The Madness of Crowds

Before going up onstage, Gamache ducked under the police tape and walked to the center of the room where charring marked where the firecrackers had been set off. And where the shots had come from.

He stood pretty much where Tardif had been. Why so far back? Why not right up at the stage, to guarantee a kill?

Was it possible he really didn’t want to hit her? And maybe, by standing there, Tardif thought he had a better chance of escaping.

Gamache looked at the exits. Yes. It would be a good vantage point from which to escape. Though not to succeed, if the plan really was to kill Professor Robinson.

He glanced at the floor. At the items that had been dropped in the rush to get out.

There, lying almost on top of the burned wood, was a Habs tuque. The unmistakable red knit cap with the large C, for the Montreal Canadiens hockey team, known affectionately as Les Habitants. The Habs.

It was an exceptionally popular hat. Almost everyone in Québec had one. He was pretty sure he had one, somewhere among their winter things.

Still …

He called over a technician and asked to have the tuque bagged and analyzed.

Once on the stage he walked to the edge and looked out, his hands clasped behind his back, like a ship’s captain, searching the horizon for land. Or an iceberg. Jean-Guy and Isabelle joined him, standing on either side.

“What’re you thinking, patron?” asked Isabelle.

“I’m thinking that Monsieur Tardif was standing farther away than he had to be.”

She turned to him in surprise. Surprise that she hadn’t seen that herself.

“That’s true. Why wouldn’t he come right up here?” asked Beauvoir. “He couldn’t miss then.”

“Maybe that’s why,” said Gamache, who then walked to the table in the middle of the stage. “Another question to ask him.”

The caretaker returned with a plate of shortbread cookies decorated as Christmas trees and snowmen, with those silver balls that looked like buckshot, and were just as edible.

He also put down three mugs of strong hot tea.

They thanked him and put their hands around the mugs. Winter had seeped into the large, empty room, and the warmth felt good.

At a nod from the Chief Inspector, Lacoste and Beauvoir reported on their conversation with Viau.

“It looks like the purpose of the visit was for Édouard Tardif to distract the caretaker while someone else hid the firecrackers and gun,” said Isabelle.

“Possibly his brother,” said Beauvoir. “Cops in Abitibi are still trying to find him, but he might not be there at all. We’ve circulated his picture and information.”

Gamache took a sip of tea and looked at the Canadiens hat, still slumped on the floor.

“Suppose the accomplice wasn’t the brother,” he said. Trying to see it. “Suppose the accomplice was here too? He’d hidden the things a few days earlier, so he’d know where they were.” As he spoke, the images, like a film, played before his eyes. A man, in a Habs tuque, coming in with the crowd. Sneaking away. Maybe to the bathroom. Finding the gun and firecrackers where he’d hidden them. Slipping the gun to Tardif.

“Maybe his job was to set off the firecrackers, set off the panic,” said Isabelle. “While Tardif concentrated on firing the shots.”

“Maybe, in the rush for the door after the firecrackers, he planned to run to the front and shoot her then,” said Beauvoir. “Taking advantage of the chaos.”

“But why not just position himself there to begin with?” asked Gamache.

“Maybe he meant to but saw you and the line of agents there and realized he’d never get off a shot,” said Beauvoir. “He had a better chance from farther back.”

“Okay. We have to keep looking for Tardif’s brother, but explore the possibility that someone other than him was involved,” said Gamache. “What about the lighting and sound technicians?”

“They’re both students,” said Beauvoir. “It’s possible Tardif paid them to take something in, not knowing what it was.”

“Wouldn’t they have come forward?” asked Lacoste.

“You’ve never had teenagers,” said Gamache. “It’s like living with a ferret.”

Which, in thinking of Gracie, they might well be doing.

“I’ll interview them,” said Beauvoir. “I have a way with kids.”

“Since when?” asked Isabelle.

“Since I was issued a gun. There’s also the caretaker.”

“Oui,” agreed Gamache. It was true, but it gave him no pleasure to think Monsieur Viau had a hand in this.

This was a premeditated attempt on the professor’s life. And while there’d been very little advance notice of the event, the person who’d had the most warning, and the most time to plan, and the most familiarity with the layout of the venue, was its caretaker.

Though there was, Gamache thought, as he looked out the huge windows, across campus, toward the Administration Building, one other person with even more opportunity.