All the Devils Are Here

by Louise Penny

  She grabbed her phone, but by the time she brought up the camera he was gone.

  Just then her phone rang. It was the office returning her call.

  Annie listened, interrupting only once to ask, “Are you sure?”

  Hanging up, she sank into a chair.

  From across the room came the sound of Honoré’s squeeze toy. Saying what they all feared and suspected.

  “I agree,” she said to him. “This’s all ducked up.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Jean-Guy stared at the printout.

  “Holy Mother of God,” he said, and looked up into the steady eyes of the General Manager of the George V. “You charge that much for a pot of coffee?”

  “Service is included,” said Jacqueline Béland.

  She’d joined them in Stephen’s suite, at Gamache’s request, and brought the statement of room charges with her. Also at his request.

  “How many people were serving this coffee?” Beauvoir asked, his voice almost squeaky with shock. “How big is the pot? Have you seen the total, patron? Thank God Stephen’s good for it.”

  “Yes,” said Gamache, not bothering to tell Jean-Guy that he and Reine-Marie were covering the bill. Though he had discouraged Beauvoir from ordering up a club sandwich.

  “Look,” said Gamache, running his finger down the first sheet, then turning it over. There were three sheets of room charges. “Stephen ate all his meals in his room. Alone. For ten days. But look at this.”

  He pointed to the day before. In the afternoon. There was a room charge for two beers. Stephen’s usual and an Abbaye de Leffe beer.

  “He had company,” said Jean-Guy, examining the bill. “The beers were ordered up after he left the Lutetia at four, and before he met us at Juveniles.”

  “Oui. This’s where he was for at least part of the time.” Gamache turned to Madame Béland. “He made a note of Plessner’s arrival, before dinner.”

  He brought out Stephen’s agenda to double-check, and there it was. AFP. Alexander Francis Plessner.

  “You have security cameras?” Jean-Guy asked the General Manager.

  “Many, yes. Everywhere except the actual guest rooms.”

  “We’ll need to see the footage.”

  “I’ll have my assistant bring up my laptop and we can view it here,” she said, understanding their need for privacy. And speed.

  She placed the call.

  “Do you know an Alexander Plessner?” Beauvoir asked.

  “No. The Inspector in charge showed me a picture of him.” She paused. “Is he…?”

  “So he wasn’t staying here?” asked Gamache.

  “No. I looked him up. No one named Alexander Plessner has stayed here. He might’ve visited, of course.”

  Neither Beauvoir nor Gamache mentioned that Plessner was in fact a guest. And staying in this very suite.

  “How about Eugénie Roquebrune?” Beauvoir asked.

  “The head of GHS Engineering? I’ve heard of her, but we’ve never met. Not that I haven’t tried.”

  “Why would you?” asked Gamache.

  “Because I’d like her business. Their account would be worth hundreds of thousands of euros a year.”

  “But you don’t have it?” asked Beauvoir. “Their account, I mean.”

  “Non.”

  Just then there was a quiet knock on the door and a young man with a laptop appeared. Sitting at the long dining table, Madame Béland opened it up and logged in.

  “What day and time are you interested in?” she asked.

  “Yesterday,” said Beauvoir, sitting on her other side and looking at the screen. “From four o’clock on.”

  “We have a lot of cameras,” she explained as she tapped keys. “Even knowing what date and time you need to see, it’ll take hours to go through them all.”

  “Just the main entrance,” said Gamache.

  Within a minute the image and time stamp popped up.

  They watched for a few minutes at double speed. People whizzing in and out, their now frantic movements made comical. Then Beauvoir said, “Stop. Back up slightly. There.” The image froze. “Stephen.”

  The time was 4:53.

  Armand leaned closer.

  Stephen looked haggard. More tired, Armand thought, than when they’d parted.

  The video started again. Stephen walked across the Art Deco lobby and disappeared.

  He was alone.

  “Can we see where he went?” Gamache asked.

  Madame Béland hit more keys. They were able to track Stephen’s progress through the lobby, down the hall to the right. Through the large open room where elegantly dressed men and women were having afternoon tea or drinks. Stephen looked around before heading down the hall to the bank of elevators.

  Madame Béland brought up the camera outside his suite. The elevator doors opened, and Stephen stepped out and disappeared into his suite.

  “Can you go back? To the elevator?” asked Gamache.

  Madame Béland did.

  “Stop, please,” said Gamache.

  There, frozen on the screen, was Stephen. Alone in the elevator. Armand realized he’d never actually seen his godfather when he thought no one was looking.

  And what he saw was a very elderly man. Grim. Vulnerable.

  Determined. Afraid.

  A Burgher of Calais in the George V elevator.

  * * *

  “Is that such a good idea, sir,” asked Irena Fontaine. “To take everything?”

  Claude Dussault smiled at her as he replaced items in the box. “We’ve been through it, more than once, and didn’t find anything. It’s possible Monsieur Gamache will. And I suspect he’d notice if anything’s missing. Even this.”

  He held up a screw, then dropped it into the box.

  * * *

  “We need to go back to the front door,” said Beauvoir. “See who else arrived. Who Stephen was expecting. He ordered that second beer for someone.”

  The video played. They saw guests and visitors and staff entering and exiting. And then they saw him.

  At 5:26 Alexander Plessner walked confidently through the lobby of the grand hotel, a satchel over his shoulder.

  “He must’ve come straight from the airport,” said Beauvoir.

  A hotel official stopped Plessner, and they watched as the older man chattered, gesturing toward the hotel bar. The official nodded and watched him walk away.

  “Your security?” asked Gamache.

  “Yes. Private firm. Very good. Trained to be courteous, and to take down an assassin.”

  Beauvoir raised his brows. “Has that happened often?”

  “Once. And two kidnapping attempts. We also get a lot of protesters. Our clientele are rich and powerful. We take security seriously.”

  “As I saw,” said Gamache. “Your people came up quickly, to see who we were.”

  “Yes, well, not fast enough. We’re looking into that. Had you been intent on harm, you might have gotten away with it.”

  But looking at the man, she understood how he and his wife got past security in the lobby. He managed to look both authoritative and trustworthy. Here was a man who naturally belonged.

  It would take an extraordinary person to challenge him. And, once challenged, to stop him.

  Now, the other fellow? She looked at Beauvoir. Handsome, she thought. But there was something almost wild about him. As though he was just pretending to be civilized.

  Yes, he’d be stopped. Though if he wanted to get by, or through, their security, she had no doubt he would do so. But it wouldn’t be subtle and it wouldn’t be pretty.

  On the screen, they watched Plessner take the same route as Stephen. A minute later he entered the suite.

  Madame Béland put it into double speed. The beers arrived. The time stamp said 7:14 when the door opened again and Plessner stepped out. At the door Stephen said something.

  They zoomed in.

  “Looks like,” said Beauvoir, leaning close, “‘Good luck.’ But I can’t m
ake out the rest.”

  “Monsieur Horowitz is saying, ‘Text me when you have it.’” They looked at Madame Béland, who explained. “You get good at lip-reading in my job.”

  “Stephen checked his phone a few times over dinner,” said Jean-Guy. “That explains why.”

  He also, Armand knew, had his phone in his hand when he was hit.

  It became even more frustrating that the chip was smashed and they couldn’t retrieve his messages. Had Plessner managed to get something off before he was killed?

  On the screen, they followed Monsieur Plessner out of the hotel. And to his death.

  Gamache’s brow furrowed. He always found it moving to see someone in the final images. Oblivious to what was awaiting them.

  They continued to watch the door, but no one followed him.

  On the exterior camera the doorman waved over a taxi and Plessner got in.

  At 7:53 Stephen himself left. He’d changed into a slightly more formal suit. Before getting into a taxi, he checked his phone.

  “Is there a way to know if the video has been tampered with?” Gamache asked.

  The GM looked at him, astonished, but didn’t argue the point. “Well, yes. There’s a time stamp generator. If it was edited, there’d be a slight fluctuation when it was reset. The time would appear to be correct, but the video would speed up slightly to catch up with the piece that was removed.”

  “Can you check, please?”

  “It’ll take a few minutes.”

  While Madame Béland did that, Jean-Guy brought out his phone and Armand nodded.

  Leaving her in the living room, they went upstairs to the study.

  Armand closed the door. Jean-Guy tapped his phone, and the video of the disappearing messages began to play.

  * * *

  Reine-Marie picked up the phone on the first ring.

  “Annie?”

  “No, it’s not time, Maman.” For the past week every time she had called, her mother asked, Is it time? “But can you come over?”

  “Is everything all right? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, but I just need to show you something.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Reine-Marie threw on a coat and left behind all the things that still needed doing for their dinner that night with the Dussaults.

  * * *

  The emails between Beauvoir’s boss, Carole Gossette, and the Luxembourg project engineer were ambiguous.

  “See here,” said Beauvoir. “She writes, We need to be careful. We don’t want anything to go wrong. That could mean anything. Could mean there’s a cover-up.”

  “Or it could mean the opposite,” said Gamache. “That she’s making sure all the plans, all the safety measures, are in place.” He shook his head. “Go back to the previous email, please.”

  They leaned in. But it was blurred on Beauvoir’s camera.

  “Looks like they’re talking about something unique.” Gamache pointed to a word. “Is that word ‘not’? Is she saying it’s not unique?”

  “I can’t tell. But again, he could be referring to the weather for all we know. Or some government official who was actually helpful.”

  Gamache took a long, deep breath. Then, exhaling, he took off his glasses and stepped away. “We need to send these to Lacoste back at the Sûreté. They can get a clearer picture.”

  Just then Madame Béland called up the stairs. “Got something.”

  * * *

  Reine-Marie read the email from Annie’s office, about their dealings with Alexander Francis Plessner.

  Then she raised her eyes to her daughter.

  “What should we do?” Annie asked. “Should we talk to him?”

  Reine-Marie shook her head.

  “We can’t go to the police,” said Annie, her voice rising.

  “No, of course not.” At least that much was clear. “But we do need to tell your father.”

  “And Jean-Guy.”

  “Yes. Do you two have plans tonight?”

  “No.”

  “We have guests. I’ve asked the Prefect of Police and his wife for dinner. We’ll call you when they’ve left.”

  * * *

  Gamache and Beauvoir stared at the screen.

  “There,” said Madame Béland.

  They had to watch it three times before seeing what she saw. The slightest fluctuation.

  “If I slow down the time stamp, you can see it jumps one one-hundredth of a second. That’s where they made the splice.”

  “On all the cameras?” asked Beauvoir. He was almost cross-eyed by now and had to open his eyes wide, then screw them shut just to see her properly.

  “No. The ones in the elevators and outside Monsieur Horowitz’s suite haven’t been tampered with. Only the ones in the lobby, then into the Galerie lounge.”

  “So what happened in the Galerie?” asked Jean-Guy. “Something did. Yesterday at…?”

  “At about five o’clock,” said Madame Béland. “That’s when the edits were made.”

  “Who could do this?” asked Gamache. “Who has the access and the ability?”

  “Well…” She took off her own glasses. Now she looked both bleary and weary. “Obviously, I could. But didn’t. The videos are in a virtual library. Our security oversees all that. But unfortunately, where humans are involved nothing is completely safe and secure.”

  “You have your own private security,” said Beauvoir. “Could they do it?”

  “Well, yes. They’re trained in many things, including cybersecurity. It’s not just about muscle anymore.”

  “Who trains them?” asked Beauvoir.

  “Mossad. Spetsnaz,” she said with a smile. “They train the best, and once finished there, we hire them.”

  “GIGN?” asked Gamache.

  “Preferably, yes,” said Madame Béland. “We ask for them specifically because they already speak French and know Paris well.”

  “Is there any way to know how much was taken out and restore it?” Jean-Guy asked.

  “You know,” she said, “I’m not sure. This’s never happened to me before. I’ll try to find out.”

  “Bon,” said Gamache. “Can you back up what’s left so we don’t lose more?”

  “Already have, Chief Inspector. I’ll send you a link.”

  “Merci. And please don’t tell anyone about this.”

  “The investigators from the Préfecture might ask to see the security video. I’m actually a little surprised they haven’t.”

  So were Beauvoir and Gamache.

  “Can you show them without volunteering this information?” Beauvoir asked.

  She thought, then nodded. “But if they ask outright, I’ll have to tell them.”

  “Understood, but keep it to yourself if you can,” said Gamache. “The firm who does your security, who is that?”

  “SecurForte.”

  “That sounds familiar,” said Gamache.

  “Stephen’s apartment,” murmured Jean-Guy. “The flic.”

  Gamache nodded. Yes, the investigator in charge had asked Jean-Guy if he’d joined SecurForte. It was obviously well-known to the Paris police.

  After she left, Gamache looked at the time. Almost six. Far later than he’d thought.

  “We need to go,” he said.

  “I forgot to ask her one question,” said Beauvoir.

  “We can stop in on the way out,” said Armand.

  “Not important. I was just surprised that the George V uses Ikea furniture.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He looked at his father-in-law with amusement. “Have you never put together an Ikea bookcase or desk?”

  “Actually, yes. For both Daniel and Annie when they went away to university. Clever design but almost drove us mad.”

  “Then you must’ve recognized the screw and Allen wrench. They’re Ikea.”

  “Huh, you’re right. Though others use Allen wrenches.”

  They were at the door, but Armand stopped, turned, and
walked up the stairs to the office area. Beauvoir followed.

  “It’s certainly not Ikea,” said Armand, and even Jean-Guy could see that.

  It was a fine original Louis XV desk.

  Armand pulled out the drawer and looked under it. But there was nothing there.

  “Have you ever actually found anything taped under a drawer?” Jean-Guy asked.

  “Non. But wouldn’t it be nice?”

  “A note, maybe, saying, The murderer is…”

  Gamache laughed. “Seems we’ll have to do this the hard way.”

  “You mean I do all the work while you sit on a bench sipping Pernod?”

  “Good God, young man. What’ve you been reading? Pernod? Never had one in my life. Now, a nice lager…” He looked at Beauvoir. “Shouldn’t you be doing something useful?”

  “Come along, old man. I have to get you home to your wife.”

  “And I to yours.”

  Beauvoir wasn’t fooled by this. In the taxi back, he could see Armand staring out as the wide boulevards slid past. A slight furrow between his brows.

  Thinking. Always thinking. Though it wasn’t the thoughts that had created the lines in his face, Jean-Guy knew. It was the feelings.

  Then Armand roused himself and sent off a few emails, including, Jean-Guy noticed, one back home to their neighbor in Three Pines, Clara Morrow. Checking on the dogs and whatever little Gracie was, thought Beauvoir, as he went back to his phone and got caught up on his own messages.

  Armand got out at the hospital, while Beauvoir continued on home.

  After sitting with Stephen for a few moments, reading the news and telling him about the day, Armand put on his coat, wrapped the scarf around his neck, and walked out into the fresh air and gaiety of Paris on a Saturday evening. He passed young couples, arms linked, on their way to a brasserie. Or to a tiny walk-up apartment. A hot plate, a small table by the window. A bed. And Paris.

  All they could possibly need.

  Ah, yes, he thought. I remember it well.

  Armand paused in front of Notre-Dame, and tried to see beyond the scaffolding to the remarkable face of the cathedral. He could see the huge rose window that had, incredibly, survived the fire. It looked, behind the works, like a giant third eye. Gazing perpetually out at the City of Light and its citizens, while also gazing inward, at their motivations, their characters, their hearts and souls.