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.
“Claude, do you know this Eugénie Roquebrune?” Armand asked.
“No,” he said. “Though that’s some impressive board. I wonder if Monsieur Horowitz really did have anything on GHS. Hard to believe people like that could be taken in.”
“People believe what they want to believe,” said Reine-Marie. “It’s just human nature.”
“Reminds me of the story of the oilman who went to Heaven,” said Claude. “He shows up at the Pearly Gates and Saint Peter says, ‘I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is, you’ve got into Heaven.’
“‘Fantastic,’ says the oilman. ‘But what’s the bad news?’
“‘I’m afraid the part of Heaven reserved for oilmen is full.’
“‘Well, I know how to solve that,’ says the oilman. ‘Take me to them.’
“When Saint Peter does, the oilman calls for their attention and announces, ‘Exciting news. They’ve struck oil in Hell.’
“And with that, the place empties out.
“Saint Peter turns to the oilman and says, ‘That was amazing. You can go in now.’
“‘Are you kidding?’ says the oilman. ‘I’m going to Hell. I hear they’ve struck oil there.’”
The other three laughed.
“It’s true what you say, Reine-Marie,” said Claude. “People believe what they want to believe. Beginning with their own lies.”
“Hell is the truth seen too late,” said Reine-Marie as she poured out more coffee. “Thomas Hobbes.”
For a moment, Armand could feel Stephen’s steely grip on his wrist, and see his laser-blue eyes, staring at him as they sat in the garden of the Musée Rodin. In front of The Gates of Hell.
I’ve always told the truth, Armand.
Jean-Guy glanced around to see if he could spot anyone watching.
But he was alone in the park.
He walked along the path, unconsciously clasping his hands behind his back. As he strolled, Jean-Guy Beauvoir went over what he’d found. And what it could mean.
And, equally disturbing, what Annie had told him. And what that could mean.
Jean-Guy stopped. Supposedly to stare into the duck pond. But actually, he’d picked up the fact he wasn’t alone. Someone was quietly watching from the shadows.
A thief? Was he about to be robbed?
It is a mystery, he hummed as he slowly circled the pond. It is a big mystery.
Then, turning quickly, his hand shot out, but the man had lightning reflexes and jumped out of his grasp, then turned and took off.
Jean-Guy ran after him, and while the man was younger and had the advantage of age, Jean-Guy had the advantage of rage.
The man ran out into the traffic along rue de Bretagne. Horns sounded and curses followed them down rue du Temple, the distance between the men growing. The man turned down an alley, knocking over bins to slow his pursuer.
While all his survival instincts, all his training, told Jean-Guy it was a mistake to follow a suspect into a dark alley, his instincts as a husband and father were stronger.
The man disappeared around a corner.
Skidding around the corner, Beauvoir saw a brick wall at least ten feet high blocking their way. It was a dead end.
The man didn’t slow down. Didn’t hesitate. He ran full tilt at it, leaping and grabbing the top. Pulling himself up, he went over the other side.
At the very top, he twisted and looked back.
Directly at Beauvoir.
Then he dropped from sight.
Beauvoir got to the wall and jumped. Clutching for the top. His fingers scraping the bricks. Clawing at them for purchase. But he skidded down. Once, twice, three times he tried. Then stopped. Bending over, holding his knees. Gasping for breath.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered, pounding the wall with each word.
Then he turned and jogged back to the apartment, picking up speed, breaking into a run as his mind raced ahead of him.
Had he actually been lured away? Was he meant to chase one man while another broke in?
He was running across streets as cars slammed on brakes.
At his building he took the stairs two at a time, yanking himself up with the handrail.
The door to their apartment was closed. And still locked. But …
Hands trembling, he unlocked it and ran to Honoré’s room, then checked on Annie.
Both were asleep. Both snoring lightly.
Returning to the front door, he double locked it. Then, leaning against it, he slid down, landing on the floor, his knees to his chin and his head in his hands.
What could have happened to his family?
He got up and walked unsteadily into the living room. The chase had not been totally futile. He’d found out one thing.
The man had turned at the top of the wall on purpose. So that Jean-Guy could get a good look at him.
It was the guard Loiselle.
Jean-Guy’s bloody hand reached for the phone. The Chief was right. Some things were solved by walking. And some by running.
Armand put down the phone and turned to Claude.
“Did you assign an agent to guard Annie?”
“I asked Irena to do it. Why?”
“Because,” snapped Armand, “there’s no one there, except, as it turns out, a security guard working for GHS. They’re watching the apartment.”
“Armand?” said Reine-Marie, standing up.
“They’re all right. No thanks to you,” he said to Dussault. “Jean-Guy chased him away.”
Claude Dussault picked up his phone and made a call. A moment later he hung up. “An agent has been assigned, but his shift won’t start until midnight. I’m sorry. I didn’t make it clear to Fontaine that this was a priority. A flic is on his way now.”
Armand continued to stare at the Prefect, who colored under the unrelenting glare.
“Désolé,” Dussault repeated.
Gamache was far from convinced this man was désolé. He was also concerned that any gendarme Dussault sent would be there not to guard, but to watch. And maybe do more, if it came to that.
The Dussaults were on their feet, understanding that the evening was over. But as Claude bent to pick up the box, Armand stopped him.
“I’d like to keep this for a day.”
The two men locked eyes. Over the box. Over the barricade. And the Prefect, knowing he was in a difficult position after his failure earlier, conceded. But he wasn’t surrendering completely.
“I’ll just take this then.” He picked up the laptop.
Had they actually been at the barricades, Armand had the impression Dussault would have pulled the trigger.
And he’d have shot back.
CHAPTER 25
“What was that about?” Monique asked as they got in their car.
“The Horowitz case,” said Claude, tossing the laptop into the back seat.
“I know that, but there was tension. More than tension. Is something wrong?”
“Non.” But her husband was distracted. Enough to actually get lost for a moment in the narrow streets of the Marais. “I’ll drop you at home. I need to speak with Irena.”
“At this hour? It’s almost eleven. Claude, what’s going on?”
“Nothing. I need to get her the laptop, now that we have the password. I’ll be home before midnight.”
He dropped her at the door to their building and made sure she got in safely, then drove off.
Monique walked up the stairs slowly. Thinking. Her husband’s scent, even more rank than she remembered it, clung to her clothing.
Beauvoir opened the door.