The Brutal Telling

She stopped.

“Go on,” said Gamache.

“That’s it. That’s all we know. The Amber Room disappeared. Historians, treasure hunters, antiquarians have been searching for it ever since. We know the Germans, under Albert Speer, took the Amber Room away. Hid it. Presumably for safe keeping. But it was never seen again.”

“What’re the theories?” the Chief Inspector asked.

“Well, the most accepted is that it was destroyed in the Allied bombing. But there’s another theory. Albert Speer was very bright, and many argue he wasn’t a true Nazi. He was loyal to Hitler, but not to most of his ideals. Speer was an internationalist, a cultured man whose priority became saving the world’s treasures from destruction, by either side.”

“Albert Speer may have been cultured,” said Gamache, “but he was a Nazi. He knew of the death camps, knew of the slaughter, approved it. He simply looked good while doing it.”

The Chief Inspector’s voice was cold and his eyes hard.

“I don’t disagree with you, Armand. Just the opposite. I’m simply telling you what the theories are. The one involving Speer had him hiding the Amber Room far from both the German and the Allied armies. In the Ore Mountains.”

“Where?”

“A mountain range between Germany and what’s now the Czech Republic.”

They both thought about that, and finally Gamache spoke. “So how did a piece of the Amber Room get here?”

“And where’s the rest of it?”

Denis Fortin sat across from Clara Morrow. He was younger than he had any right to be. Early forties probably. A failed artist who’d discovered another, greater, talent. He recognized talent in others.

It was enlightened self-interest. The best kind, as far as Clara could see. No one was the martyr, no one was owed or owing. She was under no illusion that the reason Denis Fortin held a St. Amboise beer in Olivier’s Bistro in Three Pines was not because he thought there was something in it for him.

And the only reason Clara was there, besides unbridled ego, was to get something from Fortin. Namely fame and fortune.

At the very least a free beer.

But there was something she needed to do before she got caught up in the unparalleled glory that was Clara Morrow. Reaching into her bag she brought out the balled-up towel. “I was asked to show you this. A man was found dead here a couple of days ago. Murdered.”

“Really? That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Not as unusual as you might think. What was unusual is that no one knew him. But the police just found a cabin in the woods, and this was inside it. The head of the investigation asked me to show it to you, in case you could tell us anything about it.”

“A clue?” He looked keen and watched closely as she unwrapped the bundle. Soon the little men and women were standing on the shore, looking across the expanse of wood to the micro-brew in front of Fortin.

Clara watched him. His eyes narrowed and he leaned closer to the work, pursing his lips in concentration.

“Very nice. Good technique, I’d say. Detailed, each face quite different, with character. Yes, all in all I’d say a competent piece of carving. Slightly primitive, but what you’d expect from a backwoods whittler.”

“Really?” said Clara. “I thought it was very good. Excellent even.”

He leaned back and smiled at her. Not patronizing, but as one friend smiles at another, a kinder, friend.

“Perhaps I’m being too harsh, but I’ve seen so many of these in my career.”

“These? Exactly the same?”

“No, but close enough. Carved images of people fishing or smoking a pipe or riding a horse. They’re the most valuable. You can always find a buyer for a good horse or dog. Or pig. Pigs are popular.”

“Good to know. There’s something written underneath.” Clara turned it over and handed it to Fortin.

He squinted then putting on his glasses he read, frowned and handed it back. “I wonder what it means.”

“Any guesses?” Clara wasn’t about to give up. She wanted to take something back to Gamache.

“Almost certainly a signature, or a lot number. Something to identify it. Was this the only one?”

“There’re two. How much would this be worth?”

“Hard to say.” He picked it up again. “It’s quite good, for what it is. It’s no pig, though.”

“Pity.”

“Hmm.” Fortin considered for a moment. “I’d say two hundred, maybe two hundred and fifty dollars.”