All the Devils Are Here

“You said he was meeting someone for drinks before coming to dinner,” said Jean-Guy. “Do you think he meant Plessner?”

Gamache was nodding, staring at the page.

“Jacques?”

“Oui, Monsieur Armand?”

“Was Monsieur Horowitz here yesterday?”

“Bien sûr. He came in for ice cream.”

“Who was he with?”

“No one, monsieur. He was alone. I personally waited on him.”

“You’re sure.”

“Certain. Will he be joining you?”

Armand stared at him and realized the maître d’ had no idea what had happened. Why would he?

Gamache got up and stood facing Jacques. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

Jacques’s face slackened. “Non,” he whispered. “Is it serious?”

His blue eyes, sharp as ever, trained to pick up the most nuanced of movements, the smallest change of facial expression in his patrons, now betrayed his own feelings.

Jacques had known Monsieur Horowitz from the first day he started at the Lutetia. The visiting Canadian’s water glass was practically the very first one he’d filled.

In his nervous state, Jacques had tipped the silver beaker too steeply and ice cubes plopped out, spilling water onto the linen.

Jacques, all of fifteen, stared in horror, then lifted his eyes to the man sitting there.

The patron’s face was placid, not revealing that anything was wrong. But he gave a small smile and nod of encouragement.

It was okay.

While everything else about his first few days was a blur, the Canadian businessman had made an impression. And not just for that act of kindness.

His accent, for one. It was a mixture of German, English, and French. And was, for the new busboy, a little hard to follow.

Where other patrons were clearly wealthier, more powerful, this one had an assurance. As though he belonged.

And then there’d been the tip. Slipped into his pocket.

Three hundred francs. As much as he’d make in a week.

At the time, though Jacques didn’t know it, Stephen wasn’t yet rich. But he recognized, and rewarded, a hard worker. A worker who cared.

Besides, Stephen Horowitz knew the courage it took to bus tables for difficult, even scary, patrons. Courage must always be rewarded.

The other thing Jacques remembered was looking down the long corridor as Monsieur Horowitz paused at the mosaic in the tile floor by the entrance to the Hôtel Lutetia. It was the symbol of the hotel, and also the ancient symbol of Paris.

The city had originally been called Lutetia. And her emblem was a ship in peril on a stormy sea.

That symbol was imbedded in the hotel floor.

Monsieur Horowitz had turned to young Jacques and said, “Fluctuat nec mergitur.”

Every schoolchild in Paris learned those words. It was the motto of the ancient settlement of Lutetia. And of Paris.

“Reminds me of The Tempest,” Monsieur Horowitz had said, nodding to the mosaic.

Jacques had looked around at the hushed corridor. A place less like a storm would be hard to find.

“We are such stuff as dreams are made on,” quoted Monsieur Horowitz. He’d turned his clear, clear crystal-blue eyes on the puzzled busboy. “And sometimes nightmares, eh, young man?” He gazed around before returning to Jacques. “Who knows where we’re going to find the devil?”

“Oui, monsieur.” Though Jacques had no idea, at the time, what the man could possibly be talking about.

That had been almost fifty years earlier.

Now young Armand, for Jacques couldn’t help thinking of this man that way, stood before him. With news.

Jacques was no fool. Monsieur Horowitz was elderly. Getting frailer. He expected, one day, to receive bad news. But he had not expected it to be this bad.

“He’s in the Hôtel-Dieu hospital. A hit-and-run.” No need to say more, thought Gamache.

“Merde,” whispered Jacques. “Désolé,” he quickly added, shocked at himself for swearing in front of a patron. He’d have fired a waiter on the spot for doing the same thing.

“You’re right,” said Armand. “It is merde. We’re trying to work out where he was yesterday, and who he met with.”

“I see.”

If Jacques really did see, Armand couldn’t tell. The maître d’s professional mask was back.

“He came here at three thirty and ordered his usual peppermint ice cream.”

Armand almost smiled. “With hot fudge?”

“Of course.”

Three thirty, thought Armand. The time he’d walked Stephen back there. That fit.

He’d sat here, alone, eating his ice cream. And?

Was he expecting someone? Monsieur Plessner maybe? But was he already lying dead across the street?

Why would Stephen be waiting here and not in his own apartment?

He heard Jean-Guy on his phone to Isabelle Lacoste, back at the Sûreté headquarters in Montréal. He was asking her to find out all she could about Alexander Francis Plessner.