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.
Alain Pinot was no longer in bar Joséphine. Nor was he in any of the other bars or restaurants of the grand hotel.
The front desk called Pinot’s room, but there was no answer.
Gamache approached the concierge. “Has Monsieur Pinot asked for a restaurant reservation for tonight?”
“Non, monsieur.”
Armand knew that might not be true. Discretion was a vital part of a concierge’s job.
“I’d very much appreciate your help in finding a restaurant for this evening,” he said, sliding a hundred-euro note across the marble top.
“Most of our guests belong to private clubs.”
“I’ve always wanted to join one. Any suggestions?”
He walked out of there with a short list. Any the concierge’s fingerprint smudging one name.
Cercle de l’Union Interalliée. What General de Gaulle had called the French embassy in Paris.
“May I help you, monsieur?” the well-dressed woman asked in a hushed voice as he entered the private members club.
Gamache had heard about this place but had never been in it.
The Cercle, in the Eighth Arrondissement, was a hub for diplomats, political leaders, industrialists. The elite of Paris.
In other words, the boards of directors of most of the major corporations in Europe.
Armand quickly, instinctively, took in his surroundings.
The high ceilings. The opulent décor unchanged from a century earlier. And yet there was nothing faded about its grandeur.
It whispered power and glory.
Decisions that changed the world, for better or worse, had been made within these walls for a hundred years.
The woman at the door expertly sized up the man in front of her. Well-groomed. Good coat, classic cut. No tie, but crisp white shirt and well-tailored jacket beneath the overcoat.
An elegant man. Clearly used to a certain authority. But then, everyone who came through that door had authority. Or they wouldn’t get past her.
“Oui, merci. I’m looking for one of your guests. Monsieur Pinot. Alain Pinot.”
“Are you a member of a reciprocal club? Perhaps the Mount Royal in Montréal?”
How subtly she’s made it clear that she’d placed him as a Québécois.
“Non. I’m just a visitor. Is Monsieur Pinot here?”
“I really cannot say.”
“I understand. If he were here, could you please give him this?”
Gamache handed her the card and saw her face open in a smile. “Bienvenue. This”—she held up the JSPS card—“is your membership. Do you mind?”
Selecting a burgundy-and-dark-blue Pierre Cardin tie, she waited while he did it up, then indicated he should follow her up the wide stairway.
At the top, in a hushed voice, she said, “Wait here, please.”
They were at the entrance to a massive room, with groupings of sofas and armchairs.
Gamache watched as she walked over to a gathering of men and women, all of whom he recognized from the GHS board.
The man looked up as the concierge bent over and handed him the card. Then he looked over.
At Gamache.
Alain Pinot rose, saying a few words to his companions, and followed the woman to where Gamache was waiting.
Corpulent and red-faced from too much wine and too much rich food over too many years. And yet, Gamache thought, there was about him a force. Here was an undeniable personality.
Pinot looked at Gamache, then said to the concierge, “Is there a private salon available?”
“Absolutely. Follow me please, gentlemen.”
The room she led them to was intimate, the walls lined with bookcases. There were two large leather armchairs with the imprints of bodies, as though the spirits of long-dead members, reluctant to leave this sanctuary, still sat there.
A small fire had been laid in the grate, and before she left, she lit it.
There was a decanter of cognac and bulbous glasses on a sideboard.
“May I bring you anything?” she asked.
“Non, Marie, merci. I think we’d like to be alone.”
“Of course, Monsieur Pinot.”
Pinot locked the door and turned to Gamache. “You were at the Lutetia earlier. Who are you? And”—he handed him back his card—“how do you have this?”
“My name is Armand Gamache.”
Pinot’s eyes widened and he grinned. “You’re Armand. The famous Armand. I’ve been jealous of you for years. Decades. Stephen’s son.”
So Pinot and Stephen did know each other, and apparently very well. Armand exhaled, almost a sigh. It was the first time he’d felt relief in what seemed ages. They were finally getting somewhere. He hoped.
“Godson,” he said.
“Stephen didn’t seem to make the distinction.”
He put out his hand, and Armand took it, feeling it both fleshy and strong. A man of immense appetite.
Alain Pinot should have been a king, might have been a king in another lifetime. Gamache could see him wrapped in miles of armor on top of some great staggering warhorse.
Leading the charge, slashing and mutilating anyone who stood between himself and whatever he wanted.
But this was now, and the closest a man like Pinot could get to that sort of power was to ride atop some great corporation. And Agence France-Presse was that. It was the power behind the power. It could make and break politicians, governments, industrialists. Corporations.
And did.
“So you do know Stephen?” said Armand, declining the offer of cognac. “I wasn’t sure.”
Taking a seat in front of the fire, he glanced at the carriage clock on the mantel.
Eleven thirty.
“He never mentioned me?” asked Pinot. “I guess not.” There was no mistaking the disappointment, even hurt. “Still, he talked about you.” Pinot leaned forward. “Is he…?”
“In hospital. Critical condition. You know what happened?”
“Yes. Hit-and-run. Terrible. I tried to visit him, but they wouldn’t let me get even close.” Pinot’s eyes, almost buried behind folds of flesh and outcroppings of skin tags, were searching. Shrewd. He examined Gamache. “I’m guessing it was no accident.”
“No. I was there. It was a deliberate attempt on his life.”
“Mon Dieu,” said Pinot, leaning back. “Merde. Who’d do such a thing?” He was silent for a moment, studying Gamache. “Do you know something about this? Stephen told me you’re now the head of the Sûreté du Québec.”
“Used to be. I’m now the head of homicide.”
Pinot raised his brows. “That doesn’t sound like a promotion.”
“It isn’t.” Gamache left it at that. “Did you hear about the body found yesterday morning in an apartment in the Seventh Arrondissement?”
“No.”
No, of course not, thought Gamache. The police hadn’t yet released the news.
“The man was murdered. The apartment is Stephen’s, and the dead man is Alexander Plessner.”
“Oh, shit. I know Monsieur Plessner. Stephen introduced us a few months ago. Jesus, what’s going on? What’s happening?”
Pinot’s face was blossoming from red to purple. Gamache wondered if, before their conversation was over, he’d have to do CPR on him.
How deeply buried was his heart? Wrapped in layers of ambition and foie gras.
“I don’t know,” said Gamache. “I’m hoping you can help.”
“How?” asked Pinot.
“What do you know about GHS Engineering?”
“Ahhh, so that’s it.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gamache.
“I’m on the board. Stephen approached me about buying my shares, which would get him on the board. I asked why, but he wouldn’t tell me.”