The Madness of Crowds--A Novel

by Louise Penny

  “Just to be clear, this man you met here was alone?”

  “Oui.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Now Viau hesitated. “Well, I didn’t see anyone else, but I suppose someone could have been with him. Waiting outside.”

  “You unlocked the door when this man arrived,” said Isabelle. “Could someone else have come in after him, without you seeing?”

  Viau considered, then nodded. “Yes, I guess so.”

  Lacoste and Beauvoir looked at each other.

  “Do most people who rent this place see it first?” Beauvoir asked.

  “I’d say almost all.”

  “Then who from Professor Robinson’s group toured it? And when?”

  Viau’s brows drew together. “They didn’t. At least not as far as I know.”

  “How did they know about this place?” asked Beauvoir. “And who rented it for her?”

  * * *

  Gamache could see the old gymnasium building from the President’s office.

  He returned his gaze from the window back to President Pascal and Chancellor Roberge.

  He’d gone through what had happened the day before. Step by step. A report. Facts.

  “What’s the most likely scenario?” President Pascal asked.

  “At this stage, I can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” asked the Chancellor.

  Gamache remained silent.

  “Basically, Chief Inspector, you’re saying you’re considering every option,” said the President.

  “Except space aliens, yes.”

  “Including that Professor Robinson herself orchestrated it,” said Pascal.

  “That’s one scenario, oui.”

  “That sounds like one small step up from space aliens,” said the Chancellor, with a weary smile. This had not been her, or anyone’s, favorite twenty-four hours. “Sounds to me like a spurious correlation. Connecting things that don’t actually go together.”

  “We need to look at everything, no matter how unlikely,” Gamache reiterated. Though the more he thought about it, the more Professor Robinson orchestrating an attempt on her own life seemed unlikely. Too many variables. Too many things could go wrong.

  As a statistician, she would know that. Would she take the risk?

  He doubted it.

  “How did the gun get into the place?” asked the President. “I’m assuming he didn’t walk in with it.”

  “No. It must’ve been hidden there before the event.” He decided not to tell them that they believed Tardif had an accomplice.

  Gamache looked at the President with some sympathy.

  Otto Pascal led a small, even sleepy university, and had woken up this morning to chaos. The campus was overrun with police, with journalists from around Québec, soon from around the country and even the world.

  The Administration must, by now, be fielding awkward questions from frightened parents. Wondering if their children should return. And not just because of the shooting.

  All the journalists, and many of the parents, would be asking how any academic institution could possibly allow a talk by Abigail Robinson, a person many, most, considered a lunatic.

  President Pascal looked longingly at his desk, where the latest photos from a find in the Valley of the Kings was awaiting his interpretation.

  Otto Pascal had come up with his theory on hieroglyphic fiction in his postdoc work, only because no one else had thought of it. Then he’d spent the last four decades slowly realizing why that was.

  Still, it had gotten him some notice. Granted, not as much as his roommate, who had, as a joke and, given this conversation, somewhat ironically, decided to declare that the hieroglyphs, and the pyramids themselves, were the work of ancient aliens.

  It pissed Pascal off. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Now he was stuck with the dumb literature theory.

  “Mr. President?”

  “What?”

  The senior Sûreté officer was nodding toward the window.

  Through it, President Pascal could see the offending gymnasium. A carbuncle of a building if there ever was one.

  “You have a good view of the site,” said Gamache. “I don’t suppose you saw anything in the last week?”

  “Me? No. I haven’t been in.”

  Gamache noticed Pascal’s quick glance at his desk and took a step over. On it were printouts dated two days earlier.

  Pascal noticed him noticing. “Well, only to get those. I took them home, then brought them back here when I realized I’d have to spend most of today putting out fires.”

  He looked at Gamache as though he’d personally put a match to the University.

  Gamache fought the impulse to point out he’d asked, begged, both the President and the Chancellor to cancel the event.

  His phone vibrated and he glanced at the message from Beauvoir.

  “We need to know,” he said, replacing his phone in his pocket, “who rented the auditorium for Professor Robinson.”

  “The Administration offices are closed for the holidays,” said President Pascal.

  Gamache raised his brows. “I think maybe whoever’s in charge can come in, don’t you? It shouldn’t take long. I’d hate to have to get a warrant.”

  “No need for that,” said the President. “I’ll make sure you get the information you need within the hour.”

  “Bon, merci,” said Gamache. “If there are no further questions…”

  “I just wish you’d canceled the event, Armand, after we spoke,” said President Pascal as they walked him to the door. “Still, I’m grateful to you for what you and your people did.”

  Gamache caught Colette Roberge’s smile of sympathy.

  “I think I can get you the information you need,” she said. “My office is in the Administration Building. I have the key.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Gamache looked around the room, then at Colette Roberge.

  “This’s your office?”

  “Oui. I’d ask you to sit, but—”

  There was nowhere to sit except at the very old, stained swivel chair behind the desk that looked like it had been salvaged from a dumpster.

  Gamache had seen holding cells larger and more inviting.

  “They didn’t expect the Chancellor to actually do much work,” she said, leaning against the desk strewn with papers.

  “They obviously didn’t know what they were getting when they appointed you.” His expression grew serious. “Why’re we here, Colette?”

  “To get you the event booking form you asked for.”

  “That could be scanned to me. By someone other than the Chancellor.”

  “True.”

  He waited.

  “I think you can guess.”

  “I think I don’t want to.”

  She nodded, then reached for a drawer in her desk. “I can give you the booking request and receipt of payment for the gym right now. I don’t have to look it up.”

  She brought a slip of paper from the drawer but didn’t yet hand it to him.

  “Abby called just before Christmas.”

  “You didn’t tell me this before.”

  “No. But I’m telling you now. It wasn’t unusual. Like most people who don’t know each other well but want to stay in touch, we connected at Christmas. She’d sent me the paper she’d prepared for the Royal Commission and I’d been following the controversy. She said she’d like to come visit.”

  “But they’re not staying with you. They’re at the Manoir Bellechasse, aren’t they? I have agents there in case there’s more trouble.”

  “My place was already packed with houseguests, as you saw, so we couldn’t put them up. But…”

  “Yes?”

  “We spoke on the phone last night. She and Debbie were so shaken I invited them to come to us today. The kids can sleep on the sofas in the basement.”

  Gamache’s mind moved quickly. This was probably a good thing. Easier to protect a private home than a hotel.

&n
bsp; “When she called and said she wanted to visit, did she say why?”

  Now Colette smiled. “I’d assumed she wanted my wisdom, my advice. But seems not. She hasn’t asked for it.”

  “Did she mention doing an event while she was here?”

  “No. None was planned.”

  “So how did it come about?”

  Now the Chancellor looked decidedly uncomfortable. “That was my doing, I’m afraid. I mentioned in passing, more as a joke than anything, that if she needed to write the trip off, she should give a lecture. Two days later she called back—”

  “She called? None of this was done by email or text?”

  “No. All calls.”

  Armand took that in. It meant no paper trail. No way to confirm anything except that the calls happened. But not what was discussed.

  “She asked if there was an arena or something she could book. I thought it was her turn to joke. An arena. But then I watched her last talk and saw the crowd.”

  “So you booked the gym for her?”

  The slip of paper in her hand had been a pretty good indication that the Chancellor was responsible, but it was still an unpleasant shock to have it confirmed.

  “What was I supposed to do? It was my idea.”

  “Say nothing was available. Decline. Refuse. Lie.” He was staring at her, trying to understand how a person he’d always thought of as intelligent could do something so stupid.

  And then a thought occurred. “You didn’t want to turn her down. In fact, you made the suggestion knowing she’d jump at it. You wanted to make sure she came. Why?”

  Chancellor Roberge pressed her lips together and placed the requisition slip on the messy desk.

  “She was brilliant, such a dazzling intellect, like her father. But she’d gone so far off the rails, coming to conclusions that seemed not just abhorrent but actually wrong. Yes, I wanted her to come. It was the least I owed her father. I wanted to figure out what had happened. To try to get her back on course.”

  “So you arranged for her to give a lecture?” he asked.

  “I know, I know,” she said. “Look, I didn’t think anyone would actually come out. A last-minute talk on statistics, in English, in rural Québec, the week between Christmas and New Year’s? It had failure written all over it. Until it happened, I still didn’t believe anyone would show.”

  “Okay, it’s done. Let’s set that aside for now. But Colette, if the purpose of her trip wasn’t the lecture, and it wasn’t to see you, then why was she coming here?”

  “I’ve wondered that myself. She’s never been before, so why now? I think there must be someone she wants to meet, someone she thinks can help her.”

  “She didn’t say who?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask.”

  “Is that true?”

  It seemed incredible that this academic, in the same field, wouldn’t be more than a little curious about who it was. Perhaps even jealous. Who was more prominent and better placed than the Chancellor?

  Gamache was more than a little curious.

  “Yes, it’s true,” said the Chancellor. “It’s none of my business.”

  “It was exactly your business, Colette.”

  “Not anymore. I’ve long since retired from the thrilling field of statistics.”

  Her attempt at self-mockery was lost on Gamache. He continued to stare as the silence stretched painfully on.

  And then the Chancellor spoke, her voice serious now. “Abigail is a unique person, Armand. It’s hard not to get swept into her universe. You must’ve seen it yesterday.”

  He had. Not many could grip an audience made up mostly of people who probably hated math with a lecture on statistics. Chancellor Roberge was right. Her former student was riveting. And Abigail Robinson did it not with histrionics, but with a voice so quiet people had to almost strain to hear. It was a kindly crayon voice that carried conviction because it apparently didn’t try.

  “Are you saying you were mesmerized by her?” he asked.

  “I’m saying there are just people you want to please. Abby is one.”

  “Professor Robinson arrived two days ago, a day before the lecture,” said Armand. “Did you see her?”

  “No.”

  Gamache was well schooled in picking up when someone was hiding something. He wasn’t sure if she’d just lied, or if this was simply an evasion. That there was something he wasn’t asking.

  Then he remembered a moment, just before the lecture began, when he’d asked Professor Robinson if someone was going to introduce her. She’d said no but had glanced at the door.

  He’d had the impression the professor was stalling. Waiting until the very last minute, and beyond, to go on. Waiting for someone.

  “Were you supposed to be there? Did Professor Robinson ask you to introduce her?”

  “No.”

  The denial was quick. Absolute.

  And he didn’t believe it.

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this when I went to your house?”

  “I didn’t think it was pertinent.” At a look from him, she amended her answer. “I didn’t want anyone to know my involvement. I regretted making the booking almost immediately, but it was too late—”

  “It wasn’t too late,” he snapped. “I came to you, practically begging you to cancel, and you refused. Did you regret it or not? Your words say one thing, but your actions say something completely different.”

  “As I told you,” she snapped back, “I didn’t think anyone would show. I thought you were overreacting, and that canceling would draw more attention to it than if it just went on and died a natural death.”

  They were words she immediately regretted. She was gripping the edge of her desk and leaning toward him, and now she dropped her head. When she raised it, she looked him square in the face.

  “I’m sorry. I was obviously wrong. You wanted this.” She handed him the booking slip.

  “Your name isn’t on it. It says Tyler Vigen. Who’s he?”

  “Nobody. I didn’t want to use a real name, so I made one up.”

  He folded the paper, put it into his pocket, then studied her.

  “Are you involved in this?” he asked quietly.

  “The shooting?”

  “Don’t sound so shocked. It’s a natural conclusion. You’d read her paper, you invited her here. You booked the auditorium and had access to it.”

  “But you’ve arrested the gunman.”

  “True, but he might’ve had help.”

  “If he did, it wasn’t from me.” Then her eyes sharpened. “You think that’s how the gun got into the gym. Someone else put it there.”

  “We think it’s a possibility, yes. And if that’s the case, the person’s still out there. Are you sure you want to take Professor Robinson and Madame Schneider into your home? With your grandchildren?”

  Chancellor Roberge stared at him, her mind clearly working. Then she nodded.

  “Thank you for telling me. We’ll be extra careful and make sure the alarms are set.”

  Armand stared at her, waiting for more. When none came, he said, “And the children?”

  “They’re staying until the weekend. They have ski passes.”

  “You’re inviting a person who’s already had one attempt on her life into your home, with a possible second killer out there. Don’t you think the children at least should leave?”

  She considered and gave a sigh. “You’re right. I was just so stuck on having them there. They’ll be disappointed.”

  “But they’ll be alive. I’ll assign agents to guard your home. I’ll be by later this afternoon to speak to the professor.”

  He put on his tuque, then stopped at the door. “You said Abigail Robinson was, is, brilliant.”

  “She is. A genius in the field.”

  “If she’s such a genius, how did she get the pandemic data and conclusions so wrong?”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’ve been over h
er research, her statistics. Even sent her preliminary study to a close friend whose opinion I value. He came to the same conclusion. She’s not wrong.”

  “But you said she’d gone off the rails, that they’re—”

  “Morally abhorrent, but factually correct.”

  * * *

  “Jesus, don’t you guys smell it?” asked Isabelle.

  “Smell what?” asked Jean-Guy, and looked at Armand, who shook his head, apparently perplexed.

  Gamache had walked over to the gym and joined them in the basement, where the Incident Room was being set up. It had been the boys’ locker room.

  Technicians were putting in lines, computers, desks, chairs, boards.

  It wasn’t quite chaos, but it was close kin.

  “It smells like someone put Oka cheese in a sweaty sock, wrapped it in an old banana peel, then sat on it,” she said. “For ten years.”

  “Oh,” said Gamache. “That.”

  “I like it,” said Jean-Guy.

  Armand laughed.

  “Maybe there’s a less smelly place,” said Isabelle, looking around. “The bathroom for instance.”

  Monsieur Viau had returned with a slip of paper on which he’d written the name and number of the man he’d met a week earlier.

  “Merci,” said Lacoste. She glanced at it, then showed it to Gamache and Beauvoir.

  Their faces betrayed nothing.

  Édouard Tardif.

  Their only surprise was that Tardif hadn’t even tried to hide his identity.

  Gamache looked around. “Is there someplace quieter we can go?”

  “I can put a table and chairs on the stage upstairs, if you like,” said the caretaker.

  While Viau did that, the officers stepped outside into the fresh air. Isabelle took a long, long, deep breath.

  Gamache squinted into the sun and pointed. “That’s where President Pascal has his office.”

  It was a very old, very attractive fieldstone building with a bright red metal roof that had the ski-jump swoop particular to homes of the patrimoine québécois. It had been built centuries earlier and was almost certainly original to the property. It stood in stark contrast to the brutal gymnasium, built in the early sixties.

  “He has a good view of the place,” said Lacoste.

  “True, but he says he was only in his office briefly a few days ago. And he didn’t see anything.”