All the Devils Are Here Read online

  “I don’t know,” Stephen had said, the clear blue eyes challenging Armand. “The métro? The catacombs? The morgue? For God’s sake, garçon, anywhere but The Gates of Hell.”

  And after a moment’s pause, Armand had chuckled. Seeing Stephen’s point.

  He hadn’t actually thought of that bench as being in front of The Gates of Hell. He thought of it as the place where he’d found a measure of freedom from crushing grief. Where he’d found the possibility of peace. Where he’d found happiness, with lemon curd on his chin and icing sugar down his sweater.

  He’d found sanctuary with his godfather just outside The Gates of Hell.

  “I’ll tell you where you need to do it,” said Stephen. And did.

  That had been thirty-five years earlier.

  Armand and Reine-Marie had two grown children now. Daniel and Annie. Three grandchildren. The imminent arrival of Annie’s second child was what had brought them to Paris.

  Armand was now the same age Stephen had been when they’d had that conversation about the proposal. Over six feet tall, and stolidly built, Armand now had mostly gray hair, and his face was lined from the passage of time and the weight of difficult choices.

  A deep scar at his temple spoke of the toll his job had taken. The wages of being a senior officer in the Sûreté du Québec.

  But there were other lines. Deeper lines. That radiated from his eyes and mouth. Laugh lines.

  They, too, spoke of the choices Armand had made. And the weight he gave them.

  Stephen was now ninety-three and, while growing frailer, was still formidable. Still going in to work every day, and terrorizing those who needed the fear of, if not God, then this godfather put into them.

  It would come as no surprise to his business rivals that Stephen Horowitz’s favorite statue was Rodin’s Gates of Hell. With the famous image of The Thinker. And, below it, the souls tumbling into the abyss.

  Once again, godfather and godson sat side by side on the bench and ate their pastries in the sunshine.

  “Thank God I convinced you to propose in the jardin du Luxembourg,” said Stephen.

  Armand was about to correct him. It hadn’t actually been that garden, but another.

  Instead, he stopped and regarded his godfather.

  Was he slowing down after all? It would be natural, at the age of ninety-three, and yet for Armand it was inconceivable. He reached out and brushed icing sugar off Stephen’s vest.

  “How’s Daniel?” Stephen asked as he batted away Armand’s hand.

  “He’s doing well. Roslyn’s gone back to work in the design firm, now that the girls are in school.”

  “Daniel’s happy in his job here in Paris, at the bank? He plans to stay?”

  “Oui. He even got a promotion.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I have dealings with the bank. I believe Daniel’s in the venture capital department now.”

  “Yes. Did you—”

  “Get him the promotion? No. But he and I get together every now and then, when I’m in Paris. We talk. He’s a good man.”

  “Yes, I know.” It seemed curious to Armand that Stephen felt the need to tell him that. As though he didn’t know his own son.

  And the next thing Stephen said went beyond curious. “Speak to Daniel. Make it up with him.”

  The words shocked Armand and he turned to Stephen. “Pardon?”

  “Daniel. You need to make peace.”

  “But we have. Years ago. Everything’s okay between us.”

  The sharp blue eyes turned on Armand. “Are you so sure?”

  “What do you know, Stephen?”

  “I know what you know, that old wounds run deep. They can fester. You see it in others, but miss it in your own son.”

  Armand felt a spike of anger, but recognized it for what it was. Pain. And below that, fear. He’d mended the wounds with his oldest child. Years ago. He was sure of it. Hadn’t he? “What’re you saying?”

  “Why do you think Daniel moved to Paris?”

  “For the same reason Jean-Guy and Annie moved here. They got great job offers.”

  “And everything’s been fine between you since?”

  “With a few bumps, but yes.”

  “I’m glad.”

  But Stephen looked neither glad nor convinced. Before Armand could pursue it further, Stephen asked, “So that’s your son. How about your daughter and Jean-Guy? Are they settling into their new lives in Paris all right?”

  “Yes. A transition, of course. Annie’s on maternity leave from her law firm, and Jean-Guy’s adjusting to life in the private sector. Been a bit of a challenge.”

  “Not surprised. Since he’s no longer your second-in-command at the Sûreté, he can’t arrest people anymore,” Stephen, who knew Jean-Guy Beauvoir well, said with a smile. “That can’t have been easy.”

  “He did try to arrest a colleague who cut into the lunch line, but he learns quickly. No damage done. Thankfully, he told her his name is Stephen Horowitz.”

  Stephen laughed.

  To say going from being Chief Inspector Beauvoir in the Sûreté du Québec to running a department in a multinational engineering firm in Paris was an adjustment would have been a vast understatement.

  Having to do it without a gun was even more difficult.

  “Daniel and Roslyn being here has helped a lot.” As Armand spoke, he examined his godfather, to see his reaction to those words.

  As a senior officer in the Sûreté du Québec, and Jean-Guy’s boss for many years, Gamache was used to reading faces.

  Less a hunter than an explorer, Armand Gamache delved into what people thought, but mostly how they felt. Because that was where actions were conceived.

  Noble acts. And acts of the greatest cruelty.

  But try as he might, Armand had difficulty reading his godfather.

  For a time, he’d thought he was in a position of privilege, and had unique insight into this remarkable man. But as the years went by, he began to wonder if maybe the opposite was true. Maybe he was too close. Maybe others saw Stephen more clearly, more completely, than he could.

  He still saw the man who had taken his hand and kept him safe.

  Others, like his grandmother Zora, saw something else.

  “How’s Annie?” asked Stephen. “Are they ready for the baby?”

  “As ready as anyone can be, I think.”

  “It was a big decision.”

  “Oui.” No use denying that. “She’s due any day now. You’ll see them tonight at dinner. I’ve made reservations for all of us at Juveniles. Eight o’clock.”

  “Terrific.” Stephen unzipped his inner pocket and showed Armand the note in his slender agenda. “I assumed.”

  Already written there was family, then Juveniles.

  “Reine-Marie and I will swing by and pick you up.”

  “Non, non. I’m having drinks with someone first. I’ll meet you there.” Stephen looked ahead of him. Staring at The Thinker.

  “What’re you thinking?” Armand asked.

  “That I’m not afraid to die. I am a little afraid of going to Hell.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Armand, shaken by the words.

  “Just the natural fear of a ninety-three-year-old reviewing his life.”

  “What do you see?”

  “I see far too much ice cream.”

  “Impossible.” Armand paused for a moment, before speaking. “I see a good man. A brave man. This’s a better world because you’re in it.”

  Stephen smiled. “That’s kind of you to say, but you don’t know everything.”

  “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “Non, not at all.” He reached out and gripped Armand’s wrist. His laser-blue eyes holding Armand’s. “I’ve always told the truth.”

  “I know you have.” Armand placed his warm hand over Stephen’s cool one and squeezed gently. “When we first sat down, you said that Hell is empty an
d all the devils are here. What did you mean?”

  “It’s one of my favorite quotes, you know that,” said Stephen.

  And Armand did. Stephen loved to use the lines from The Tempest to unnerve business rivals, colleagues. Friends. Strangers on planes.

  But this time was different. This time Stephen had added something. Something Armand had never heard from him before.

  A specificity.

  “You said the devils aren’t here, here.” Armand lifted his hands in imitation of Stephen’s gesture. “Why did you say that?”

  “Who the hell knows? I’m an old man. Stop badgering me.”

  “If they aren’t here, then where are they?”

  The shadows had reached them now, and it was growing chilly in the shade.

  “You should know.” Stephen turned to him. But not on him. It was a slow, considered movement. “You’ve met them often enough. You hunt devils for a living.” His blue eyes held Armand’s brown. “I’m very proud of you, son.”

  Son.

  Stephen had never called him that. Not once in fifty years.

  Garçon, yes. Boy. It was said with great affection. But it wasn’t the same. As son.

  Armand knew Stephen had been careful never to use that word. To not step on his late father’s memory and place in Armand’s life.

  But now he had. Was it a slip? An indication of age and frailty? The defenses worn down, allowing his true feelings to escape? On that one, small, word.

  “Don’t you worry about the devils, Armand. It’s a beautiful September afternoon, we’re in Paris, and your granddaughter is about to be born. Life is good.” Stephen patted Armand’s knee, then used it to push himself upright. “Come along, garçon. You can take me home.”

  They paused, as they always did, at The Burghers. To look into those grim, determined faces.

  “Just remember.” Stephen turned to look at his godson.

  Armand held his eyes and nodded.

  Then the two men walked slowly down rue de Varenne. Armand took Stephen’s arm as they crossed the streets. They ambled past antique shops and stopped at a patisserie, where Armand bought a pain aux raisins escargot for Reine-Marie, her favorite. And a croissant for Stephen to have with his breakfast.

  At the large red-lacquered double door into Stephen’s building, the elderly man said, “Leave me here. I might just go across to the Hôtel Lutetia for an aperitif.”

  “And by ‘aperitif’ you mean ice cream?”

  It was only when Armand was crossing the Pont d’Arcole, on his way to their apartment in the Marais, that he realized he hadn’t pursued the question with Stephen. Or maybe Stephen had managed to divert his attention.

  Away from the devils. That were somewhere here, here. In Paris.

  CHAPTER 2

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir could almost feel the chill enter the room, despite the sun streaming through his office window.

  He looked up from his screen, but already knew who he’d see. Along with the lowered temperature, a slight aroma always accompanied his deputy department head. And while Beauvoir knew the chill was his imagination, the smell was not.

  Sure enough, Séverine Arbour was at his door. She wore her usual delicately condescending smile. It seemed to complement, like a silk scarf, her designer outfit. Beauvoir wasn’t aware enough of fashion to say if Madame Arbour was wearing Chanel, or Yves Saint Laurent, or maybe Givenchy. But since arriving in Paris he’d come to at least know the names. And to recognize haute couture when he saw it.

  And he saw it now.

  In her forties, elegant and polished, Madame Arbour was the definition of soignée. A Parisienne through and through.

  The only thing she wore that he could name was her scent.

  Sauvage by Dior. A man’s cologne.

  He wondered if it was a message and considered changing his cologne from Brut to Boss. But decided against it. Things were complex enough between them without entering into a war of fragrances with his number two.

  “Lots of women wear men’s cologne,” Annie explained when he told her about it. “And men wear women’s scents. It’s all just marketing. If you like the smell, why not?”

  She’d then dared him ten euros to wear her eau de toilette into work the next day. A dare he took up. As fate would have it, his own boss, Carole Gossette, chose that very day to invite him out for lunch. For the first time.

  He went to her private club, the Cercle de l’Union Interalliée, smelling of Clinique’s Aromatics Elixir. The exact same scent the senior VP at the engineering giant was herself wearing.

  It actually seemed to endear him to her.

  In a quid pro quo, Annie went into her law offices smelling of Brut. Her male colleagues had, up to then, been cordial but distant. Waiting for the avocate from Québec to prove herself. But that day they seemed to relax. To even pay her more respect. She, and her musk, were welcomed into the fold.

  Like her father, Annie Gamache was not one to turn her back on an unexpected advantage. She continued to wear the eau de Cologne until the day she took maternity leave.

  Jean-Guy, on the other hand, did not put on the perfume again, despite the fact he actually preferred the warm scent to his Brut. It smelled of Annie, and that always calmed and gladdened him.

  Séverine Arbour stood at the door, her face set in a pleasant smile with a base note of smoky resentment and a hint of smug.

  Was she biding her time, waiting for her chance to knife him in the back? Beauvoir thought so. But he also knew that compared to the brutal culture in the Sûreté du Québec, the internal politics of this multinational corporation were nothing.

  This knifing would, at least, be figurative.

  Beauvoir had hoped that, with the passage of time, Madame Arbour would come to accept him as head of the department. But all that had happened, in the almost five months he’d been there, was that they’d developed a mutual suspicion.

  He suspected she was trying to undermine him.

  She suspected he was incompetent.

  Part of Jean-Guy Beauvoir recognized they both might be right.

  Madame Arbour took the chair across from him and looked on, patiently.

  It was, Beauvoir knew, meant to annoy him. But it wouldn’t work. Nothing could upset him that day.

  His second child was due any time now.

  Annie was healthy, as was their young son, Honoré.

  He had a job he enjoyed, if didn’t as yet completely understand.

  They were in Paris. Paris, for God’s sake.

  How a snot-nosed kid went from playing ball hockey in the alleys of East End Montréal to being an executive in Paris was frankly still a bit of a mystery to him.

  To add to Jean-Guy’s buoyant mood, it was Friday afternoon. Armand and Reine-Marie Gamache had arrived from Montréal, and tonight they’d all be having dinner together at one of their favorite bistros.

  “Oui?” he said.

  “You wanted to see me?” Madame Arbour asked.

  “No. What gave you that idea, Séverine?”

  She nodded toward his laptop. “I sent you a document. About the funicular project in Luxembourg.”

  “Yes. I’m just reading it.” He did not say it was, in fact, the second time through, and he still didn’t understand what he was looking at. Except that it was an elevator up a cliff. In Luxembourg.

  “Is there something you want to say about it?” He removed his glasses.

  It was the end of the day and his eyes were tired, but he’d be damned if he’d pass his hand over them.

  Instinctively, Jean-Guy Beauvoir understood it would be a mistake to show this woman any weakness. Physical, emotional, intellectual.

  “I just thought you might have some questions,” she said. And waited. Expectantly.

  Beauvoir had to admit, she was beginning to dull his sense of well-being.

  He was used to dealing with criminals. And not petty thieves or knuckleheads who got into drunken brawls, but the worst of the worst. Killers. And o
ne mad poet with a duck.

  He’d learned how not to let them into his head. Except, of course, the duck.

  And yet somehow Séverine Arbour managed to get under his skin. If not, as yet, into his skull.

  But it wasn’t for lack of trying.

  And he knew why. Even the brawling knuckleheads could figure it out.

  She wanted his job. Felt she should have it.

  He could almost sympathize with her. It was, after all, a great job.

  Beauvoir had had his regular Friday lunch with his own boss, Carole Gossette, in a nearby brasserie. But the previous lunch had been at thirty thousand feet, on the corporate jet, as they flew to Singapore.

  Two weeks before that, he’d gone to Dubai.

  His first trip had been to the Maldives to look at the reef-protection system they were installing on the tiny atoll in the Indian Ocean. He’d had to look it up, and finally found the cluster of islands hanging off the southern tip of India.

  A month earlier he’d been rolling around in the ice-encrusted muck in Québec, trying to arrest a murderer and fighting for his life. Now he was eating langoustine off fine china, and approaching a tropical island in a private jet.

  On the flight, Madame Gossette, in her fifties, small, round, good-humored, filled him in on the corporate philosophy. On why they chose to do certain projects and not others.

  A mechanical engineer herself, with a postdoc degree from the École polytechnique in Lausanne, she explained, in simple terms, the engineering, avoiding the infantile tone Madame Arbour used.

  Beauvoir found himself turning to Madame Gossette more and more, for guidance, for information. To explain certain projects. Where perhaps he’d normally be expected to talk to his deputy head, he found he was avoiding Arbour and going straight to Madame Gossette. And she seemed to enjoy the role of mentor to the executive she’d personally recruited.

  Though she did gently suggest he lean more on his number two.

  “Don’t be put off by her attitude,” said Madame Gossette. “Séverine Arbour is very good. We were lucky to get her.”

  “Didn’t her previous company go bust?”

  “Declared bankruptcy, yes. Overextended.”

  “Then she’s the lucky one, to find another job,” said Beauvoir.

  Madame Gossette had simply shrugged, in an eloquent Gallic manner. Meant to convey a lot. And nothing.