sprays, reaching almost to the twenty-foot ceiling. It was like stepping into a forest of blooms.

“Keep walking,” Armand whispered to Reine-Marie, their feet echoing on the marble floor. “Look like we belong.”

She smiled at him, then caught the eye of a uniformed bellhop, and, nodding, she swept right by her, with a casual “Bonjour,” as though she was a habituée.

Armand still carried the cardboard box from the hospital, but walked with such authority no one challenged them.

Mercifully, they had the elevator to themselves and could relax.

But Reine-Marie suddenly turned to Armand. “Have you told Mrs. McGillicuddy?”

“Not yet. I’ve emailed and asked her to call me when she can.”

“She’s going to be devastated.”

Agnes McGillicuddy had been Stephen’s private secretary for fifty-six years. Now in her mid-eighties, she’d refused to be rebranded an assistant, and lorded it over the outer office like a Hound of Hell.

She was married to Mr. McGillicuddy, he of no fixed first name. Sometimes Stephen called him Jeremiah. Sometimes Josephat. Sometimes Brian.

Armand was never sure if he did it because he really didn’t know Mr. McGillicuddy’s name, or to annoy Mrs. McGillicuddy. Though she refused to rise to it.

They had no children, and despite the fact Stephen was actually older than she, she treated him like a son.

The Gamaches knew her well, though neither had ever actually seen her away from her desk.

When they got to room 815, Reine-Marie knocked once. Then again.

A chambermaid came down the hall, looked at them, then walked right by.

Armand quickly unlocked the door, saying, “Hurry. She’s going to call security. We don’t have much time.”

“Allô?” Reine-Marie called once the door closed behind them. Silence.

This was no normal hotel room. It wasn’t even a normal suite. It was practically a castle within a castle.

“You take down here,” he said. “I’ll go upstairs. Hurry. They’ll be here soon.”

“There’s an upstairs?”

But Armand was already halfway up the curving stairway.

While vast, the main floor didn’t take long to explore. It was essentially one palatial room, with a sitting area in front of a fireplace and a long, polished dining table under a Murano glass chandelier. A powder room was just off the entrance, and a kitchenette tucked away at the back.

In case the billionaire wanted to make his own dinner, she thought. The only “cooking” she’d seen Stephen do was open a tin of cashews. And even that was a struggle.

Though she did notice a paper bag on the counter. Opening it, she saw one croissant.

Newspapers sat by one of the armchairs, with a book called The Investment Zoo on top of them.

There were signs not just of occupation, but of someone having settled in.

Reine-Marie found Armand in a small upstairs study, rifling through the desk.

“Stephen’s definitely staying here,” he said, looking up briefly. “His things are in the bedroom. But I think someone else is, too. There’s another bedroom with an unopened suitcase. Can you see what you can find?”

The second bedroom was larger than most Paris apartments. She went straight to the bag, really more a carry-on than a suitcase, and quickly went through the contents. Toiletry kit. A suit, silk tie, two clean white shirts, underwear, and black socks. Fine handmade leather shoes. Pajamas, and a book.

She searched for something to identify the owner. Clearly a man. Probably older, judging by the style of suit. Not planning to stay long.

Whoever this belonged to hadn’t had time yet to unpack.

There was an ensuite with hotel toiletries, but nothing else.

She froze as she heard a chime. The doorbell. They’d run out of time.

Armand appeared at the door to the bedroom. “They’re here. Can you stall them?”

“You keep going,” she said, heading down the stairs as the chime sounded again. It was cheerful and discreet, but to her it sounded like a shriek.

She was halfway down when the door opened.

“Bonjour,” a man’s voice called out. “Monsieur Horowitz? It’s the duty manager. Is there anyone here? Is everything all right?”

A middle-aged man stepped into the suite and stopped when he saw her.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Two large men in beautifully tailored suits and wearing earpieces stood behind him.

They looked out of place in the almost effete surroundings. Like street fighters at a tea party.

George V was home to many wealthy and powerful people. Clearly there was need of a security presence. And not a very discreet one.