Bury Your Dead (34 page)

There was a longer pause.

“Are you all right?” Gamache jumped in.

“Fine,” came the voice, though it was thin and struggling. “I don’t mind for myself. I know I’m going to be all right. But my mother—”

There was silence again, but before it could go on too long the Chief Inspector spoke, reassuring the young agent.

Chief Superintendent Francoeur exchanged glances with the Inspector beside him.

Across the room Beauvoir could see the clock.

Sixteen hours and fourteen minutes left. He could hear Morin and the Chief Inspector discussing things they wished had gone differently in their lives.

Neither of them mentioned this.

Ruth exhaled. “This story you just told me, none of that was in the news.”

She said “story” as though it was a fairy tale, a children’s make-believe.

“No,” agreed Beauvoir. “Only a few know it.”

“Then why’re you telling me?”

“Who’d believe you if you said anything? They’d all just think you’re drunk.”

“And they’d be right.”

Ruth cackled and Beauvoir cracked a tiny smile.

Across the bistro Gabri and Clara watched.

“Should we save him?” Clara asked.

“Too late,” said Gabri. “He’s made a deal with the devil.”

They turned back to the bar and their drinks. “So, it’s between Mauritius and the Greek Islands on the
Queen Mary,
” said Gabri.
They spent the next half hour debating fantasy vacations, while several feet away Jean-Guy Beauvoir told Ruth what really happened.

Armand Gamache and Henri entered the third and last shop on their list, Augustin Renaud’s list. The man while alive haunted the used bookstores in Quebec City buying anything that might have even a remote reference to Samuel de Champlain.

The little bell above the entrance tinkled as they entered and Gamache quickly closed the door before too much of the day crept in with him. It didn’t take much, a tiny crack and the cold stole in like a wraith.

It was dark inside, most of the windows being “booked” off. Stacks of dusty volumes were piled in the windows, not so much for advertisement as storage.

Anyone suffering from claustrophobia would never get three steps into the shop. The already narrow aisles were made all the more cramped by bookcases so stuffed they threatened to topple over, and more books were stacked on the floor. Henri picked his way carefully along behind Gamache. The Chief’s shoulders brushed the books and he decided it might be best to remove his parka before he knocked over all the shelves.

Getting the coat off proved quite an exercise in itself.

“Can I help you?”

The voice came from somewhere in the shop. Gamache looked round, as did Henri, his satellite ears flicking this way and that.

“I’d like to talk to you about Augustin Renaud,” called Gamache to the ceiling.

“Why?”

“Because,” said Gamache. Two could play that game. There was a pause then a clambering of feet on a ladder.

“What do you want?” the bookseller asked, taking small, quick steps out from behind a bookcase. He was short and skinny, his fisherman’s sweater was pilled and stained. An almost white T-shirt poked out of the collar. His hair was gray and greasy and his hands were dark from dust. He wiped them on his filthy pants and stared at Gamache then he noticed Henri looking out from behind the large man’s legs.

Hiding.

Though Gamache would never say it to Henri’s face, they both knew he wasn’t the most courageous of dogs. Nor, it must be said, was Henri very bright. But he was loyal beyond measure and knew what mattered. Din-din, walks, balls. But most of all, his family. His heart filled his chest and ran to the end of his tail and the very tips of his considerable ears. It filled his head, squeezing out his brain. But Henri, the foundling, was a humanist, and while not particularly clever was the smartest creature Gamache knew. Everything he knew he knew by heart.

“Bonjour,”
the shopkeeper knelt in a totally involuntary movement and reached out to Henri. Gamache recognized it. He had it himself, as did Reine-Marie, when in the presence of a dog. The need to kneel, to genuflect.

“May I?” the man asked. It was the sign of an experienced dog owner, to always ask. Not only was it respectful, it was prudent. You never knew when a dog might not want to be approached.

“You run the risk of him never leaving,
monsieur
,” smiled Gamache as the shopkeeper produced a biscuit.

“Fine with me.” He fed Henri the treat and rubbed his ears to groans from the dog.

It was then Gamache noticed the cushions on the floor and the name “Maggie” on the side of a food bowl. But no dog.

“How long ago?” Gamache asked.

“Three days,” said the man, standing up and turning away. Gamache waited. He recognized this movement too.

“Now,” the man finally said, turning back to Gamache and Henri. “You said you wanted to talk about Augustin Renaud. Are you a reporter?”

Gamache looked as though he might be, but not for the television or radio or even a daily paper. Perhaps for an intellectual, monthly magazine. One of those obscure university presses or journals specializing in dying ideas and the dead people who’d championed them.

He wore a shirt and tie under a cardigan the color of butterscotch. His slacks were charcoal gray corduroy. If the shopkeeper noticed the scar above Gamache’s left temple he didn’t mention it.

“
Non,
I’m not a reporter, I’m helping the police but in a private capacity.”

Henri was now leaning against the little shopkeeper, whose hand was down by his side kneading the dog’s head.

“Are you Alain Doucet?” Gamache asked.

“Are you Armand Gamache?” Doucet asked.

Both men nodded.

“Tea?” Monsieur Doucet asked. Within minutes the two men were sitting at the back of the tiny store in a cave of books, of words, of ideas and stories. And Monsieur Doucet, after pouring them fragrant cups of tea and offering his guest a digestive cookie, was telling his own story.

“Augustin came in once a fortnight at least, sometimes more often. Sometimes I’d call if I got in a book I knew he’d be interested in.”

“What interested him?”

“Champlain, of course. Anything to do with the early colony, other explorers, maps. He loved maps.”

“Was there anything he found here that particularly excited him?”

“Well, now, that’s hard to say. Everything seemed to excite him, and yet he said almost nothing. I knew him for forty years but we never sat down like this, never had a conversation. He’d buy books and be animated and enthusiastic, but when I tried to ask him about it he’d get quiet, defensive. He was a singular man.”

“He was that,” said Gamache, taking a bite of his digestive cookie. “Did you like him?”

“He was a good client. Never argued about price, but then I never tried to take advantage.”

“But did you like him?” It was funny, Gamache had asked this question of all the used-bookstore owners and all had been evasive.

“I didn’t know him but I’ll tell you something, I had no desire to get to know him better.”

“Why not?”

“He was a fanatic and they scare me. I think he’d do just about anything if he thought it would get him an inch closer to Champlain’s body. So, I was civil, but kept my distance.”

“Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”

“He had a knack for annoying people, but you don’t kill someone just because they’re annoying. The place would be littered with bodies.”

Gamache smiled and took a leisurely sip of his strong tea, thinking.

“Do you know if Renaud had a current idea? Some new theory about where Champlain might be buried?”

“You mean the Literary and Historical Society?”

“I mean any place.”

Monsieur Doucet thought then shook his head.

“Did you buy books from them?”

“The Lit and His? Sure. Last summer. They had a big sale. I bought three or four lots.”

Gamache put his mug down. “What was in them?”

“Frankly? I don’t know. Normally I’d go through them but it was the summer and I was too busy with the flea market. Lots of tourists, lots of book collectors. I didn’t have time to go through the boxes, so I just put them out at my stall. Renaud came by and bought a couple.”

“Books?”

“Boxes.”

“Did he go through them before buying?”

“No, just bought. People are like that, especially collectors. They want to go through them privately. I think that’s part of the fun. I got another couple of lots from the Lit and His later, sometime this past fall, before they decided to stop the sale. I called Renaud and asked if he was interested. At first he said no then he showed up about three weeks ago asking if I still had them.”

“Hmm.” The Chief Inspector sipped and thought. “What does that tell you?”

Alain Doucet looked surprised. He had clearly thought nothing of it but now he did.

“Well, I guess it might mean he found something in that first lot and thought there might be more.”

“Why the delay, though? If he bought the first couple boxes in the summer, why wait until after Christmas to contact you?”

“He’s probably like most collectors. Buys loads of books meaning to go through them but they just sit there for months until he gets around to it.”

Gamache nodded, remembering the rabbit warren that was Renaud’s home.

“Do these numbers mean anything to you?” He showed Doucet the catalog numbers found in Renaud’s diary. 9-8499 and 9-8572.

“No, but used books come in with all sorts of strange things written on them. Some are color-coded, some have numbers, some have signatures. Screws up their value, unless the signature is Beaudelaire or Proust.”

“How’d he seem when he came by for the other lot?”

“Renaud? As always. Brusque, anxious. He was like an addict before a fix. Book freaks are like that, and not just old guys. Look at kids lining up for the latest installment of their favorite books. Stories, they’re addictive.”

Gamache knew that was true. But what story had Augustin Renaud stumbled on? And where were the two books? Not in his apartment, not on his body. And what happened to the other books in the lot? They weren’t in the apartment either.

“Did he bring any books back?”

Doucet shook his head. “But you might ask the other used bookstores. I know he went to all of us.”

“I’ve asked. You’re the last, and the only one who bought the Literary and Historical Society books.”

“Only one stupid enough to try to sell English books in old Quebec City.”

The Chief’s phone vibrated and he took it out. It was a call from Émile.

“Do you mind?” he asked and Doucet shook his head. “
Salut,
Émile. Are you at home?”

“No, I’m in the Lit and His. Amazing place. I can’t believe I’ve never been before. Can you meet me here?”

“Have you found something?”

“I found Chiniquy.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Gamache rose and Henri rose with him, ready to go wherever Gamache went.

“Does the name Chiniquy mean anything to you?” he asked as they walked to the front of the store. It was almost four
P.M
. and the sun had set. Now the shop looked cozy, lit by lamps, the books merely suggestions in the shadows.

Doucet thought about it. “No, sorry.”

Time, thought Gamache as he stepped once more into the darkness,
it covered over everything eventually. Events, people, memory. Chiniquy had disappeared beneath Time. How long before Augustin Renaud followed?

And yet Champlain had remained, and grown.

Not the man, Gamache knew, the mystery. Champlain missing was so much more potent than Champlain found.

Picking up his pace, he and Henri wove between the revelers carrying their hollow plastic canes filled with Caribou, wearing their Bonhomme pins on their down-filled parkas. They wore smiles and huge mittens and joyful fluffy, warm toques, like exclamation marks on their heads. In the distance he heard the almost haunting blast on a plastic horn. A call to arms, a call to party, a call to youth.

Gamache heard it, but the call wasn’t for him. He had another calling.

Within minutes he and Henri were standing outside the brightly lit Literary and Historical Society. The small crowd of gawkers had given up, perhaps called away by the horns to something more interesting. Called to life, not to death.

Gamache entered and found his old mentor in the library surrounded by small stacks of books. Mr. Blake had emigrated from his armchair to the sofa and the two elderly men were chatting. They looked over as the Chief Inspector entered, and waved.

Mr. Blake stood and indicated his place.

“No, please,” said Gamache, but it was too late. The courtly man was already standing next to his habitual chair.