But it was, Armand thought as he continued his walk, an old and dangerous lie. There was nothing right or good in dying for your country. A necessity, sometimes, yes. But always a tragedy. Not an aspiration.
His anger toward his son had dissipated in the night, and now he thought of Daniel and how frightened he must have been, to lie like that.
Was he waiting in his apartment for the knock on the door? Knowing that, eventually, someone would discover the lie. Someone would come?
Armand walked over to the hôpital Hôtel-Dieu and spent half an hour with Stephen, rubbing the cream on his hands and feet. Then reading him the world news.
The ventilator continued to pump, and the beeping of the machines was steady, almost rhythmic.
But the man was still and silent.
After a hushed conversation with the nurse and the doctor on duty, Armand kissed Stephen on the forehead, told him he was kind and strong. Brave and loved.
“And I know that you always told the truth,” he whispered.
Then he left.
Though the nurse and doctor stopped short of saying it, he could see in their eyes that soon, very soon, they’d be asking him to make a decision. But he couldn’t think about that. Not yet.
The boulangerie on his way home was open, and he picked up half a dozen fresh croissants. By the time he got back, Reine-Marie was up.
“Five?” she said, after looking into the bag.
“One must’ve fallen out.”
“Of course it did, Chief Inspector. Did you sleep?” she asked, brushing crumbs off his coat.
“Very well.”
“How are you feeling about Daniel?”
“Calmer. You were right to have me wait. I’ll go around after breakfast.”
He took a long sip of rich, strong coffee while Reine-Marie spread strawberry jam on her croissant.
“I spoke with Mrs. McGillicuddy yesterday, about Stephen’s will,” he said. “He made a new one a year ago. After some sizable bequests, to his foundation and one to Mrs. McGillicuddy”—Armand hesitated for a moment, before going on—“he left the rest to us.”
Reine-Marie lowered her croissant to her plate, staring at him. To say it was a shock would have been disingenuous. But still, if she’d thought about it at all, she’d have said Stephen would leave Annie and Daniel small bequests. And them nothing at all.
And certainly not the whole thing.
“His estate would be split equally among Annie, Daniel, and you and me.”
Before she could ask, or fight the temptation to ask, he volunteered the information.
“According to Mrs. McGillicuddy, after taxes and fees, it will come to several hundred million each.”
Reine-Marie’s mouth opened slightly, and her lips went pale. Armand wondered if she was about to pass out.
“Armand,” she whispered. “We can’t—”
He nodded. That had been exactly his feeling, too. But there was a solution to that.
“If you want, when the time comes, we can start a foundation. Annie and Daniel can decide if they want to contribute.”
“Yes, yes,” said Reine-Marie. “Oh, I know. A home for wayward cats. And financiers.”
Armand laughed. It felt good. Then he called Daniel, who answered on the fourth ring. Yes, they were home and he could go over.
Armand could hear the chill in Daniel’s voice. He knows, thought Armand. Or suspects.
“Do you want me to come with you?” asked Reine-Marie.
“No, better if I do this myself.”
“Are you sure?” She searched his eyes. “You’re prepared for whatever Daniel will say? You won’t …”
“Make it worse? I’ll try not to.”
It was a pretty low bar, but still, Armand wasn’t completely confident he could get over it.
“What’ll you do?”
“It’s Sunday. The Archives nationales will be closed. Which is a perfect time to go. I’ve already contacted the head archivist. She’ll meet me there at ten. Are you going to tell Daniel about the will?”
“No. Nor Annie. Not while Stephen’s alive.”
She tied a scarf at his neck, and kissed him, and sent him back into the rainy day. And didn’t say what he already knew.
It would not be long.
CHAPTER 27
Armand spent some time on the floor playing with his granddaughters, who were still in their Canadian pajamas and were insisting on being called Bloom and Dawn.
“What does Mommy’s name mean?” Bloom asked as she climbed on her grandfather’s back.
“‘Roslyn’ means ‘rose,’” he said.
“And Daddy?” asked Zora.
“Your daddy’s name is Daniel,” said their grandfather. “It means ‘The Lord is my judge.’”
That silenced them. Florence was back on the ground, and Zora was now pouring tea for her grandfather.
“What about your name?” asked Florence.
“Do you know my name?” he asked, accepting the imaginary cup poured from the imaginary teapot.
“Papa.”
“Exactly,” he said, and, putting out his little finger in a gesture that always made them laugh, he sipped his tea.
“His name’s Armand,” said Roslyn.
“Armand,” said Zora, looking at him in that disconcerting way she sometimes had. So pensive.
“It means …,” said Roslyn, tapping her phone to find out.
Getting to his feet and brushing off his knees, Armand turned to Daniel. “Maybe we can get some fresh air?”
“In the rain? No, here is fine.”
“Please. A little walk, maybe find a café. Just us?”
Daniel looked at Roslyn, who nodded.
“Fine. Where do you want to go?” he asked as they headed for the door.
“You decide. Anywhere. Except the top of the Eiffel Tower.”
That made Daniel laugh, and he relaxed. A little. This was something they shared. A fear, a terror, of heights.
Armand had first discovered his when he was a boy and Stephen had taken him up to the second level of the tower. Excited, Armand had raced out of the elevator, right to the edge, and, curling his fingers around the wire fence, he looked out across Paris.
And almost passed out.
His fingers tightened until they were white, and he stiffened. Petrified. Stephen came up behind him and was pointing out landmarks. It took Stephen a minute or so to realize what was happening.
“Armand?” But there was no answer. The boy stared straight ahead, barely breathing, almost comatose.
Stephen knelt and, prying his fingers loose, he turned his godson so that he faced away from the edge. And hugged Armand to his chest, holding him tight. Whispering, “I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
Daniel discovered his own fear of heights while hurtling on a toboggan down the huge ice slide during carnaval in Quebec City, with his mother and sister. While Dad waited down below.
Where Reine-Marie was laughing and Annie was shrieking with delight, Daniel’s wail was completely different. A gut-wrenching sound Armand immediately recognized.
When they reached the bottom, Armand swept the terrified boy off the still-moving toboggan and held him in his arms.
Whispering, “You’re safe. You’re safe.” And feeling the heaving sobs against his own chest. As though they were one. While Annie and Reine-Marie looked on. Baffled.
“Feet on the ground it is,” said Daniel as they put on their coats and grabbed umbrellas.
Once outside, Daniel looked this way and that before deciding.
“You know where I’d like to go? Rue des Rosiers. Haven’t been there in years.”
“Perfect. I haven’t been for a while either. Did I tell you—”
“That you proposed to Mom there? A few times, yes. You climbed the wall into some private garden and popped the question. Didn’t Stephen suggest that place after you said you wanted to propose in front of The Gates of Hell?”
“
Yes. Though I’m not sure he suggested trespassing.”
“Bet he did.”
It felt relaxed, for the first time in a long time. Like the Daniel he always knew was there but hidden behind a wall Armand couldn’t scale, though God knew he’d tried.
This was the Daniel everyone else met. Cheerful, warm, unguarded. Happy.
Armand wasn’t fooled. He was still on the outside, but it was nice, wonderful really, to occasionally be given a glimpse into Daniel’s garden. Before being banished again.
They walked and chatted about the children. About Paris. About home. Armand brought him up to speed on their friends and neighbors in Three Pines.
They were silent for a few minutes. The rain had slackened to drizzle and now seemed to have stopped. They lowered their umbrellas just as they reached rue des Rosiers.
It was the heart of the historic Jewish Quarter of Paris. There was a synagogue, a Hebrew bookstore, delis, and falafel joints. And among the bustle were plaques commemorating the Shoah.
“Hey, Dad, look. It’s still here. We have to get one.”
He’d spotted the bright blue front of La Droguerie. Going to the window, Daniel was thrilled to see that Omar was still making his famous crêpes.
He knew exactly what he wanted, and a few minutes later father and son resumed their walk. Daniel with a Nutella-and-banana crêpe, and Armand with a beurre sucré.
“I don’t know why I haven’t brought Roslyn and the girls here,” said Daniel as he took a huge bite of crêpe. “I guess I forgot.”
This was the closest father and son had been to normalcy in years, but Armand knew that was about to change.
But … did he really have to shatter this calm?
Maybe they could just keep walking and chatting. And leave it at that. Did it really matter what Daniel did, or did not, know about Alexander Plessner?
But yes. It mattered. And Armand knew if he didn’t do this, Fontaine would. And it would be worse, much worse, for Daniel.
Bells began to ring, calling the faithful to worship. They sounded from every church on every street, filling the air with music both joyful and haunting. Ordinary and magical.
“There’s something I need to ask,” Armand began. Keeping his voice steady, neutral. “You knew Alexander Plessner, didn’t you.”
Daniel kept walking as though he hadn’t heard.
“I’m on your side, Daniel. But you have to tell me.”
Now Daniel stopped and turned. “So that’s why you’re here. Not because you want to spend time with your son, but to question a suspect.”
“Daniel—”
“No, no. Have it your way. But why even ask? Sounds like you already know.”
“What I don’t know is why you didn’t say anything. You can tell me. I’m your father.”
“You’re a cop. That’s why you’re asking, isn’t it? Don’t try to say you’re asking only because you’re my father.”
“Only your father?” said Armand, struggling now to keep his own voice calm. “That’s the only thing that matters.”
“That’s bullshit. It’s never mattered. Not enough. You’re a cop first and a father way far down the list.”
The streets were crowded now with people brushing by and bumping by, and others staring. At the two versions of the same man, thirty years apart, arguing.
Armand looked around. Putting his half-eaten crêpe in a bin, he said, “Come in here.”
They were at the entrance to a garden. The very one he and Reine-Marie had trespassed in when he proposed. It was now open to the public, with one proviso. On the gate hung a sign.
En cas de tempête, ce jardin sera fermé.
In the event of a storm, this garden will be closed.
Well, thought Armand, hold on to your hats.
Grudgingly, Daniel followed his father, recognizing that there was no avoiding it now. The tidal wave that had been moving toward father and son for decades was upon them.
As he stepped forward, Daniel wondered if his father had any idea what was about to happen.
Reine-Marie looked at the stacks of dossiers on the long table in the reading room of the Paris archives.
The head of the Archives nationales, Allida Lenoir, put the last stack down, then sat across from her.
They were alone in the great room. The sun was barely making its way through the huge high windows. The lamps on their table were the only source of light.
In her early sixties, Madame Lenoir was a legend in the world of archives. She was tiny, and solidly built.
Her wife was the head of the Bibliothèque nationale. When the two started their relationship thirty years earlier, it was deemed inappropriate. Not because, they were assured, both had uteruses, but because it was a conflict.
Though the women knew what was really being said.
This was a dangerous alliance of two powerful women. Who now held the keys to too many documents. Too much information. They wielded too much control. Which was code for power.
Refusing to end their relationship, they stared down the establishment and won.
“Okay, spill. Why do you want these, and what’s the rush?” Reine-Marie took off her reading glasses and placed them on a manila folder bursting with thick paper. On it, in a careful hand, was written September 1944.
She told Madame Lenoir. Everything.
Archivists knew how to not just keep secrets, but keep them safe.
And none better than Madame Lenoir, who listened, nodded. Then, digging into the pile, she found a dossier and shoved it toward Reine-Maire.
“You’ll want to see this.”
On it, some long-dead hand had doodled a ship, but instead of masts it had the Cross of Lorraine.
Below it was written Lutetia.
Armand turned and held his hands, palm out, in front of him. Asking for, and offering, calm.
“Why didn’t you tell Commander Fontaine that you knew Alexander Plessner?”
His voice was gentle. Almost soothing. Trying to hold on to, and invite, civility. He was clinging to the wreckage of his relationship with his son. No longer sure if it could be saved.
But there were, now, more important things.
“Because I was shocked that he’d been killed,” said Daniel. “Because I needed time to think.”
Armand was grateful Jean-Guy wasn’t there. He could imagine what he’d say to that. And what he himself would have said, had this been any suspect in any murder investigation.
“What did you need to think about?” Armand’s voice remained reasonable. Reassuring.
“Forgive me, I’m confused. Is this my father asking, or the Chief Inspector? That is your rank now, isn’t it? It’s hard to keep track.”
The collapse had begun. Here, in this garden that had always held a special place in his heart. Another sanctuary sullied.
“No matter what my job is, I’ve always been, and always will be, your father.”
“First? Are you my father before anything else?”
“Yes.”
The answer was swift, absolute. “Were you my father in the meeting yesterday when you humiliated me?”
“I was trying to help, to protect you.”
“I’m a grown man. I don’t need your help.”
“We always need help.”
“Maybe, but not yours. If I’m in trouble, it’s because of you.”
They were alone in the garden, enclosed by old mansions on all sides, and one of the ancient towers of the wall of Philip Augustus, built during the Crusades.
Once formidable, it was now crumbling.
Armand took a deep breath. He could see that Daniel was lashing out. And he could see the pain behind the words, even if he had no idea where it came from.
“Why didn’t you say something about Monsieur Plessner after you’d had time to think?”
“Because his death has nothing to do with me or his work with us.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I know the
work. He and I’d only met a few times. We’d barely started.”
“What were you working on?”
“Venture capital.”
“Oui. But was there a particular project?”
“That’s confidential.”
Fighting words once again, but Armand chose not to pick up the gauntlet. He hadn’t lived to be an old warrior by responding every time someone wanted to fight. Even his son. Especially his son.
“I can find out,” said Armand.
Daniel smiled. Satisfied. “Yes. The father might trust me, but the cop will find out.”
“You seem to think the two are separate. They aren’t. Any more than they are with you. You’re a banker. I expect that extends to looking after your family’s finances. You and Roslyn make sure they’re safe. I’m doing the same thing. Yes, I’m a cop. And I’m just trying to make sure you’re safe.”
“I’m not a child. Stop treating me like one. I can look after myself. And I can provide for my family. So stop trying to protect me, and stop giving me money.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like you don’t know. You’re always slipping me envelopes with money.”
“I honestly don’t know what you mean. I haven’t done that since you were at college.”
“Really? That day on Mount Royal, a few years ago? I was already a banker, already in Paris. Making good money. Way more than you ever made. And what do you do? You shoved an envelope into my hand, like I’m some broke teen working at McDonald’s. Do you have any idea how insulting that was?”
“Did you open it?”
“No. I threw it away.”
Armand fell silent and glanced at the wet grass at his feet.
“I don’t want, or need, your money,” Daniel was saying. “I can look after my own family. And I don’t need you to keep me safe. Never did. And this—” Daniel raised the half-eaten crêpe. “What’s this? More patronizing? Treating me like a child?”
“What’re you talking about?” Far from being angry, Armand was completely confused. “Coming here was your idea, not mine.”
But Daniel was beyond rational thought.
“I’m not the only one who lied yesterday.” Daniel’s voice was raised. Almost shouting. “You did, too.”
“Me?”
“Don’t. Just don’t. I know the truth. Mom knows the truth. And I at least didn’t betray you to the cops. Didn’t humiliate you. Neither did she.”
All the Devils Are Here Page 24