All the Devils Are Here

“How many people were serving this coffee?” Beauvoir asked, his voice almost squeaky with shock. “How big is the pot? Have you seen the total, patron? Thank God Stephen’s good for it.”

“Yes,” said Gamache, not bothering to tell Jean-Guy that he and Reine-Marie were covering the bill. Though he had discouraged Beauvoir from ordering up a club sandwich.

“Look,” said Gamache, running his finger down the first sheet, then turning it over. There were three sheets of room charges. “Stephen ate all his meals in his room. Alone. For ten days. But look at this.”

He pointed to the day before. In the afternoon. There was a room charge for two beers. Stephen’s usual and an Abbaye de Leffe beer.

“He had company,” said Jean-Guy, examining the bill. “The beers were ordered up after he left the Lutetia at four, and before he met us at Juveniles.”

“Oui. This’s where he was for at least part of the time.” Gamache turned to Madame Béland. “He made a note of Plessner’s arrival, before dinner.”

He brought out Stephen’s agenda to double-check, and there it was. AFP. Alexander Francis Plessner.

“You have security cameras?” Jean-Guy asked the General Manager.

“Many, yes. Everywhere except the actual guest rooms.”

“We’ll need to see the footage.”

“I’ll have my assistant bring up my laptop and we can view it here,” she said, understanding their need for privacy. And speed.

She placed the call.

“Do you know an Alexander Plessner?” Beauvoir asked.

“No. The Inspector in charge showed me a picture of him.” She paused. “Is he…?”

“So he wasn’t staying here?” asked Gamache.

“No. I looked him up. No one named Alexander Plessner has stayed here. He might’ve visited, of course.”

Neither Beauvoir nor Gamache mentioned that Plessner was in fact a guest. And staying in this very suite.

“How about Eugénie Roquebrune?” Beauvoir asked.

“The head of GHS Engineering? I’ve heard of her, but we’ve never met. Not that I haven’t tried.”

“Why would you?” asked Gamache.

“Because I’d like her business. Their account would be worth hundreds of thousands of euros a year.”

“But you don’t have it?” asked Beauvoir. “Their account, I mean.”

“Non.”

Just then there was a quiet knock on the door and a young man with a laptop appeared. Sitting at the long dining table, Madame Béland opened it up and logged in.

“What day and time are you interested in?” she asked.

“Yesterday,” said Beauvoir, sitting on her other side and looking at the screen. “From four o’clock on.”

“We have a lot of cameras,” she explained as she tapped keys. “Even knowing what date and time you need to see, it’ll take hours to go through them all.”

“Just the main entrance,” said Gamache.

Within a minute the image and time stamp popped up.

They watched for a few minutes at double speed. People whizzing in and out, their now frantic movements made comical. Then Beauvoir said, “Stop. Back up slightly. There.” The image froze. “Stephen.”

The time was 4:53.

Armand leaned closer.

Stephen looked haggard. More tired, Armand thought, than when they’d parted.

The video started again. Stephen walked across the Art Deco lobby and disappeared.

He was alone.

“Can we see where he went?” Gamache asked.

Madame Béland hit more keys. They were able to track Stephen’s progress through the lobby, down the hall to the right. Through the large open room where elegantly dressed men and women were having afternoon tea or drinks. Stephen looked around before heading down the hall to the bank of elevators.

Madame Béland brought up the camera outside his suite. The elevator doors opened, and Stephen stepped out and disappeared into his suite.

“Can you go back? To the elevator?” asked Gamache.

Madame Béland did.

“Stop, please,” said Gamache.

There, frozen on the screen, was Stephen. Alone in the elevator. Armand realized he’d never actually seen his godfather when he thought no one was looking.

And what he saw was a very elderly man. Grim. Vulnerable.

Determined. Afraid.

A Burgher of Calais in the George V elevator.