The Madness of Crowds
- Автор: Пенни Луиза
- Серия: Chief Inspector Gamache #17
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: St. Martin's Publishing Group
- ISBN: 9781250145284
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «The Madness of Crowds». Краткое содержание книги:
You're a coward.
Time and again, as the New Year approaches, that charge is leveled against Armand Gamache.
It starts innocently enough.
While the residents of the Québec village of Three Pines take advantage of the deep snow to ski and toboggan, to drink hot chocolate in the bistro and share meals together, the Chief Inspector finds his holiday with his family interrupted by a simple request.
He's asked to provide security for what promises to be a non-event. A visiting professor of statistics will be giving a lecture at the nearby university.
While he is perplexed as to why the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec would be assigned this task, it sounds easy enough. That is, until Gamache starts looking into Professor Abigail Robinson and discovers an agenda so repulsive he begs the university to cancel the lecture.
They refuse, citing academic freedom, and accuse Gamache of censorship and intellectual cowardice. Before long, Professor Robinson's views start seeping into conversations. Spreading and infecting. So that truth and fact, reality and delusion, are so confused it's near impossible to tell them apart.
Discussions become debates, debates become arguments, which turn into fights. As sides are declared, a madness takes hold.
Abigail Robinson promises that if they follow her, ça va bien aller. All will be well. But not, Gamache and his team know, for everyone.
When a murder is committed, it falls to Armand Gamache, his second-in-command Jean-Guy Beauvoir, and their team to investigate the crime as well as this extraordinary popular delusion.
And the madness of crowds.
He wondered if the young woman had had one last killing left in her. And then, ça va bien aller. All would be well. She could put down the machete. Put down the cup.
He put down the letter. “I think it’s time for dinner.”
To avoid an Auberge crawling with suspects, they returned to the Gamache home.
Armand went into the kitchen to look for Reine-Marie, while Isabelle and Jean-Guy made themselves comfortable in the living room.
As he entered, Armand saw Haniya Daoud, a long blade in her hand. She was pointing it at Reine-Marie, whose back was turned.
He felt his heart skip a beat, and his muscles tense. The world slowed down, in a rush of terror and adrenaline. And then, as quickly as it came, it passed.
A vestige of the job. Fireworks were gunshots, and all knives were weapons, especially when pointed at someone he loved.
“I didn’t know you were here,” he said to Haniya.
“Clearly. And I can see your delight.”
He smiled. “No, you just saw my surprise. You’re always welcome.”
“Oh, hello, Armand.” Reine-Marie turned around. “I asked Haniya to stay for dinner. She was kind enough to come with me to the Horton place to return the last box.”
Armand kissed her lightly, then grabbed a wooden cutting board, a baguette, and a knife.
The kitchen smelled of simmering coq au vin and fresh basil, which Haniya had torn and placed on a platter, with the tomato and the burrata she was slicing.
Daniel and his family, along with Annie and the children, had gone back to their homes in Montréal. They’d offered to stay on, but both Reine-Marie and Armand had said it would probably be best if they returned when there wasn’t a murderer among them. Which, in Three Pines, might prove problematic.
“What else can I do?” Haniya asked.
“You can put that platter on the table,” said Reine-Marie. “Then pour yourself a drink and join the others in the living room. Dinner’s in about twenty minutes.”
Haniya placed the burrata and tomato on the pine table, but didn’t go into the living room. Instead she wandered down to the far end of the kitchen, pausing on the way to look at the art on the walls. Some portraits, some naïve works. Some landscapes.
And one modest little frame.
“Is this…?”
“It is,” said Reine-Marie. “Took a long time to track one down. It’s an original.”
“One of a kind?” asked Haniya, leaning close to the small photograph of a single crystalline snowflake.
“How’d it go with the Hortons?” Armand asked.
As Reine-Marie told him, he watched Haniya. She’d made herself comfortable in one of the large chairs by the woodstove and was staring into the night.
“You didn’t tell them about their mother and Ewen Cameron?”
“No. Not all truths need to be told. They have the box, they can look into it if they want. I think they know there’s something in there, but this way they have a choice.” She looked at their guest and lowered her voice. “I think she wants to stop.”
“Stop what?” he asked. Killing?
“Being the Hero of the Sudan. Look at her. She’s barely more than a child. I think she wants to have a peaceful life. To wake up and meet Clara in the bistro for breakfast. To discuss books with Myrna. To drop by here for tea or dinner, and not have to worry about all the girls, all the women, out there waiting for her to rescue them.”
“To put down the cup,” said Armand.
She watched him put the kettle on. If only that were possible.
While Reine-Marie returned to the living room, Armand took a cup of tea to Haniya.
“May I?” He nodded toward the armchair across from her.
“Of course.”
As he sat, he mused that Haniya Daoud seemed to own every room she was in. And yet she never seemed to belong.
“Did you kill Debbie Schneider?”
Haniya’s brows disappeared into her hijab. “Small talk, Chief Inspector?”
He smiled, but said nothing.
“Or is this how you investigate a crime? Ask that question over and over until someone says yes?”
“Or it’s time for bed, oui.”
She laughed. It was full-throated and seemed to surprise even her.
“Well,” she finally said, “all I can say is your investigation must be a real shit show if you still suspect me. That is the expression, isn’t it? ‘Shit show’? I learned it from Ruth. She was describing Clara’s career as an artist.”
“Well, that’s one expression, yes. You haven’t answered my question.”
“Oh, you were serious?”
He was no longer smiling. His eyes on her were thoughtful, searching.
“No. I didn’t kill her. What I told you before is true. Killing the person does not kill an idea. And if I had wanted to do away with Professor Robinson, I wouldn’t have been stupid enough to kill the wrong person. I’ve never done that.”
There was a crackling silence between them.
“We all make mistakes. In the cold and dark, in a hurry. It’s possible.”
“True,” she said. “But not that mistake. Human life is sacred. That’s another thing I learned in the camps. When you see so much death, you come to value life. When you see so much cruelty, you come to value kindness.”
“But do you recognize it? Because it’s out there.” He gestured toward the next room. “And you’re in here.” He put down his cup. “I’m going into the living room. Will you join me?”
“No. I’m just fine out here.”
He nodded. “If you change your mind…”
What are you doing out there, Ralph?
But he had some idea what Haniya Daoud was doing.
CHAPTER 43
“Couldn’t sleep?” asked Armand.
Though it was almost three in the morning, the voice hadn’t surprised Jean-Guy. He’d heard the slippered feet approaching the kitchen and recognized the gait.
“I haven’t really slept since Honoré was born,” he said.
“Tea?” Armand turned around, kettle in hand.
Beauvoir was about to decline, then realized that yes, a nice cup of tea …
Dear God, he thought, I’ve been infected. “Yes, please. Did you hear that?”
Jean-Guy half rose. His face alert, his body tense. There’d been a sound from the front of the house.
“It’s okay,” said Armand, turning off the tap. “I was just about to tell you—”
“Is it morning already?” asked Isabelle. Her cheeks were red from the short walk from the B&B. She carried a plate covered with a checked dish towel and was wearing polka dot flannel pajamas under a plaid flannel robe.
“You look like something out of Dickens,” said Jean-Guy.
“I don’t think we want to get into what each of us looks like, do you?”
In sweats and unshaved, he looked like some bedraggled mess cops on an overnight shift brought in. And kept downwind.
Putting the plate on the counter, she greeted Gamache, who looked pretty much as he always did. Or at least a variation on the same theme.
A university professor woken up out of a deep sleep. Also unshaven, his beard would be almost completely gray, she saw, if he chose to grow one again. Unlike Jean-Guy, he’d at least made an effort to brush his hair, but one side still stood up.
“I saw Isabelle’s light on over at the B&B,” Armand explained, pouring milk into a jug, “and texted her to join us.”
It was 2:53.
Lacoste took off the towel to reveal an assortment of breakfast pastries. “Courtesy of Gabri and Olivier.”
“Do they know how generous they’re being?” asked Armand.