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.
“Now this is interesting,” said Girard, who clearly had little time for Alain Pinot. “What gave him away?”
“The attack on Stephen Friday night,” said Gamache, speaking directly to Pinot. “Someone had to know where he’d be. He was very careful. He knew he’d be targeted, which was why he wasn’t staying here, in his own apartment. But someone found out he’d be at Juveniles. You. You were the one he met for drinks earlier Friday evening. In his agenda he’d written AFP. Stands for Agence France-Presse, but they’re also your initials. That confused us for a while. We thought AFP stood for Alexander Francis Plessner. And those notes he made, with dates? They were ones he asked you to look up from your files.”
“True,” said Pinot.
“But of course, you told him you found nothing. And that was your mistake. Stephen knew there was something there. That’s when he, too, began to suspect you.”
“Impossible,” said Pinot. “I’d have known. When we met Friday afternoon, he was his usual self. I’d asked him to bring the evidence with him so that I could see it before committing.”
“And did he?”
“Well, no. He said he’d left it here, in his apartment.”
Gamache gave him a contemptuous look.
“Just an old man’s memory lapse? You really are a fool.” Gamache turned to Girard. “Is that when the wheels started coming off your plans? Was he supposed to have an unfortunate accident leaving his meeting with Pinot? But when he didn’t bring the evidence, you had to scramble.” He turned back to Pinot. “Did Stephen tell you about his dinner plans? No, I doubt he’d do that. So how did you know? His agenda?”
“I saw it there,” said Pinot.
“What did you do then?” Armand sounded calm, but his mind was whirring. Trying to keep them engaged, trying to stay one step ahead. “Wait, don’t tell me. You came to the apartment, thinking Stephen would be here, changing for dinner. You could force the evidence out of him, then kill him. But once again, things didn’t go to plan. Instead of Stephen, you ran into Plessner. But…” His mind skidded to a halt and changed direction. “… No, I have that wrong, don’t I?”
He turned to Daniel. “Girard here couldn’t have come to the apartment because he was in the George V, having tea with you”—he looked at Dussault—“and the head of GHS Engineering.”
Girard’s eyes narrowed and his lips compressed. But Dussault looked almost amused.
“I told you it was a mistake to underestimate him.”
“Did Madame Roquebrune want to know why your operation was such a dog’s breakfast?” Gamache asked.
“No, not that exactly. She didn’t want any details, just that it was being handled.”
“But it wasn’t. In fact, it was about to get even worse,” said Gamache. “You didn’t find the evidence, one of your operatives shot Plessner, making it impossible to claim accident, and then your attack on Stephen was bungled. Must’ve been some pretty stressful hours, sitting there with me in the hospital. Is that why you hung around? To see what I knew?”
“And to make sure Horowitz didn’t regain consciousness, oui,” said Dussault. “And to comfort you, of course.”
“Merci.”
“I came here the next morning, to look for myself,” said Dussault. “That’s when you and Reine-Marie arrived.”
“Then it was you. We weren’t sure if it was you or Girard here.”
“If it was me, you’d have been dead,” said Girard. “It was one of the few mistakes the Prefect has made.”
“He’s right,” said Dussault. “I probably should have killed you then. But then we wouldn’t have this”—he tapped the file beside him on the sofa—“would we?”
“I’ve read the evidence,” Gamache said, his voice no longer matter-of-fact. “Thousands were killed in the so-called accidents, over years. You’re the head of the Préfecture. You could have stopped it, but you didn’t. How does that happen? How could you make that choice?”
He was searching his old friend’s face, his sharp eyes flicking over to the file, then back again. Trying to find the answer to a crucial question.
“Me?” Dussault looked up. “Not me. I was still only second-in-command at the Préfecture when all this started. I had nothing to do with it. Not then.”
“Then when?”
“Turns out, when Messieurs Plessner and Horowitz had enough evidence to be suggestive but not enough to be sure, they went to my predecessor in the Préfecture. Clément Prévost. Hoping he’d be able to start an investigation. You met him.”
“I did. He wasn’t just your predecessor,” said Gamache. “He was your mentor.”
“True. While he believed Horowitz and Plessner were sincere, he needed proof. There were very powerful people involved. Some were personal friends of his. He began to ask questions. Quietly. Uncomfortable questions. But then there was that accident two years ago. Poor man was hit by a car crossing from a brasserie in broad daylight. And, voilà, I was made Prefect.”
“Were you working for them then?” asked Gamache.
“No. I knew none of this at the time.”
“So what happened? What changed?”
“I went to Monsieur Prévost’s funeral. State funeral. Impressive. You were there, too, I believe.”
“I was,” said Gamache.
“But you didn’t go to the family reception?”
“Non. It was private. Only for the closest friends and colleagues. I was neither.”
“But I was,” said Dussault. “I went back to their apartment. It’s a small two-bedroom walk-up in the Eighteenth. Neat, tidy. Orderly, like the man. And I saw my future. All the sacrifices, Armand. My own. My wife’s. My children’s. What we gave up for people who didn’t notice and didn’t care. A two-bedroom walk-up.”
“Clément Prévost was a good man,” said Armand.
That simple statement left Dussault silent for a moment. “He was a dead man.”
“He was murdered,” said Gamache. “When did you start to work for them?”
“Girard here had left to work for SecurForte, as their second-in-command. We’d get together for drinks, and he’d talk about his day. It sounded interesting. Fascinating, in fact. The international aspect, the businesses, the clients. And, of course, the money.”
“So you recruited him?” Gamache asked Girard.
“I didn’t have to, he asked me.”
Gamache turned back to Dussault. “When did you realize—”
“That part of the job would be to cover up criminal activity?” Dussault thought for a moment. “Fairly early on. I was essentially moonlighting, but then many officers do. They work their shift as a flic, then work nights as a security guard somewhere. This was no different. I had my job as head of the Paris Préfecture, and worked on the side for the largest private security firm in Europe. As a consultant.”
“As the head of it,” said Gamache.
“That’s not what my contract says.”
“But what’s written and what’s reality are often two different things, as you know,” Gamache said to Alain Pinot, before returning his attention to Dussault. “So you did as they asked?”
“We have to go, patron,” said Girard, tapping his wrist.
Dussault shot him an annoyed look, but otherwise ignored him.
“At first the requests were small. Fixing traffic tickets. Getting a wealthy client’s spoiled kid off a charge. And then it slowly increased. And I discovered something.”
“What?”
“That I didn’t care. That money, comfort, security, balances out all the rest.”
“They killed Clément Prévost. Your mentor. The head of the Préfecture. They murdered him. What exactly balances that out?” demanded Gamache.