Bury Your Dead

“Yes.”

“And yet, through our whole interview today you never once called him Jakob. Why was that?”

There was a long pause now.

“You won’t believe me.”

“Chief Inspector Gamache ordered me to believe you.”

“That’s a comfort.”

“Listen, Olivier, this is your only hope. Your last hope. The truth, now.”

“His name wasn’t Jakob.”

Now it was Beauvoir’s turn to fall silent.

“What was it?” he finally asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Are we back there?”

“You didn’t seem to believe me the first time when I said I didn’t know his name, so I made one up. One that sounded Czech.”

Beauvoir was almost afraid to ask the next question. But he did.

“Was he even Czech?”

“No.”

TEN

“I beg your pardon?”

It was, by Gamache’s rough count, the millionth time he’d said that, or words to that effect, in the past ten minutes. He leaned even closer, risking toppling headlong off his chair. It didn’t help that Ken Haslam had a very, very large oak desk.

“Excusez?” Gamache felt his chair tip as he strained forward. He leaned back just in time. Across the chasm of the desk Mr. Haslam continued to talk or at least move his lips.

Murmur, murmur, murder, murmur, board. Haslam looked sharply at Chief Inspector Gamache.

“Pardon?”

Normally Gamache concentrated on people’s eyes, but was aware of their entire body. Clues came coded, and how people communicated was one of them. Their words were often the least informative. The vilest, bitterest, nastiest people often said nice things. But there was the sugar the words rode in on, or the little wink, or the insincere smile. Or the tense arm wrapped round the tense chest or legs, or the fingers intertwined tightly, white knuckled.

It was vital for him to be able to pick up on all the signals, and normally he could.

But this man confounded him because the only thing Gamache could see was Haslam’s mouth. He stared at it, desperately trying to lip-read.

Ken Haslam didn’t whisper. A whisper would have been, at this point, a welcome shout. He seemed, instead, to be simply mouthing his words. It was possible, thought Gamache, the man had had an operation. Perhaps his larynx had been removed.

But Gamache didn’t think so. Every now and then a word was intelligible, like “murder.” That word had popped out clearly.

Gamache was straining, physically and intellectually. Reaching to understand. It was exhausting. If only suspects realized, he thought, that screaming and shouting and throwing furniture wouldn’t wear their interrogators down, but whispering would.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Gamache was speaking English with the slight British accent he’d picked up at Cambridge.

Haslam’s office was in the Basse-Ville, the Lower Town. The fastest way to get to the Lower Town was the glass-enclosed elevator called the Funicular that swept up and down the cliff-face from the upper to the lower city. Gamache had paid his two dollars and walked into the Funicular. It dropped over the side and descended. It was a short, very beautiful trip, though the Chief Inspector stayed at the back of the elevator, away from the glass and the sheer drop beyond.

Once there he stepped out into Petit-Champlain, a narrow, charming street closed to traffic and filled with snow and bustling people. Pedestrians ambled along, bundled against the cold, stopping now and then to look into the festive windows at the handmade lace, the art, the blown glass, the pastries.

Gamache continued down to Place Royale, where the first settlement had been built beside the river.

There he found Ken Haslam’s office. Royale Tourists, the sign said. It was well placed, in a graystone building right on the open square. He walked in, spoke to the bright and helpful receptionist, explaining that no, he wasn’t interested in a tour but in speaking to the owner of the company.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not.” Just at the very moment Beauvoir in Montreal was tempted to reach for his Sûreté ID, the Chief felt his hand move toward his breast pocket then stop. “I’d hoped he might be available.”

He smiled at her. Finally she smiled back.

“As a matter of fact, he is in. Let me go in and just see if he has a minute.”

And so, a few minutes later, he found himself in a quite magnificent office overlooking Place Royale and the Église Notre-Dame-des-Victoires. The church built to commemorate two great victories over the English. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">