by Louise Penny
“But I watch over them,” said Stephen. “And I’m immortal.”
“And infallible.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
“Hugo Baumgartner,” said Armand. “He’s about as human as they come. Can he be trusted?”
“As far as I know. But you’re not asking me to transfer your account to him, are you?” He watched his godson. “No. You’re not sure about him, are you, Armand?”
“Dessert?” asked Armand when the waiter took their plates.
Stephen smiled and accepted the dessert menu. After they’d ordered warm apple tartes, tea ice cream, and coffee, Stephen spoke again.
“It’s the will that interests me. I’ve known families torn apart by them. Expectations. Those’re corrosive. Combined with greed or desperation, it can get pretty nasty. Go on for years.”
“Generations,” said Armand.
“Do they really believe that a title and all those possessions belong to them?”
“They say not, but—”
“What’s bred in the bone,” said Stephen. “Sometimes we think we haven’t bought into someone else’s craziness until it’s tested. They’re Jewish, aren’t they?”
“Yes. Does it matter?”
“It might. From Austria? Vienna?”
“Oui.”
Stephen was nodding.
“You have an idea?”
“Nothing as good as an idea. More like a vague thought. I just wonder if the old woman—the Baroness, you call her?—if she might’ve been right after all, without realizing it. Let me do some research.” He waved for the bill. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? For me to do some digging.”
“I wanted your company,” said Armand. “And a delicious meal.”
“You got a nice meal, and I just got fed bullshit.” He shoved the silver salver across the linen tablecloth. “Here. You can pay.”
Armand smiled and shook his head. It had always been his intention to pay. He always did. And now, it seemed, he was also, thanks to Stephen, paying for the meals of four people he didn’t even know.
“Let’s hope my suspension is over soon,” said Armand, laying down his credit card.
“Why? So you can pay for this? Don’t worry, you can afford it.”
“No.” He nodded toward the steel magnate, who, ruined over his meal of veal sweetbreads, glared at Stephen as he left. “So I can solve your murder.”
The old man laughed.
CHAPTER 28
Jean-Guy looked around the waiting room of Taylor and Ogilvy.
He was on the forty-fifth floor, but you’d never know it. There was oak paneling, and oil paintings, and even a bookcase with leather volumes, as though to say if your investment adviser could read, he was sure not to screw you.
Jean-Guy expected, when he looked out the window, to see the magnificent garden of an estate, and not Montréal from the air.
Illusion.
What was it Agent Cloutier had said?
A play. A set. Something that looked like one thing but was actually another. This place was made up to look like a solid, conservative, trustworthy firm. But was it something else?
He peered at the paintings, then got up to look at one in particular.
A numbered print.
Not exactly a fake, but not the real thing either.
“Do you like it?” a woman’s voice behind him asked.
He turned around, expecting it was the receptionist who’d spoken, only to find a very elegant and surprisingly young woman standing at the open door.
“I do,” said Beauvoir. “I’m here to see Madame Ogilvy.”
“Bernice, please.” She extended her hand. “Have I heard correctly? Tony was murdered?”
“I’m afraid it looks that way.”
Her eyes narrowed in a wince, absorbing the words. “Jesus. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
“Merci.”
She turned, and he followed her down the hushed corridor. Taking in the offices on either side, where brokers, mostly men, sat speaking on telephones or tapping on laptops.
The hallway was paneled in wood and art.
“Nice paintings,” he said.
“Thank you. Most are prints, but we do have some originals,” she assured him. “Some awful things my grandfather bought, thinking they were good investments. They were not. We hide those in the offices of the partners, as a reminder.”
“Of what?”
“Of what happens when we think we know about something when we do not.” She stopped then and smiled at him. “You must run into the same danger in your profession, Chief Inspector. Only your mistakes can cost lives.”
“As can yours.”
Her smile faded. “I’m aware of that.”
She turned and continued her chat about the art. It was, he could tell, rehearsed. A patter she repeated for everyone. To put them at their ease.
“We specialize in Canadian art. Québec, wherever possible.”
“But not always originals.”
“No. The originals are often not available, so we buy numbered prints. But only the low numbers.”
He laughed, then realized she was serious. “Why’s that?”
“Well, because they’re more valuable. Everything’s an investment, Chief Inspector.”
“Everything?”
“Everything. And I don’t just mean in business. As humans, we invest not just money. We spend time. We spend effort. There’s a reason it’s put like that. Life’s short, and time is precious and limited. We need to pick and choose where we put it.”
“For maximum return?”
“Exactly. I know it sounds calculating, but think about your own life. You don’t want to waste your time with people you don’t like or doing something you don’t find fulfilling.”
Beauvoir felt there should be some clever response, but all that came to mind was to say, That’s bullshit.
A few years ago, he might’ve. But then a few years ago he wasn’t the Chief Inspector.
“What’re you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m thinking that’s bullshit.”
Oh well, if life really is short, might as well be himself.
She stopped and looked at him. “Why do you say that?”
He looked around before his attention returned to her. “It’s the sort of thing someone who works here would say. I’m not saying you don’t believe it. I’m saying most people don’t have the luxury to pick and choose. They’re just trying to make it through the day. Taking whatever shitty job they can. Trying to hold the family together. Maybe in a shitty marriage with kids who’re out of control. You live in a world of choice, Madame Ogilvy. Most don’t have investments. They have lives. And they’re just trying to get by.”
“A zero-sum game?” she asked. “That’s bullshit. And patronizing. People might not be able to choose to work here, or live in a mansion, but they still have choices. And investments of time if not money.”
They stared at each other, the strain obvious. Beauvoir didn’t care. He preferred it like this. Pushing people. Seeing what they’re really like underneath.
He found it interesting that when he’d become crass, she’d changed. Used exactly the same language. The difference was, it was natural to him. Not to her.
Here was a chameleon. Who adapted to situations, and people.
It was a useful skill. Both a defense and an offense. It was designed to lower people’s guards. I’m just like you, she was saying. And you’re “one of us.”
It was a subtle and powerful message. One that put people at ease and let her into their confidence.
Elegant and refined when called for. Foul-mouthed when called for.
Demure. Scrappy. Crass. Classy.
All things. And nothing. Except calculating.
One of the many things he loved about Annie was that, while adaptable, she was always herself. Genuine.
This woman was not.
Still, this was going to be, if he was smart
, a good investment of his time.
“Do you have any Clara Morrows?” he asked as they turned a corner.
“No. I tried to buy one of her Three Graces, but there were no prints left. Only the one of that old woman. Scared the merde out of me.”
“You should see the original,” said Beauvoir. “Better than an enema.”
She laughed and showed him into her office.
It was like walking from the past into the future or, at least, a very glossy present day. It was a corner office, of floor-to-ceiling glass. There, before him, spread Montréal. Magnificent. In one direction he could see the Jacques Cartier Bridge across the St. Lawrence River. In the other, Mount Royal, with its massive cross. And in between, office towers. Bold, gleaming, audacious. Montréal. Set for the future with roots deep in history. It never failed to thrill him. And the ice fog only made it more otherworldly.
Her desk was wood. But sleek and simple. An age-old material with a modern design. There was a sofa, some chairs, and the art, like everything else, was contemporary.
“No one you’d know,” she said as he scanned the walls. “Students mostly. We fund a scholarship for young artists to study at the Musée d’art contemporain. What I ask in return is one of their works.”
“In the hopes one day it’ll be worth something?” he asked.
“There’s always that, Chief Inspector. But mostly I hope they do what they love.”
“And do you?” he asked, sitting down.
“As a matter of fact, I do. Born to it, I suppose. Investing, finance, the market. Both my parents are in investing.”
“Your father’s the CEO and your mother’s the chair of the board.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
He felt himself getting prickly. It was such a condescending thing to say.
“Not difficult. A simple Google search. Is that how you got your job?”
Two can be insulting.
“Well, it’s not a coincidence my name is Ogilvy. But I earned this office. Believe me. Investing not only comes naturally, it fascinates me.”
“How so?”
“The chance to make a real difference in people’s lives. To secure their retirement. Their children’s educations. Their first home. What could be better?”
The truth, thought Beauvoir. That could be better. This was, like the patter down the hallway, a practiced speech. More oak paneling. More fake originals.
“And you?” she asked.
“Me?”
“Do you love what you do?”
“Of course.”
But the question surprised him. He’d never really thought about it.
Did he love it?
He certainly hadn’t stood over corpses, hunted killers all these years for the money or glamour. Then why had he? Was it possible he did love it?
Beauvoir brought the warrant from his satchel and placed it on the desk.
Madame Ogilvy didn’t bother to look at it. “I also did some research. In answer to your question yesterday, we don’t have any clients named Kinderoth. Now. But we did. Both have died. One five years ago and one last year. They were elderly and in ill health.”
“Did Anthony Baumgartner look after their finances?”
“No. They were with another adviser, and, frankly, it was such a small account that when it was divided among the heirs there was hardly anything left. Though I understand the will was a little strange.”
Beauvoir felt that frisson that came with an unexpected find.
“How so?” his voice betrayed none of his excitement.
“I can’t remember the exact details, but it seems they left far more than they actually had. We talked to the adviser, of course, about why they thought they had what amounted to a fortune, but he was as baffled as anyone. We did our own investigation, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with our accounts.”
“Do you know if there was an aristocratic title involved?” He asked this as though it were a perfectly natural question. And braced for ridicule.
But she wasn’t laughing. She was looking at him with genuine surprise.
“How did you know that? As a matter of fact, there was. We think they must’ve been suffering from dementia, or some sort of collective delusion. Monsieur Kinderoth was a bus driver and Madame Kinderoth had raised the children. They had a very modest house in East End Montréal and a small retirement income. And yet in their will they left millions, and a title.”
“Baron?”
“And Baroness, yes. Apparently that’s what they called themselves.”
Beauvoir could feel his heart speeding up and his senses sharpening, as they always did when he was closing in on something. Or, really, had fallen face-first into it.
But his voice remained neutral. His own oak paneling. His veneer in place.
“Do you have the address of their children?”
“I thought you might ask. They had two daughters, both living in Toronto. Both married. What does this have to do with Tony Baumgartner’s death? As I said, they weren’t his clients.”
Her hand rested on a slim manila folder.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
He saw a flash of annoyance, quickly there and rapidly hidden. Here was a someone not used to hearing no. And someone who clearly thrived on information. No surprise there. You didn’t land in this office by being ignorant.
And you weren’t the acting head of homicide for the Sûreté by handing out information.
He extended his hand, and she gave him the folder.
“Merci. No relatives living in Québec?”
“Not that I know of.”
He nodded. They’d done searches from the government databases for Baumgartners and Kinderoths. Both, fortunately, unusual names.
While there were a few Baumgartners scattered around, perhaps distant cousins or not related at all—agents were checking—there were no more Kinderoths in Québec.
Jean-Guy’s mind was working quickly, to absorb this news of another strange will. One, he suspected, that left exactly what the Baroness Baumgartner had left. He’d have agents check. The Kinderoth will would be in the public domain by now.
“Thank you.” He held up the file before tucking it into his satchel. “Now, the main reason I came here is to ask you about Anthony Baumgartner.”
“Exactly,” she said, and leaned forward in her chair. “How can I help?”
“What was he like?”
“He was a brilliant analyst. He understood—”
“We’ll get to that in a moment. I’d like to hear what he was like as a person.”
Beauvoir’s technique was very different from Gamache’s. The Chief wanted to remain quiet. To listen. To put people at their ease. Draw them out and have them almost forget this was an interrogation. He used silence. And calm. Reassuring smiles.
While Beauvoir could see the benefits and the results of that, his own approach was to get in their faces. Keep them off balance so that they’d erupt.
He asked a lot of questions. Interrupted answers. Let them know who was in charge. And kept turning up the pressure.
“As a person?” Bernice Ogilvy asked.
“You know. A human being. Not an investment.”
He saw her color. “I understand. He was nice—”
“You can do better than that. Did you like him?”
“Like him?”
“It’s a feeling,” he said. “How did you feel about Anthony Baumgartner?”
“He was nice—”
“Puppies are nice. What was he? How did you feel about him?”
“I liked him,” she snapped. “A lot.”
“A lot?”
“Not like that.”
“Then how?”
“He was nice—”
“Come on. What was he to you?”
“An employee.”
“More than that.”
“Of course not.”
“Did you know he was gay?”
; “Only when he told me.”
“Is that true?”
“Yes. It didn’t matter. He was—”
“Nice?”
“More. He was like a father.”
It came out almost as a shout. Defiantly. Challenging Beauvoir to challenge her.
He did not. He had what he wanted.
“To you?”
“To everyone. All of us. Even the older men, they looked up to him.”
She regarded him, expecting another interruption. But Beauvoir had learned from Gamache when to keep his mouth shut. And listen.
“He never forgot a birthday or an important anniversary,” she said. “And not just of the partners but everyone. Assistants, cleaners. He was that sort of man.”
A good man, thought Beauvoir. Or just good at appearances.
“When I came into the firm, I used my mother’s maiden name. I didn’t want anyone to know who I was. I started as Tony’s assistant. He was patient and kind. Taught me more about the market in six months than I’d learned in four years at university. How to read trends. What to look for. To not just study the annual reports but to get to know the leadership of companies. He was brilliant.”
“And what happened when he found out who you really were?”
She raised her brows and compressed her lips.
“He wasn’t happy. He took me out for drinks, and I thought he’d be pleased. He’d mentored someone who’d one day have—” She raised her hands to indicate the corner office.
“But he wasn’t,” she said. “He told me that this was a business built on relationships and trust. Not on tricks. Not on games. He wished I’d been honest with him. And that it didn’t speak highly of him, or of me, that I felt I needed to pretend. That I didn’t trust him. He didn’t say it, but I could see I’d disappointed him. It was awful.”
And I bet you’ve spent the last few years trying to make it up to him, thought Beauvoir. Was Baumgartner that clever? To play her like that. To talk about trust when he himself was violating it?
Beauvoir reached into his satchel and placed the statements on her desk.
“I’ve had an agent working on these. I suspect you’ll come to the same conclusion.”
Madame Ogilvy put on glasses and picked up the statements, without comment. A minute. Two. Five went by. Jean-Guy got up and wandered the office, examining the walls and the art. Glancing at her every now and then.