Chapter 7

C HAPTER 7

"Will you arrest me?"

"Do you want to be arrested?" asked Gamache. "Because it seems like you do. But arrested for what? You entered my home uninvited, but you broke nothing and only took an old coat, which you returned. A charge might stick, but you'd get a suspended sentence. I have better things to do, more important things to do, than play games with you."

This clearly shocked "Charles." He looked around, then leaned closer.

"Look, I think I'm being set up. I think something's happening and they want me to be blamed. That's why I wanted to talk to you. To ask for help. For protection."

"From whom?"

"I don't know."

The man's voice had risen to a whine, and his joual was stronger now, the accent broad. If the language was indeed winter, Armand was in a sudden squall, in danger of losing his way.

"Why would someone hire me to break into your home and tell me not to take anything? It doesn't make sense."

" Non. What doesn't make sense is what you're saying," snapped Gamache. And he didn't mean just the accent.

Once again, "Charles" looked around. It was becoming almost comical, certainly clichéd. He was the very image of a nervous man afraid he was being watched by the "bad guys."

And yet, thought Gamache with annoyance, cliché or no, it could be true. He could really be afraid. Or not.

Gamache had rarely felt so lost when faced with a suspect. Though there was nothing "suspect" about "Charles." He was guilty. But the question Armand needed answering was who'd put him up to it. Because someone had.

"You might not have known it was my home, but the guy who hired you almost certainly did. Who was it?"

"I don't know."

With that, Gamache made to get up.

"No, wait," said "Charles," reaching out to grab Gamache's sleeve.

Armand pulled it away, then leaned back in the chair, staring, daring this strange man to tell another lie.

"He was wearing a leather jacket and clean shirt." "Charles's" voice was now eager. "Good shoes. I notice shoes. Yours are good too. Not cheap shit that'll fall apart in the first rain."

This seemed a tangent, and yet it fed into the man's story that he lived for the most part on the streets. Where being able to tell good footwear from flimsy became vital to survival.

"I'm not interested in his clothing. Describe the man."

"I dunno, a guy."

"Old, young? French? Tall, short? Come on."

"He was French. Older than me but not as old as you." Clearly, to him, Gamache seemed ancient. "About my height, with dark hair. He looked fit. Like he worked out."

Either "Charles" paid much more attention than he claimed, or he was making it all up. Armand was leaning heavily toward the latter.

"Did he tell you why you were to go into the apartment?"

"Just that it was a bet. But I didn't really ask. I just wanted the money."

"A bet? Didn't that strike you as strange?"

"What the fuck, man." The belligerent, defensive "Charles" had returned. "I'm starving and some guy offers me money? I'd have blown him for less. So no, I don't even know why he told me that much. I didn't ask."

"Why you?"

"Probably because I looked the most likely to be able to do it without totally fucking up."

"And the most willing?"

" Oui. And why not? Tabernak , who wouldn't?"

Gamache did not need to say that he would not. But was that even true? If things had been different after his parents were killed in that accident? If he'd had no grandmother to raise him? No Stephen? If he'd found himself in foster care, then on the streets and starving? With holes in his shoes and thin clothing and a subway grate for a home? Who knew what he would become? What he would do?

"How did he pay you?"

"I take credit. How the fuck do you think he paid. Cash."

"Before or after?"

"Before."

"I see."

"Charles" knew he'd made a mistake, knew Gamache could see it. And the fact that the Chief Inspector didn't follow up was even more disconcerting.

"Describe the apartment."

" Pardon? "

"My apartment. Describe it."

There was a pause. Was this even the man who'd gone in? How much, Gamache wondered, was he being played?

"There're posters. I recognized the Jazz Festival one. There's a fireplace, and that's where I saw you, in a photograph. Magazines and books were everywhere. That's all I remember. It was…"

Gamache waited.

"… nice. Comfortable."

There was a wistfulness to his voice. A longing that could not be hidden. And that Gamache did not think was feigned. An unintended truth.

"Which shelter are you in?"

"The Mission, in Old Montréal."

Gamache knew it. It would be checked.

They would also, thanks to the coffee mug, have this man's fingerprints.

Armand reached into his jacket pocket, brought out a notebook, and slid it across the table.

"I'd like you to write, ‘Please, I need to speak to you.'"

He handed "Charles" a pen. The man looked at Gamache, perplexed at first, and then he understood.

"You are not a trusting man," he said as he wrote.

"Would you trust you?"

"Charles" gave one snort of near amusement, then pushed the paper back. "There. Satisfied?"

"Can you tell me why I asked you to do that?"

"Because that's in the note I wrote you. That note, right?" "Charles" pointed to the paper the Chief Inspector now held.

Unfolding it, Gamache compared the writing. They were the same.

"Where was it put?" Gamache asked.

"Fuck, man, you really do have trust issues. I put it in the jacket pocket." "Charles" mimicked placing a hand in the correct place.

"And this?" Gamache opened up the other piece of paper. The list of herbs and spices.

Reine-Marie took a deep breath, gathered her thoughts, and plunged ahead.

"Armand hasn't heard from her in years. Last time she called she wanted a favor."

Rosa nodded knowingly, as though this was familiar territory for a duck.

"What did she want?" Gabri asked, reaching for the Saint André and bread.

"Back then? She was the executive assistant to a member of Parliament. A newly elected backbencher from a rural riding outside Québec City. The MP's daughter had been in an accident. The assistant asked Armand to meet with her, and he did."

"Her the MP or her the assistant?" asked Myrna.

"The assistant. She wanted the MP to have deniability."

They leaned closer. Deniability. This was getting better and better.

"Why?" asked Clara. "What had happened?"

"The daughter was coming home from a bar. She was underage, drunk, and only had a learner's permit. She hit a cyclist. Instead of stopping to help, she took off. The S?reté tracked her down and took her in for questioning."

"The cyclist?" asked Clara.

"A young man. Bagged groceries at the local shop. He was on his way home. The coroner said if she'd stopped to help, he might have survived. As it was, he died alone in a ditch."

There was a sigh and silence. It was no longer "better and better." It had suddenly gotten worse. And worse.

"The assistant wanted it hushed up," said Reine-Marie. "All charges dropped. Wanted the S?reté to list it as an accident. The young man hit a pothole and was propelled off his bike into a tree."

"But surely the injuries…," began Olivier.

Reine-Marie shrugged. "You'd think it couldn't be done, but anything can, with enough clout, enough influence."

"And the MP had that," said Ruth.

"So did Armand," said Clara. "He had the power to make it go away."

" Oui ," said Reine-Marie, remembering his face when he'd gotten home that evening.

Sitting here, in this comfortable, familiar place, surrounded by good, decent people, it all seemed so simple. So obvious. The right thing to do. And Armand had done it. The charges were not dropped. Though neither he nor Reine-Marie appreciated the lengths the MP and his executive assistant would go to, to avenge that.

Years later, in their peaceful garden, Reine-Marie saw Armand was still reeling from the clout.