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.
She was shaking her head. “This doesn’t make sense. Why would someone with a place like this, and even a second bedroom for a guest, stay at a hotel?”
“To make it even more puzzling,” said Gamache, “Stephen’s famously cheap. There’d have to be a very, very good reason for him to take a suite at the George V.”
“And what’s that reason?” she asked.
“I wish I knew.”
“Coming?” an agent called to them. “The coroner’s waiting.”
As they walked back down the hall, Dussault muttered to Gamache, “You should’ve told me about the key.”
“And you should’ve told me you didn’t actually believe that the attack was deliberate.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Fontaine herself just admitted there was doubt, and if there wasn’t, your people would have come here immediately. They’d have interrupted the intruder. Not Reine-Marie and me.”
Gamache stopped. It was his turn to glare at the Prefect.
“Your doubt could have cost her her life.”
“And you yours,” admitted Dussault. “It was a mistake on Fontaine’s part. I’ll speak to her.”
Armand almost pointed out that the error didn’t rest solely with Fontaine, but kept his mouth tightly shut.
CHAPTER 10
The coroner knelt beside the body.
“You’re here, good,” she said, her voice heavy with impatience and annoyance. “We can finally start.”
Reaching out gloved hands, she expertly turned the stiff body.
It was their first good look at the dead man.
Even in death, he had an air of success about him. Healthy. Wealthy. But was he wise? One thing was certain: Gamache had never seen him before.
The coroner described her observations.
“Male, Caucasian. Approximately seventy-five years of age. Shot in back and head. No apparent wounds to the front of the body. There’s rigor. Death was more than twelve hours ago, less than twenty-four. Nothing in his hands. Nails look clean. There doesn’t appear to have been a struggle. Slight bruising to the face, probably caused in the fall.” She looked up at the Prefect. “I’d say he was dead before he hit the ground.”
“Excuse me,” they heard. “Excusez-moi.” Everyone turned to see a younger man in jacket, jeans, and scarf tied around his neck trying to get through the wall of cops.
“Who are you?” demanded one of the gendarmes.
Instead of answering, he turned to Gamache. “Reine-Marie called me. I came right over.”
“This’s Jean-Guy Beauvoir, my son-in-law,” explained Gamache.
“Well, he shouldn’t be here,” said Fontaine. “Please wait outside. This’s a crime scene.”
“Yes, I know,” said Jean-Guy. He had sympathy for this officer, who was obviously the agent in charge. But instead of leaving, he took a step forward and stood beside Gamache.
“Jean-Guy was my second-in-command,” Gamache explained to Dussault and Fontaine. “He ran homicide for more than a year before moving to Paris. He also knows Stephen. Do you mind?”
“If he stays?” Fontaine looked at Beauvoir as though he was something she’d scraped off the bottom of her shoe.
Then she appealed to the Prefect, who shrugged.
“Fine,” she said. “As long as I don’t have to deal with him.”
“Is there a wallet?” Dussault asked. “Any ID at all?”
“None,” she said, kneeling beside the coroner now. “All his pockets are turned out.”
“May I?” asked Gamache.
“Oh, what the fuck,” muttered Fontaine. Then gestured toward the body, inviting Gamache forward and watching as he pulled aside the dead man’s jacket and felt inside. He lifted a flap to reveal a hidden zipper and pocket.
But he didn’t undo it, preferring to let Fontaine do that.
A moment later she pulled out a thin wallet.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“It’s something seasoned travelers often do. Have hidden pockets in their clothes.”
He chose not to explain that Stephen also had one. Nor did he tell them that he and Reine-Marie had found Stephen’s agenda and passport there.
Fontaine handed the wallet to the Prefect, who walked away from the activity around the body. Gamache and Beauvoir joined him by the window.
“His name’s Alexander Francis Plessner,” said Dussault. “Mean anything to you?”
Armand thought. “Non. Stephen never mentioned him. You?”
Jean-Guy shook his head.
“Driver’s license is from Ontario,” said Dussault.
Irena Fontaine joined them and gave Dussault a passport. “We found it under that dresser. But no phone yet, and no keys.”
“If they found his passport,” said Gamache, “they must’ve realized they hadn’t killed Stephen Horowitz.”
“They killed the wrong man,” said Dussault.
“Or not,” said Gamache, and the Prefect nodded. Or not.
“Canadian,” said Jean-Guy, looking at the passport. “Issued a year ago.”
Claude Dussault flipped through it and sighed. “With kiosks at most customs now, passports aren’t stamped anymore. We’ll have to be in touch with Interpol.”
“I’ll scan the bar code over later today,” said Irena Fontaine.
“Best to do it as soon as possible,” said Gamache. “In my dealings with Interpol, it can take a little while for them to get the information. Even days.”
“This’s the brigade criminelle, monsieur,” she said. “In Paris. Not the Sûreté du Québec. Interpol responds quickly to us. They know if we ask, it must be serious.”
Beauvoir opened his mouth, but at a small glance from Gamache remained quiet.
This Fontaine obviously didn’t know that Gamache had been approached in just the last six months to move to Lyon and take over Interpol. He’d refused, preferring to hunt murderers in Québec.
If Gamache wasn’t going to tell her, he sure wouldn’t. Though he was longing to.
“Thank you for explaining that, Commander,” said Gamache. “Does the passport have any stamps at all?”
“Only one,” said Dussault. “A trip to Peru a year ago.”
“Peru?” asked Beauvoir.
“Big tourist spot,” said Dussault. “Machu Picchu. The Nazca Lines.”
“The what?” asked Fontaine, and Beauvoir was glad she was the one who showed ignorance. Normally that was his job.
He’d actually thought the Prefect had said “Nascar,” and was about to ask about that.
“Look them up,” said Dussault. “One of the great mysteries of the world.”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars Canadian,” Fontaine reported as she went through the wallet. “Seventy euros. Two Visa cards and”—she held up a white business card—“this.”
She handed it to Dussault.
He read the name on the card. “Stephen Horowitz. That confirms it. The dead man knew Horowitz. But how? Friend? Business associate? Must be more than an acquaintance to be in his apartment.”
“May I?” asked Armand, and held out his hand for the card. “Monsieur Plessner was much more than an acquaintance, to have this.”
He handed it back to Fontaine.
“Why?” she asked. “It’s just a simple business card.”
“But without an address?” said Beauvoir. “Not even a phone number or email? What business card has just a name?”
“Not just that,” Dussault pointed out. “Someone’s written JSPS after his name. What does that mean, Armand? ‘Justice of the Peace’? Is it an honorific?”
Gamache was smiling. “Not exactly.”
Bringing out his own wallet, he removed a dog-eared, slightly scruffy business card. The paper was thin and worn, but the printing was exactly the same.