Chapter 6

C HAPTER 6

It was five to four.

Gamache sat in the car on rue Saint-Viateur and stared at the green awnings of Open Da Night. He hadn't had time for lunch, and now, as he watched customers on the terrasse enjoying Italian pastries, Armand realized how hungry he was.

Beside him in the driver's seat, Jean-Guy was scanning the area to see if the man who'd delivered the package was there. Each officer had been given his photo.

Lacoste texted from inside the café. She and her team were in place.

It was, Beauvoir knew, useless to ask the Chief one more time if he was sure. He was. It was a fait accompli , a certainty, from the moment they'd found the note.

Please, I need to speak to you. Meet me today. Four o'clock at Open Da Night. I'm sorry. I didn't know it was your home.

How could Gamache not meet the fellow who'd broken into his home?

It had been equally useless to ask the Chief if maybe he should be armed, but Beauvoir did anyway, and got exactly the reply he'd expected. An almost amused look.

"Take a firearm into a crowded café, mon ami ? Non. I'll leave it to you to kill any innocent bystanders."

It was as close to gallows humor as Jean-Guy had seen the Chief come.

"Those bomboloni are to die for," said Beauvoir.

"I'll get you one if you promise not to shoot. And certainly not to shoot me."

Beauvoir almost added, Again. But decided that was a step too far, and perhaps not something either man wanted to remember.

The fellow on the security video hadn't arrived yet. But then, he might not be the thief. This was the disconcerting part. They really had no idea who would show up. Or why.

The place was actually called Café Olimpico. It got its nickname when some letters fell off the sign and were never replaced. Open Day and Night became Open Da Night .

It was interesting, perhaps telling, that the thief knew the nickname. Not everyone did.

Was it just coincidence that the thief had chosen perhaps the one café in Montréal that Armand was most familiar with? Where he felt most comfortable, most at home. Safest?

He'd been in many times, often for espresso allongés on a Sunday morning with Reine-Marie. Early in their marriage they'd read the paper, nurse a coffee, and chat with Rocco, the original owner.

Armand looked down at the pages in his hands. The lab had finished with the notes and returned them to the Chief. Folding them up again, he put them in his breast pocket and reached for the door.

"I can come in with you," said Jean-Guy.

"Better if you're out here," said Armand.

They'd also been through this. If the thief had studied the photographs, he might recognize Jean-Guy, who was in several of them.

While the note did not say to come alone, Gamache thought it best not to advertise that the place was now throbbing with S?reté officers.

He walked into the café and waved at Vito, one of the longtime baristas.

" Un allongé, per favore ."

"Already being made, Chief. I saw you coming."

It didn't matter that Vito had just announced to everyone there, a few of whom were not cops, that the Chief Inspector was in the building. It would not come as a surprise to the fellow he was meeting. Besides, Gamache was hardly incognito.

He made himself comfortable in a corner table. From there he had a good view of the whole place.

The café was noisy, with the televisions blaring, replaying classic soccer matches that Italy invariably won. Baristas shouted orders and occasionally burst into self-mocking song, and regulars howled at the screens, though everyone knew the happy outcome of the games.

In the opposite corner two elderly men played cards. They wore white tank tops stained with sweat and mud-smeared green slacks, dirty from tending the tall tomato plants in the patch of garden at the front of their row homes.

It was not a relaxing place, but it was vibrant and comfortable and familiar, and very old-world. With its stone walls and long marble bar and tin tiled ceiling, it really hadn't changed since Armand's godfather, Stephen, had taken him there when he wasn't yet shaving.

He'd had his first cappuccino over there, at the round table by the window. He'd hated the bitter taste. But then he'd also hated his first beer and first scotch and first taste of smoked salmon. Took him a while, and some perseverance, to get used to the taste of adulthood.

Now, the cannoli were a different matter. He'd liked those from the get-go.

Vito brought him his coffee and with it a pastry. Uninvited, but appreciated.

" Grazie. "

" Prego. "

"Can you bring me another cannoli, please? I'm expecting someone."

"Madame Gamache?"

" Non. "

It was warm and Armand was in a suit and tie. He was tempted to take off his jacket, but decided to just loosen his tie and undo the top button of his white shirt.

At seven minutes past four a man walked through the door, looked around, then, fixing on Gamache, approached.

He wore a hoodie, with the hood up, on this warm afternoon. His hands were in the bulging front pouch of the sweatshirt. He was stocky and walked with the rolling, wary gait of a boxer approaching an adversary.

This was not the man from the video. Armand felt a sudden jab of concern, bordering on fear.

Was it a setup after all?

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lacoste get up. In a flash he took in the customers, including an elderly man and his granddaughter, standing between Lacoste and the man, who was getting closer. They were in her line of sight. Line of fire.

Gamache gave a subtle gesture to Lacoste to hold where she was. He could see her hand on her hip, resting on the concealed weapon. Ready. The other agents had also stood up. The grandfather, sensing something, was looking around and instinctively reached for the little girl.

Agents were stepping forward, trying to get around the clog of people at the bar who were ordering coffees and pastries and just becoming aware that something unusual was happening.

Those staring at the TV and unaware burst into cheers as Italy scored a decades-old goal.

Gamache had an imperfect view of his people, which meant they had an imperfect view of him and the stranger approaching. If the man pulled a gun, they'd have no clear shot.

The grandfather placed his large hand on the girl's shoulder and guided her so that she stood behind him.

All this happened quickly, as these things did. Within a second or two.

"May I?" The man indicated the chair.

"I'm actually expecting someone," said Gamache, tense, his palms flat under the table, prepared to push it over, into the newcomer. And then leap. Perhaps avoiding a shot, perhaps not, but at least knocking the gunman to the floor and giving his agents time to swarm.

"You're expecting me." The man swept the hoodie off and sat.

His face, close-up, was ruddy, worn by the sun and wind. This man spent a lot of time outdoors. He was, Gamache estimated, in his mid- to late twenties. No piercings or tattoos that he could see. Hair cut short. His eyes alert, clear. More grey than blue, but perhaps they were the sort that changed with clothing.

"Can you place your hands on the table, please?" Gamache asked, even as he moved his own to grip the edges. To shove the table forward if…

The man looked a little surprised but complied. He splayed his fingers. They were strong, and oddly sensitive, Gamache thought. More those of a pianist than a boxer. While tanned, his hands were not calloused. His cuticles and nails were nibbled and torn.

With the removal of his hands, the pouch at the front of his grey sweatshirt flattened. No weapon there.

And with that, it was over. The tension drained from the room almost as quickly as it had appeared. Though the agents remained standing, staring. Their eyes in target-acquisition mode.

The grandfather was still protecting his granddaughter. He followed the stares of those around him, into the corner where a large man sat gripping the table. And then he saw the man release the table and fold his hands together in front of him.

And the elderly man's face relaxed into a smile. He lifted his protective hand from his granddaughter's thin body.

"What is it?" she asked, picking up on the tension and then the lack of it.

" Rien ," he said with relief. Nothing. Bending down, he pointed to the man sitting at the back of the café and whispered to her. The girl turned to look, her eyes wide. The first famous person she'd ever seen.

The grandfather was now completely relaxed, believing if Chief Inspector Gamache was there, they'd be safe.

He was, as it turned out, wrong.

"You're not the same person who dropped the package at my office."

"Do I look stupid?"

No, thought Gamache. He didn't look stupid, but he did look like a man trying desperately to appear calm, in control.

"I paid some homeless guy to do it."

"And yet here you are, in full view." Armand's voice was pleasant, also trying to appear calm, while every part of him was hyperalert. "So why the game at S?reté headquarters?"

"I wasn't sure you'd come. I didn't want to expose myself before I had to."

"You're not planning to expose yourself, are you?"

The man stared at him for a moment, then smiled. And, as with most people, the smile transformed his face. The burly man suddenly looked younger, more innocent.

"Not unless I have to."

Vito's hand appeared over the man's shoulder, and he startled, giving a quick spasm, and almost knocking the cannoli off the plate.

"I didn't order this," he snapped, embarrassed by his reaction.

"I did. Grazie , Vito," said Gamache. "Would you like a coffee?"

When his guest just stared, as though not understanding the question, Gamache asked Vito to bring a cappuccino. "Perhaps decaf."

" Non. I don't want any coffee."

Vito filled his water glass, but the man pushed it away.

When Vito left, after giving Armand a look, the man asked, "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"You know. Buying me food."

"I thought you might be hungry. You looked thinner on the tape. And younger."

The man gave a grunt of laughter. "I have put on weight since this morning, and a few years."

"So have I." Armand also smiled, trying to keep this easy, cordial. As though he met with people who broke into his home every day.

Gamache's companion spoke with a joual accent. The old, almost ancient patois that had come over on wooden ships with Jacques Cartier and Samuel de Champlain. It had been transplanted from the slums of Paris and taken root in the New World.

It still thrived in pockets of Montréal.

Like cockney, it had evolved. Not just the odd word or phrase, but the perception. Joual had gone from the back alleys of East End Montréal, to main street and the main stage of renowned theaters. It was heard in university classrooms and boardrooms.

Armand very much liked hearing the sound, the inflections. The words. Not all of which he understood. Though "poutine" he knew. It was joual for pudding.

The language was guttural, almost harsh. If a Québec winter could speak, it would be in joual.

Hearing it now, Gamache felt a sort of affection for this stranger. It was instinctive.

That too was something to guard against, and he wondered in passing if this young man was doing it on purpose. Joual was a trigger, a code that told another Québécois that the speaker, while perhaps rough, was salt of the earth. He or she could be trusted. As you'd trust a grandparent.

Gamache glanced at the elderly man, who was now sitting at a table and gently wiping whipped cream off his granddaughter's hands. Yes, trust was a powerful instinct. And weapon.

"Do you live in the area?" Gamache asked.

" Non. "

The man picked up the pastry and bit down. The thick whipped cream oozed out of both ends of the roll and onto his fingers.

Gamache took a sip of coffee. "I ask because not many know this place as Open Da Night."

"I must've read an article about it online. I thought you probably knew it since you live close by. I wanted a place where you'd feel comfortable."

" Merci. Most thoughtful." It was bullshit, Gamache knew, but was happy for now not to challenge him. "Would you like something else to eat? They make wonderful cornetti."

The man had already finished off his cannoli.

"No, thank you." Now he looked perplexed. "Aren't you mad at me?"

He sounded almost childish.

"Well, I'm not pleased. You broke into my home and stole my coat. But you returned it, which I appreciate." Gamache leaned forward. "What's your name?"

"Charles."

"Charles what?"

"Just that."

Since "Charles" was almost certainly not his real name, Gamache didn't feel the need to press for a fake last name too.

"Why are we here, Charles?"

"I needed to talk to you."

Gamache just waited. "Charles" glanced over his shoulder into the body of the café. Gamache wondered if he realized most of the people there were S?reté agents. If he did, it didn't seem to matter. He returned his gaze to the Chief Inspector.

"This was a mistake."

"What was?"

"Meeting you."

"Why do you say that?"

"It's just not a good idea. You're a public figure. Someone might see us together."

"Would that be a problem?"

Now "Charles" almost smiled. "Well, we probably wouldn't be mistaken for friends."

"Then why do it? What do you want to tell me?"

"Charles" leaned closer. Whipped cream still clung to his fingers, and Armand was fighting the temptation to hand him a paper napkin. Or even to wipe it off himself.

There was something about this young man. He was swinging wildly from arrogance, even belligerence, to vulnerability. It was as though he couldn't decide who he was, or which attitude to strike when faced with this famous cop.

So he tried them all, and ended up just a strange man with whipped cream and dirt on his nibbled fingers. It was somehow endearing.

The younger man was slick with perspiration now, but from the heavy sweatshirt in the heat and humidity of the close café or nerves, Gamache didn't know.

"Charles" dropped his voice to a whisper, a rasp. "Look, I really didn't know it was your place. I'd never have agreed if I'd known."

The Chief was silent. He knew this "Charles" was waiting for him to ask questions, many of which were obvious. Which was precisely why Gamache did not.

Questions could have limited use. Be limiting. The person would only answer the questions that the interrogator thought to ask. It was the questions he didn't know that would get at the truth.

And so, Chief Inspector Gamache crossed his legs, sat back in his chair, folded his hands on his lap, and waited.

"Charles" was clearly confused by the silence and the stance. "Aren't you going to ask?"

"This's your party. You invited me here, I'm assuming for a reason. You'll tell me, I'm sure. You don't need to be interrogated, do you?"

This threw him off further. It was clearly not what "Charles" was expecting from the senior S?reté officer whose home he'd burgled.

What was he expecting, Gamache wondered. But knew the answer. "Charles" was expecting to be arrested. And that still might happen.

It was possible he was also hoping to be arrested. That thought intrigued Gamache.

What "Charles" was not expecting was to be treated to cannoli and courtesy.

As Gamache watched, "Charles" reached for the water glass, then withdrew his hand as though it had bitten him.

"Okay, here's the thing. Some guy gave me a hundred bucks to break into an apartment in Outremont. He gave me a key and the address and told me to go right away. He said no one would be at home, and not to take anything, just go in, then lock up again and leave."

"He gave you a key to the place?" This was disconcerting, if true.

" Oui. I threw it into some dump truck."

"How did the man contact you?"

"He came to the shelter I was in. Asked if I wanted to make some quick cash."

"Why you?"

"How the fuck should I know?"

"When was this?"

"About ten yesterday morning. When I unlocked the door and recognized you in the pictures, I panicked. I grabbed the coat, then got the hell out."

Gamache paused, playing with the handle of his coffee mug. "Why take the coat?"

"Charles" shifted. "Winter's coming. I know it seems a long way off to you. It's only August. But if you've lived rough in Montréal…" His voice trailed off, and both men saw the snowdrifts, the bundles of ice-encrusted clothing lying curled over a Métro vent. The man or woman in the fetal position. The same position they had when entering the world.

Yes, winter was something to fear, and to prepare for. Even those with homes and warm clothing knew that.

"When I saw the coat, I grabbed it, thinking it would keep me warm and dry at least through the fall." He was staring at Gamache, trying to read the Chief Inspector. But Gamache's expression was noncommittal. Mostly because he didn't yet know what to believe.

He had a lot of questions, but those would wait. For now he wanted to know the answers to questions he didn't know to ask.

And so he lapsed into silence again and just watched the man across from him. His age, Gamache now realized, was hard to tell. He probably looked older than he was. Life on the street would do that.

Gamache also knew that many homeless were addicts or had psychiatric issues. Should, in fact, be getting help, be in care. Not dumped onto the streets like refuse.

How had this man ended up homeless? Or had he? Maybe it was all an act.

Gamache was frustrated with himself. He should be able to tell. But this man was confounding him. His instinct told him this "Charles" was lying, but about what? Everything? Most convincing liars started from the truth and took off from there into their own self-seeking fabrications.

If that was the case, what was "Charles" seeking? What was the purpose of all this?

Gamache pushed his untouched cannoli toward his companion.

"You don't believe me, do you," said "Charles."

"I'm reserving judgment. I think some of what you're telling me is the truth, some not so much. It doesn't help that you started off lying about your name."

"Did you expect the truth?"

Gamache was growing weary of this. It had been a long, stressful day. He wanted answers and he wanted to go home. To Reine-Marie.

He imagined her in the kitchen in Three Pines, preparing dinner. A mug of strong tea on the counter. The dogs, and Gracie, underfoot.

He saw Myrna in her bookshop sorting new arrivals, and Clara in her studio, a brush stuck behind her ear, staring at her latest work, part of a series she was calling Just before something happens…

The works ached of anxiety and excitement. Of potential and promise and peril. Of hope, but also dread. Anything might happen…

Gabri would be changing the beds at their B&B. With that thought came the memory of the stranger he'd passed the day before. The elderly man who'd looked vaguely familiar.

Then Armand's mind moved on, to Olivier in the bistro, who'd be putting mixed nuts in bowls for customers. With the nights closing in, he might lay a fire in the huge stone hearths at either end of the room. Lit more for cheer than warmth.

Yes, Armand wanted to get up and go home.

Instead, he leaned forward, keeping his voice steady. "You said you needed to speak to me. So speak, and make it the truth, otherwise I'm leaving."

Reine-Marie's phone rang. She grabbed it, thinking it was Armand, but it was another familiar voice.

"I'm experimenting with a new cocktail. Want to come over?" asked Olivier.

"Absolutely," said Reine-Marie.

The other guinea pigs were gathered in the bistro on the large sofa and in armchairs around the laid, but unlit, fire. It was a warm afternoon, but when the sun went down, so would the temperature.

"You never told us who that call yesterday morning was from," said Ruth.

Reine-Marie cut off a tranche of Bleu Bénédictin, made by the monks in the nearby abbey of Saint-Beno?t-du-Lac, and placed it on a slice of baguette from Sarah's Boulangerie. Then she took one of the experimental cocktails and sniffed. It was green and smelled of turf.

It also tasted like turf. She winced and put it down again. "What's it called?"

"The Last Word," said Olivier.

Everyone else took a sip and made the same face.

"Is the last word ‘yech'?" asked Myrna.

"Fucking hell." Ruth moved her tongue around in her mouth, trying to get rid of the taste. "That's awful. Are you trying to poison us?" Still, she downed the drink and reached for Clara's, who did not defend it.

"Gin," shouted Clara. "Stat!"

"Don't think our near-death experience just now has made us forget the question," said Ruth, though the others looked perplexed, having forgotten the question. "Who was on the phone yesterday morning?"

The call was private and none of their business. But Reine-Marie had trusted these people with her life. She could trust them with this. Or at least a carefully curated version.

"It was from some woman Armand used to know—"

"Ahhh," said Ruth, nodding. "I was ‘some woman' once…"

The others grimaced. Even Rosa. But then, ducks often did.

"Not like that," Reine-Marie hurriedly said before Rosa could speak. "At all."

They leaned forward, knowing they were about to get the good stuff. Something was about to happen.