Beauvoir realized he’d cut to the quick of the case. What appeared threatening wasn’t. And what appeared wonderful, wasn’t.
“I’d like to show you a picture of the dead man.”
“We’ve already seen it. Agent Lacoste showed it to us,” said Hanna.
“I’d like you to look again.”
“What’s this about, Inspector?” asked Hanna.
“You’re Czech.”
“What of it?”
“Been here for a while, I know,” Beauvoir continued, ignoring her. “Lots came after the Russian invasion.”
“There’s a healthy Czech community here,” Hanna agreed.
“In fact, it’s so big there’s even a Czech Association. You meet once a month and have pot-luck dinners.”
All this and more he’d learned from Agent Morin’s research.
“That’s right,” said Roar, watching Beauvoir carefully, wondering where this was leading.
“And you’ve been the president of the association a few times,” Beauvoir said to Roar, then turned to Hanna. “You both have.”
“That’s not much of an honor, Inspector,” smiled Hanna. “We take turns. It’s on a rotation basis.”
“Is it fair to say you know everyone in the local Czech community?”
They looked at each other, guarded now, and nodded.
“So you should know our victim. He was Czech.” Beauvoir took the photograph out of his pocket and placed it on the table. But they didn’t look. All three were staring at him. Surprised. That he knew? Or that the man was Czech?
Beauvoir had to admit it could have been either.
Then Roar picked up the photo and stared at it. Shaking his head he handed it to his wife. “We’ve already seen it, and told Agent Lacoste the same thing. We don’t know him. If he was Czech he didn’t come to any dinners. He made no contact with us at all. You’ll have to ask the others, of course.”
“We are.” Beauvoir tucked the picture into his pocket. “Agents are talking to other members of your community right now.”
“Is that profiling?” asked Hanna Parra. She wasn’t smiling.
“No, it’s investigating. If the victim was Czech it’s reasonable to ask around that community, don’t you think?”
The phone rang. Hanna went to it and looked down. “It’s Eva.” She picked it up and spoke in French, saying a Sûreté officer was with her now, and no she didn’t recognize the photograph either. And yes, she was also surprised the man had been Czech.
Clever, thought Beauvoir. Hanna put down the receiver and it immediately rang again.
“It’s Yanna,” she said, this time leaving it. The phone, they realized, would ring all afternoon. As the agents arrived, interviewed and left. And the Czech community called each other.
It seemed vaguely sinister, until Beauvoir reluctantly admitted to himself he’d do the same thing.
“Do you know Bohuslav Martinù?”
“Who?”
Beauvoir repeated it, then showed them the printout.
“Oh, Bohuslav Martinù,” Roar said, pronouncing it in a way that was unintelligible to Beauvoir. “He’s a Czech composer. Don’t tell me you suspect him?”
Roar laughed, but Hanna didn’t and neither did Havoc.
“Does anyone here have ties to him?”
“No, no one,” said Hanna, with certainty.
Morin’s research of the Parras had turned up very little. Their relations in the Czech Republic seemed limited to an aunt and a few cousins. They’d escaped in their early twenties and claimed refugee status in Canada, which had been granted. They were now citizens.
Nothing remarkable. No ties to Martinù. No ties to anyone famous or infamous. No woo, no Charlotte, no treasure. Nothing.
And yet Beauvoir was convinced they knew more than they were telling. More than Morin had managed to find.
As they drove away, their retreating reflection in the glass house, Beauvoir wondered if the Parras were quite as transparent as their home.
I have a question for you,” said Gamache as they wandered back into the Brunel living room. Jerome looked up briefly then went back to trying to tease some sense from the cryptic letters.
“Ask away.”
“Denis Fortin—”
“Of the Galerie Fortin?” the Superintendent interrupted.
Gamache nodded. “He was visiting Three Pines yesterday and saw one of the carvings. He said it wasn’t worth anything.”
