A Great Reckoning (29 page)

Lacoste smiled back, and hoped and prayed she wouldn't have to arrest this man.

God, she knew, sometimes answered prayers. He had, after all, answered the mayor's.

“I went home after that. My wife was there with her bridge club. They broke up at the end of that rubber, and we were asleep by ten.”

“How old's your wife?” Paul Gélinas asked.

The mayor looked at him, surprised by the question but not upset.

“A year younger than me. She's seventy-two.”

“Does she wear a hearing aid?” Gélinas asked.

“Two. And yes, she takes them out at night.” He looked from one to the other of the agents. “And yes, I suppose it might be possible for me to leave and she'd never know it. I sometimes have trouble sleeping. I go downstairs to the kitchen and do some work. As far as I know, Marie doesn't notice. I try not to disturb her.”

He was, Chief Inspector Lacoste realized, behaving like a man with nothing to hide. Or nothing to lose.

“You design software,” said Lacoste, and the mayor nodded. “What sort?”

“Programs for insurance companies mostly. Actuarial tables. You'd be surprised how many variables need to be taken into account.”

“Do you do security software?” asked Lacoste.

“No, that's a specialty.”

“The information you work on for insurance companies would be confidential,” said Gélinas. “Private.”

“Extremely,” agreed Mayor Florent.

“So you create it in such a way that it can't be stolen?”

“No, I just do the programming. Someone else worries about security. Why? Wait. Let me guess.” He studied the two officers in front of him, no longer amused. “You're wondering about the academy's security system and if I could break in. Perhaps, but I doubt it. I'm sure their system is very sophisticated. You're welcome to take my computer and see what I've been up to. Any porn you find is my wife's.”

Even Deputy Commissioner Gélinas smiled at that.

“You must be quite good at what you do,” said Chief Inspector Lacoste.

The mayor looked around. “Does this look like the office of a successful man? If I was that good, don't you think I'd be in Montréal or Toronto?”

“I think this looks like the office of a very successful man,” said Lacoste.

Mayor Florent held her gaze. “
Merci
.”

The investigators got up and shook hands with the mayor, who told them they were always welcome back. As they walked down the scuffed hall toward the door and the bright March morning, Lacoste said to Gélinas, “Actuarial tables. They try to predict—”

“When a person will die.”

*   *   *

Classes were back in session at the academy. Jean-Guy Beauvoir saw to that on Commander Gamache's orders.

Not simply to maintain structure and discipline, but also to try to keep the cadets from doing their own investigations. Beauvoir had found them snooping in the halls outside the Duke's rooms. He found them hanging around the dead man's office, taking fingerprints from the door handle as though the homicide investigators might have failed to do that.

He found them in the weight room, where Leduc worked out, searching the lockers. For clues. Though, of course, they didn't have a clue what they were looking for.

It was natural and would have been endearing even, if it wasn't so extremely annoying. This was the problem with having a building crammed full of partly trained investigators. And a murder.

Once the eight a.m. classes had started, Inspector Beauvoir picked up the phone. He'd been hoping for a reply to his email, but there was none.

He punched in a long line of numbers and listened to the unusual ring tone. The two throbs instead of the one long one he was used to.

“McDermot and Ryan,” came the cheerful voice, as though she were selling teddy bears or flowers, and not guns.

“Yes,” said Jean-Guy, struggling to keep his Québécois accent under control. “I'm calling from Canada. I'm with the Sûreté du Québec and we're investigating a homicide.”

“One moment, please.”

Hold? he thought. She put me on hold? Could there possibly be a lineup of calls from police around the world, investigating murders?

Maybe they had a department dedicated to it.

Jean-Guy sighed and listened to the classical music, but it didn't take long for a less cheerful voice to pick up the phone.

“Inspector Beauvoir?” she said.

“
Oui
.”

“My name is Elizabeth Coldbrook. I'm the vice president in charge of public affairs here at McDermot. I received your email and was just writing a response. I'm sorry it's taken so long, but I wanted to be sure of my facts.”

Her voice was brusque, and somehow Beauvoir had the feeling he'd done something wrong. He often had that feeling when speaking with people in Paris or London.

“Can you send me the email anyway,” he asked, “so I have a written record? But I'd like to speak to you now, if you don't mind.”

“Not at all. It's a terrible thing that's happened. Your email said a death. An accident?”

“Non.
Deliberate. A single shot to the temple.”

“Ahhh,” she said, with some sadness but without surprise.

When you make handguns, thought Beauvoir, what exactly do you think will happen?

Instead he asked, “Have you found anything?”

“Yes. We have an order here for a .45 McDermot MR VI. It was picked up by Serge Leduc on September 21, 2011.”

“Picked up? In England?”

“No, at our distributer in Vermont. I can send you the order number and information.”

She was sounding less brusque. Or he was getting used to it.

She was certainly being helpful, but then, he suspected, she had a lot of experience speaking with the police about handguns.

“
S'il vous plaît
. Is this a popular gun?”

“Not much anymore. A few police forces still use it, though they're turning more and more to automatic pistols, of course.”

“You make those too?”

“We do. The one you're interested in, the McDermot .45, is a very old design. A six-shooter.”

“Like the Wild West?”

She laughed in a semiautomatic manner. “I guess so. Colt based their design on ours. At least, we like to think that. The height of the McDermot's popularity was during the Great War. We also supplied quite a few in the Second World War, but then demand fell off.”

“So why would someone order one today?”

“Collectors like them. Was your man a collector?”

“
Non
. He was a professor at an academy that trains police officers here in Québec.”

“Then he was interested in weapons.”

“Yes, but modern ones. Not antiques.”

“It might be antique, but it does the job.”

“The job being to kill?”

There was a pause. “Not necessarily.”

Beauvoir let that sit there, the pause elongating.

“Well, yes. Sometimes. Or to prevent bloodshed. We don't sell handguns into Canada. They're banned, of course. Which is why Mr. Leduc ordered from the United States. I'm not sure how he got it across the border.”

“It's not that hard.”

The border was more porous than anyone cared to admit.

“If he wasn't a collector, can you think why else he'd want this particular make?” asked Beauvoir.

“Well, it's sturdy, and there's not as much kickback as with other revolvers. And it's very accurate.”

“Accuracy was not an issue,” said Beauvoir. “And it's not like he was heading for the trenches. Why would anyone want a six-shooter when they could have an automatic weapon?”

He could almost hear her shrug. Not out of disinterest, but because she didn't have the answer any more than he did.

Beauvoir decided to take another tack.

“Why would he order from you, all the way from England, and not get a Colt, if they were so similar?”

“History. And quality. Gun people know our make.”

“But a Colt or a Smith and Wesson are still good and would be cheaper,
non
? They're made right in the States.”

“Yes, they would be less expensive.”

“But maybe they don't make silencers,” said Beauvoir.

“We don't either.”

“You must. The revolver had one. I mentioned that in the email.”

“I thought that was a typo, or a mistake on your part.”

“You thought I didn't know what a silencer was?” he asked.

“Well, it didn't make sense to me,” she said. “Revolvers don't have silencers. They don't work.”

“This one did.”

It seemed one had attached itself to Madame Coldbrook. The quiet became uncomfortable.

“Who made the silencer?” Beauvoir finally asked.

“I don't know.”

“If not McDermot, then who?” he pushed. “If someone asks for one, where do you send them?”

“To the automatic weapons department. Revolvers do not have silencers.” The imperious voice had surfaced yet again. Like Jaws. And then the voice softened. “It's tragic when someone commits suicide, and this company takes it very much to heart. I take it to heart.”

And for some reason, he believed her. How many calls in a month, a week, a day did this woman receive from police around the world, a body behind the conversation?

“It wasn't a suicide,” said Beauvoir. He didn't know if that made it better or worse.

“You said accuracy wasn't an issue. I assumed…” There was a pause. “It was murder?”

“Yes. A single shot to the temple,” he repeated.

And now the pause elongated. Stretched. On and on. But it wasn't empty. Even down the phone line, across the miles, across the ocean, he could hear her thinking. Considering.

“What's going through your mind, Madame Coldbrook?”

“I was thinking about the specific design of the gun and its uses. And why someone would want one. Especially someone who didn't collect guns. Why a revolver?”

She seemed to be telling, rather than asking.

“Why do you think?” he asked. In the background, he heard a knock and a voice.

“How should I know?” she demanded. “We simply make them. As your National Rifle Association is fond of saying, guns don't kill people. People kill people.”

“I'm Québécois, madame. Canadian. The NRA has nothing to do with me.”

“And McDermot and Ryan had nothing to do with this death. I'm sorry it has happened. Very sorry. A single shot to the temple using a revolver. Poor man. But I'm sure you'll figure it out. I'll send you the email with all the information I have, and attach the sales slip.”

He was about to thank her, but the line was already dead.

Elizabeth Coldbrook's email arrived a few minutes later with a brief boilerplate description of the .45 McDermot MR VI, and then specifics about Leduc's order.

At the bottom of her covering letter was her name. Elizabeth Coldbrook-Clairton. Something seemed slightly off, and when he studied it more closely he noticed that “Clairton” was typed in a different font. Not far off—she might not have noticed. But he did.

Then there was a ding. The forensics report had just arrived in his inbox.

*   *   *

“You're welcome to stay in the village, if you'd like,” said Gamache as he put his winter coat on. “You don't have to come back to the academy with me.”

“You'd like me to stay?” asked Charpentier, as he pulled on his boots. “Or you want me to stay? You're not trying to get rid of me, are you?”

It was said with a smile, but there was an edge to the question.

“
Moi?”
asked Gamache, also with a smile. But then his voice changed and grew serious. “It's your choice, Hugo. And if I want something, you'll know it.”

“Who else knows they're here,
patron
?”

“The cadets? Now that's a difficult question.”

The two men said good-bye to Madame Gamache and walked slowly through the snow and mud over to the bed and breakfast, where the Commander had told the cadets to meet them.

Charpentier was swinging his canes ahead of him and hauling his weak legs after them in a kind of lurch he'd perfected.

“Their classmates needed to know they were gone, as did their professors,” said Gamache. “I told them they'd gone home.”

“Without specifying whose home.”

Gamache stopped at the steps up to the B and B and turned. “No one must know those cadets are here, do you understand?”

Charpentier nodded. But Gamache could see he considered this a game. For the tactician, it was a puzzle in which the cadets were pieces, not people.

“But you let me come down,” said Charpentier, his nose turning red in the brisk March air. “You let me know they're here. Why?”

If he starts perspiring, thought Gamache, he'll turn into an ice sculpture.

“Because I think you can help.”

Charpentier nodded. “I can. I already have.”

The men climbed the stairs, Gamache behind Charpentier in case he should slip and lose his balance. Charpentier stopped at the top. Walking was exhausting for him, and climbing stairs was even worse.

“Are you playing me, Commander?” His words puffed into the late winter air.

“How?”

“Is it that you want me here? Or you don't want me at the academy?”

“You know maps. The one we found could prove important.”

“True. But last night at the academy, you didn't think I could be a big help. You didn't even know I collected maps. But you let me come down here. You let me see the cadets you have hidden away.”

Gamache smiled broadly. His face breaking into deep lines. He leaned so close to Charpentier that the younger man could smell the mint toothpaste and the cologne of sandalwood. With a slight hint of rosewater.