All the Devils Are Here
- Автор: Пенни Луиза
- Серия: Chief Inspector Gamache #16
- Год: 2020
- Язык: английский
- Год: St. Martin's Publishing Group
- ISBN: 9781250145253
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «All the Devils Are Here». Краткое содержание книги:
On their first night in Paris, the Gamaches gather as a family for a bistro dinner with Armand's godfather, the billionaire Stephen Horowitz. Walking home together after the meal, they watch in horror as Stephen is knocked down and critically injured in what Gamache knows is no accident, but a deliberate attempt on the elderly man's life.
When a strange key is found in Stephen's possession it sends Armand, his wife Reine-Marie, and his former second-in-command at the Sûreté, Jean-Guy Beauvoir, from the top of the Tour d'Eiffel, to the bowels of the Paris Archives, from luxury hotels to odd, coded, works of art.
It sends them deep into the secrets Armand's godfather has kept for decades.
A gruesome discovery in Stephen's Paris apartment makes it clear the secrets are more rancid, the danger far greater and more imminent, than they realized.
Soon the whole family is caught up in a web of lies and deceit. In order to find the truth, Gamache will have to decide whether he can trust his friends, his colleagues, his instincts, his own past. His own family.
For even the City of Light casts long shadows. And in that darkness devils hide.
“My name is Reine-Marie Gamache,” she said, slowly walking down the last few steps. “I’m a friend of Stephen Horowitz. I’m afraid he’s been in an accident.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is he all right?”
“He’s in the hospital.”
“There was a man with you. Where is he?” the manager asked, trying to get around her.
Reine-Marie stood her ground, blocking their way. “I’ve told you who I am. Who are you?”
The man, a little taken aback, said, “I’m the duty manager.”
“Yes, but what’s your name? I’m going to have to see your ID before I let you in.”
He seemed reluctant to give it, then relented. “Auguste Pannier.” He showed her his hotel identity card. Which she studied. At some length.
“I don’t want to be rude,” she eventually said, handing it back. “But what are you doing here?”
Now the manager was really stumped. This woman was clearly a trespasser, yet she acted like she not only belonged but owned the place.
He was, perforce, a judge if not of character, then clothing. He quickly took in her bearing, her good-quality slacks, silk scarf, elegant autumn coat. Her style was classic. Her eyes intelligent.
And yet she was hiding something, he knew. Someone, to be more precise.
He was about to repeat his question when they heard footsteps on the stairs and a man appeared.
Middle-aged. Distinguished. In a good suit, tie. Shoes polished. Well-groomed. He, too, looked like he belonged here.
The only things out of place were the cardboard box he carried and the worn leather satchel over his shoulder.
“Bonjour,” said Armand. “We’re sorry to have just let ourselves in, but as my wife said, Monsieur Horowitz has been in an accident and we wanted to collect some things for him.”
Armand did not offer his hand, preferring to appear cordial but aloof. An attitude he’d observed in his godfather more than once.
But he did offer his name. “My name is Armand Gamache.”
“And who are you to Monsieur Horowitz?”
“A close friend.”
“I see. Shall we continue this conversation in my office?”
“If you wish,” said Armand.
“I hope you understand,” said Monsieur Pannier, once in his large mahogany-paneled office behind reception. “But I would like to see what you’ve taken from the suite.”
Armand placed the satchel on the desk and unzipped it.
Inside were pajamas, a dressing gown. Toiletries.
Satisfied, the manager then nodded to the box.
“Unfortunately, I can’t show you this,” said Armand. “It’s from the hospital and contains Monsieur Horowitz’s belongings. As you see, it’s sealed, and we need to keep it like that so that when he recovers he knows nothing has been tampered with. It’s for his protection, and ours.”
Armand made it clear the “ours” now included the duty manager.
There was a moment’s awkward silence.
In fact, as well as Stephen’s things from the hospital, Armand had swept the contents of the desk, including the laptop, into the box. As Reine-Marie stalled them down below, he’d resealed it, then quickly gone into the bedroom and thrown clothes into the satchel.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist,” said Monsieur Pannier.
“And I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Is there a problem?” a new voice came from the door.
Pannier practically shot to his feet. “Non. Not at all.”
A woman stood partway into his office, and Gamache knew he was now looking at the real boss.
She stepped forward, her hand out. “Jacqueline Béland. I’m the General Manager.”
They introduced themselves, and Monsieur Pannier briefly explained the situation.
Madame Béland listened quietly, waiting until he’d finished, then turned to the Gamaches.
“I’m so sorry to hear about Monsieur Horowitz. I expect Monsieur Pannier here has extended the sympathies of the hotel.”
The Gamaches looked at him. Then Reine-Marie turned back to the General Manager. “Yes, thank you. He’s been most gracious.”
They could hear Monsieur Pannier exhale.
There was a slight arch of surprise, and appreciation, to Madame Béland’s brow, but that was all. “You’re a relation of Monsieur Horowitz’s?”
“His godson,” said Armand.
Her eyes dropped to the box. “I’m afraid Monsieur Pannier is right. We’ll need to see what’s inside there, too. I hope you understand.”
And, to be fair, Armand did. Thieves took all shapes and sizes. At luxury hotels they were more likely to look like the Gamaches than a street thug.
“It’s sealed by the hospital,” Armand said. “And I want to keep it that way. But if you’d feel better calling the Préfecture, you might try”—Armand handed her a card—“him.”
Madame Béland’s eyes widened. “You know Monsieur Dussault?”
“I do. Clearly you do, too.”
“He was here just yesterday. A friend of yours?”
“And a colleague, oui. I’m the head of homicide.”
Gamache decided there was no need to specify his territory.
“Armand,” said Reine-Marie. “We should get his things over to him.”
“I’m afraid there is,” the General Manager said, “a small issue of his bill.”
Armand almost smiled. It was a brilliant move on Madame Béland’s part. If they were thieves, they would not be at all happy about handing over a credit card.
“Of course.” Armand placed a credit card on the duty manager’s desk. “I believe he checked in two nights ago.”
“Non, monsieur,” said the manager, consulting his computer to confirm. “Monsieur Horowitz arrived ten days ago. He was supposed to leave this coming Wednesday.”
“Are you sure?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Positive. Should we hold the room for him?”
“If you don’t mind,” said Armand.
“The suite,” said the manager, “is three thousand five hundred euros.”
Reine-Marie and Armand exchanged a glance. They could certainly cover that.
“A night.”
Reine-Marie’s face remained composed, though she could feel her blood, and her children’s inheritance, draining away.
Two weeks … that would come to …
“It comes to forty-nine thousand euros,” said Monsieur Pannier. “So far. That is, of course, before tax and any other charges. Monsieur Horowitz often had meals in his room.”
Reine-Marie did a rough conversion in her mind. About seventy-five thousand Canadian dollars.
So far.
“Given the circumstances,” said Madame Béland, “all we’d need is a ten percent deposit.”
“Avec plaisir,” said Armand, as though they’d expected it to be more. “I understand someone else is staying there. Can you tell us who that is?”
The manager frowned. “Non. Monsieur Horowitz was alone in the suite.”
“Are you sure?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Quite sure.”
“I’d like you to cancel the old keys,” said Armand, handing back the key he had. “And have new ones issued, please.”
They did.
As they left, Reine-Marie whispered to Armand, “You’re going to have to get a paper route.”
“You’re going to have to sell a kidney.”
She smiled. “Should we at least stay here, if we’re paying?”
“Would you like to?”
She thought about it. “Non. I prefer our apartment.”
“Moi aussi.”
“Where to now?” she asked and got the answer as Armand gave the taxi driver the address.
“Cinq rue Récamier, s’il vous plaît. It’s in the Seventh Arrondissement. Across from the Hôtel Lutetia.”