The Brutal Telling

“As I said before, he came down here and started to build his cabin. When it was ready he got the things out of storage and put them there. It took a while, but he had the time.”

“The treasures that he got out of Czechoslovakia, were they his?” Gamache asked.

“I never asked, and he never told me, but I don’t think they were. He was just too afraid. I know he was hiding from something. Someone. But I don’t know who.”

“Do you have any idea how much time you’ve wasted? My God, what were you thinking?” demanded Beauvoir.

“I just kept thinking you’d find who’d killed him and none of this other stuff needed to come out.”

“Other stuff?” said Beauvoir. “Is that how you think of it? As though it was all just details? How’d you think we’d find the murderer with you lying and letting us hare off all over the place?”

Gamache raised his hand slightly and with an effort Beauvoir pulled back, taking a deep breath.

“Tell us about Woo,” Gamache asked.

Olivier lifted his head, his eyes strained. He was pale and gaunt and had aged twenty years in a week. “I thought you’d said it was that monkey that belonged to Emily Carr.”

“I thought so too, but I’ve been thinking about it. I think it meant something else to the dead man. Something more personal. Frightening. I think it was left in the web, and carved, as a threat. Something maybe only he and his murderer understood.”

“Then why ask me?”

“Because Jakob might have told you. Did he, Olivier?”

Gamache’s eyes bored into Olivier’s, insisting on the truth.

“He told me nothing,” said Olivier at last.

Disbelief met this remark.

Gamache stared at him, trying with his considerable might to look beyond the mist of lies. Was Olivier finally telling the truth?

Gamache got up. At the door he turned and looked back at the two men. Olivier drained, empty. Nothing left. At least, Gamache hoped there was nothing left. Each lie was like ripping off a piece of Olivier’s skin, until finally he sat in the bistro, torn to pieces.

“What happened to the young man?” asked Gamache. “The one in the story. Did the Mountain find him?”

“It must have. He’s dead, isn’t he?” said Olivier.

THIRTY-FIVE

At the B and B Gamache showered and shaved and changed his clothing. He glanced briefly at his bed, with its clean, crisp sheets and the duvet turned back. Waiting for him. But he avoided that siren song and before long he and Beauvoir were back across the village green and at the Incident Room, where Agents Lacoste and Morin waited.

They sat round the conference table, mugs of strong coffee and the Hermit’s carvings in front of them. Succinctly the Chief Inspector told them about his trip to the Queen Charlottes and their interview with Olivier.

“So the dead man was telling a story all along. With his carvings,” said Lacoste.

“Let’s walk through this,” said Beauvoir, going over to the sheets of paper on the wall. “The Hermit gets out of Czechoslovakia with the treasures just as the Soviet Union’s crumbling. It’s chaos there so he bribes port officials to get the goods shipped to the Port of Montreal. Once there he puts them into storage.”

“If he was a refugee or an immigrant his fingerprints would’ve shown up on record,” said Agent Morin.

Agent Lacoste turned to him. He was young, she knew, and inexperienced. “There’re illegal immigrants all over Canada. Some hiding, some with false papers that pass for real. A little money to the right people.”

“So he snuck in,” said Morin. “But what about the antiques? Were they stolen? Where’d he get them? Like the violin, and that Amber Room thing?”

“Superintendent Brunel says the Amber Room disappeared in the Second World War,” said Gamache. “There’re a lot of theories about what happened to it, including that it was hidden by Albert Speer in a mountain range. Between Germany and Czechoslovakia.”

“Really?” said Lacoste, her mind working rapidly. “Suppose this Jakob found it?”

“If he found it he’d have the whole thing,” said Beauvoir. “Suppose someone else found it, or part of it, and sold it to the Hermit.”

“Suppose,” said Morin, “he stole it.”

“Suppose,” said Gamache, “you’re all right. Suppose someone found it, maybe decades ago. And split it up. And all that was left to one family was the one pane. Suppose that pane was entrusted to the Hermit, to smuggle out of the country.”