Chapter 5

C HAPTER 5

"So, it was a break-in, sir?" asked the young Montréal officer who'd been dispatched.

"Yes. It seems so."

They were standing outside on the landing, looking at the closed door to the apartment.

"And the place was still locked when you arrived?" She looked at Beauvoir, who nodded. "And the only thing taken was a coat?"

" Oui ," said Gamache. The Montréal cop was looking at him, perplexed. He knew how this sounded. And it was about to get worse. "But it was returned this morning."

" Pardon? "

Gamache repeated it. Even to his own ears it sounded ridiculous. If he hadn't been who he was, no one would pay any attention to him, or this supposed crime. They'd dismiss him as a crank. And, to be honest, it looked like she was about to.

"I'm not sure what you want from me, sir."

It was clear, by her wide eyes and nerves, that she knew who this man was. The scar on his forehead, by his temple, would tell her, if nothing else did.

She'd heard many things about Chief Inspector Gamache. What she hadn't heard was that he was nuts. This was new.

"My people will investigate," said Gamache. "I just need you to write a report and say no further action by the Montréal police is expected or required."

"Okay." Still perplexed, she left.

As she made her way down the outside stairs, the Scene of Crime team from the S?reté made its way up.

Once they'd finished with the door, and confirmed it hadn't been forced, Armand and Jean-Guy stepped in and quickly went through the apartment, to make extra sure nothing else had been removed or added.

It didn't take long. The place was small, but bright and cheerful, with a comfortable sofa and armchairs. Oriental rugs were scattered on the wood floors, and the bookcases were stuffed with hardcovers and paperbacks. Framed photographs of family and friends stood on the mantelpiece, including one of Armand's godfather, Stephen Horowitz, who was now living with a niece in Ottawa.

"Where was the coat, patron ?" asked the head of the SoC unit.

Gamache pointed to a row of brass hooks by the front door where a woman's coat hung.

It interested the S?reté officers to see that the home that the prominent Chief Inspector shared with his wife was so modest. Most knew this was simply a pied-à-terre, that Gamache's real home was south of Montréal in Québec's Eastern Townships. Still, this apartment was smaller than they'd have expected the senior officer to have.

Jean-Guy stood in the middle of the living room and tried to work it out.

The door opened away from the hooks, so the thief only had to reach in and grab the coat. There was no "break," and barely an "enter."

So why go into a home and then take nothing except some dirty old coat?

And why give it back? Even if, as the note said, the thief hadn't immediately realized he'd just broken into the home of not just a senior S?reté officer, but Chief Inspector Gamache, wouldn't it have been prudent to just throw the jacket away?

And why ask to meet? If he wanted that, why not just ask for an appointment?

Armand had called Reine-Marie and let her know she could come home. She arrived a few minutes later.

"What's going on?"

"Let's go into the kitchen."

They sat at the table by the window and, with the sun streaming in, Armand explained. When he finished, she stared at him for a moment or two before finally speaking.

"So, someone did break in yesterday?"

He nodded.

"And took just your coat?"

Nod.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"But you think there's more to it than a simple break-in."

"I don't know. I'm just being careful." Reine-Marie looked through the door at the activity in their small apartment. This went beyond careful.

"There's more," she said. She'd thrown it out there in the hopes he'd shake his head and reassure her. But she'd known, she could read his face.

He brought the photos up on his phone and showed her the notes. "I found these in the pockets of the jacket. Do they look familiar?"

He'd thrown it out there, in the hopes she'd nod and reassure him. But he'd known. And now he could read her face as the lines between her eyes deepened.

"Why would he want to meet you?"

He shook his head.

"You're not going, are you?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead." He pointed out the second note. "What do you make of that?"

"Looks like a shopping list, or ingredients for a recipe, but there aren't any measurements."

"An herb garden maybe?" he suggested. "Could Myrna or someone else have given this to you?"

"Not any writing I recognize, and I haven't asked for advice on planting an herb garden. Besides, there are a couple of spices mentioned. There's no way we're growing nutmeg in Three Pines."

Armand wondered fleetingly how one would grow nutmeg. It was a nut, no? That you grated? There were enough nuts in the village, at least one of them grating, but not of the same sort.

"And why would it be in the coat you keep in Montréal? What do you think, Armand?"

He took a deep breath. "I think what you think, what any rational person would. That this is very odd behavior. That someone wants my attention. But"—he smiled at her—"it's not a threat. If this person had something nasty in mind, they would not have sent a note politely asking to see me."

But still…

She looked again at the note. "Doesn't it strike you as odd?"

"Yes, I just said that."

"No, not the note itself, but where he's asked to meet you."

"It's a well-known café in the area."

"True, but still. Open Da Night? Does he know you better than you realize?"

He smiled. Trust Reine-Marie to pick up on something few others would know. Except him. And, perhaps, the thief. Which was, he had to admit, disconcerting. It wasn't just a local café, it was one Armand and Reine-Marie had visited often. And the man had used its nickname, known only to locals.

"How do you feel about going back to Three Pines?" he asked.

Now it was her turn to smile. It was put as a question but was really a request.

"Happy to. Will you join me there tonight?"

"That's my plan." Though, she heard in his voice, far from a certainty.

When Reine-Marie left, Armand made a call, then joined Beauvoir outside the front door.

"It looks like whoever did this must've had a key," said Gamache.

"I agree," said Jean-Guy. "But how could they?"

Gamache shook his head. "I've arranged to have the lock changed. Though I doubt there'll be more trouble. I think whoever it was got what they came for."

"What? The coat?" asked Beauvoir.

"My attention."

"There's something else odd about the break-in," said Beauvoir. "What thief that you know does it in broad daylight? On a Sunday, when neighbors are around? I'll have the team go door-to-door to see if anyone saw anything. What time did the alarm go off?"

Gamache checked his phone. "We got the call at eleven forty-six yesterday morning."

Beauvoir passed the information along to the senior investigator.

"There's a message from Isabelle," said Gamache. "The surveillance video from S?reté reception has come through."

He and Beauvoir sat at the kitchen table and brought up the link.

They watched as a slender young man entered the S?reté building holding the now familiar package to his chest. The time-code generator said 8:37 that morning.

Beauvoir hit pause and went forward slowly, trying to get a look at his face. But the young man kept his head down and managed to avoid a direct shot from the cameras. Still, it was possible to get a sense of him. Longish, scraggly dark hair. Clean-shaven, lithe. He wore sweatpants and a T-shirt. No piercings or tattoos that they could see.

"Does he seem familiar to you?"

" Non ," said Gamache.

"He's monumentally foolish. He must know he'll be on all sorts of cameras."

"And yet he's managing to avoid having his face clearly seen." Not easily done. Without help.

The locksmith arrived, and as he worked, Armand stood at the front door and looked into the apartment. The door opened directly into the living room. From there, what would the intruder have seen?

Comfortable furniture, shelves crammed with books, stacks of magazines waiting to be read. Crayons and coloring books for the grandchildren. Chewed-up, mangy dog toys. Hanging on the walls were original framed posters from Expo 67 and various concerts and festivals.

And there were photographs. Of children and grandchildren. Black-and-white wedding photos of Armand's and Reine-Marie's parents. There was one of Armand's grandmother standing proudly beside him at his graduation from high school.

The grandchildren thought it was the funniest thing ever. His long hair and slender build. And there on the mantelpiece was a more recent picture of the whole family, including Reine-Marie and himself.

The thought that an intruder had stood there and seen what was most private, most precious, outraged Armand, though outwardly he remained calm. His rational mind, his inspector's mind, took in the fact that there was nothing there that screamed, shouted, or even whispered that this was the home of a senior S?reté officer.

So what did the thief see that gave it away?

"No bugs, patron ," reported one of his agents, breaking into his thoughts. "And no cameras. We swept the place twice."

" Bon, merci. " Gamache couldn't conceal his relief. The agent saw this and smiled, pleased to bring his boss good news.

They drove back to the office. After a few minutes of silence, Jean-Guy Beauvoir turned to Gamache. "You're going, aren't you."

The Chief nodded.