The Hangman (2 page)

“I waited for the cops. What else would I do? Keep on jogging?”

“You might have tried to help the man.”

“Are you crazy?” Scott yelled. “Did you see what he looked like? You should thank me for even stopping and calling. I could have just run away. But I didn’t.”

Scott was so angry he trembled.

The chief inspector waited. And waited. Quietly staring at Tom Scott.

“What?” Scott’s voice was high, like a girl’s. “What is it?”

“You might have helped the man,” Gamache said again.

“He was dead!”

“He certainly was by the time we arrived.”

“What are you saying?” Scott’s face went from red to white. “That I had something to do with this?”

Armand Gamache said nothing. He knew that screaming and yelling upset people. But silence was even more disturbing.

“Tell me the truth, Mr. Scott,” the chief inspector’s voice was calm but commanding. Here was a man used to leading and used to being followed.

“I am.” Tom Scott dropped his eyes to the dead leaves on the ground. A few feet away lay the dead man. The earth seemed covered in death.

Gamache decided to drop the subject and move to another topic.

“You told one of my officers that the man looked familiar. Where did you see him?”

“The Inn. I think he might be one of the guests.”

“Chief?” Inspector Beauvoir waved. He and Dr. Harris were kneeling over the body.

“Excuse me,” Gamache said, and walked over. “What have you found?”

He knelt to join them.

“He’s been dead since last night, probably since early evening,” said Dr. Harris. “Say, seven or eight o’clock. Hanged himself with medium-weight rope. His neck is broken. I suspect he climbed to the second branch, tied the rope on, then tied it around his neck.”

“And threw himself off,” said Inspector Beauvoir.

The chief inspector looked down at the dead man’s face. What despair had driven him to kill himself? And in this terrible way?

“Would his death have been fast?”

“Very,” said Dr. Harris.

That was something, the chief thought. Perhaps he didn’t suffer in death the way he had suffered in life.

“Can I go?” Tom Scott called.

“Do we have his information?” Gamache asked. Beauvoir nodded.

The chief rose. “You can go, but please don’t leave the Inn and Spa.”

“He gives me the creeps,” said Dr. Harris, watching Scott disappear into the woods.

“Creeps?” asked Beauvoir. “Is that your medical judgment? Does he give you the willies, too?”

“No. You give me the willies.”

“You wish.” Beauvoir smiled and all but winked.

Dr. Harris blushed and silently cursed herself. Inspector Beauvoir was kneeling on the opposite side of the body. He was in his mid-thirties, lean, and athletic. His hair was dark and his eyes playful. Beauvoir always made her feel a little uncomfortable.

Chief Inspector Gamache was another matter. She found him very attractive, too, though not as a lover. In his mid-fifties, he was old enough to be her father. His dark hair was greying, and so was his trim moustache. Where Beauvoir was slim, Gamache was a large
man, without being fat. Where Beauvoir was active, always moving, always ready with a quick comment, Gamache was calm. But the most striking thing about Armand Gamache was his deep brown eyes.

They were kind.

“Who is he?” Gamache looked at the man lying between them.

“That’s why I called you over, Chief,” said Beauvoir. “We don’t know. We’ve been through his pockets, and there wasn’t a wallet. Not even papers.”

“Nothing? Not even a suicide note?”

Beauvoir shook his head. That was the real mystery. They’d find out who this man was easily enough, but the real question was, why didn’t he write a note? Not everyone who committed suicide left a note, but not leaving one was rare. Most people wanted to explain. It was the last natural act of a person about to do something very unnatural.

“So far, nothing.”

Gamache stood. The others joined him.

“What can you tell us, doctor?”

“I can tell you that he’s in his late forties or early fifties. His hands are soft. He’s an office worker, I’d say. His nails are trimmed. We didn’t find anything under them.”

“Nothing?” Gamache asked.

She shook her head.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Dr. Harris looked at Gamache. He rarely questioned her so closely. “Why?”

“I was just wondering.”

“I’ll have more for you later.” She signalled the paramedics to take away the body and turned to follow them.

“May I join you?” Chief Inspector Gamache fell into step beside her. “Inspector Beauvoir will continue the work at the scene. I want to check the Inn and Spa.”

“And the fact that the place is warm and you might find hot coffee there has nothing to do with it?”

“Nothing at all, doctor. I’m shocked at your suggestion.” But he smiled a little as they followed the path out of the woods.

“Ever climb a tree, doctor?” he asked after a minute.

She grinned. “Of course I have. What Canadian child hasn’t?”

“So have I,” he said. “But that man hasn’t. Not recently.”

Chief Inspector Gamache nodded toward the body being carried just ahead of them.

“How do you know?” Dr. Harris asked.

“Think about it.”

Under their feet, twigs snapped and dead maple leaves swished. The forest smelled of moss and pine.

Dr. Harris thought about climbing trees. Reaching for the branches. Worrying one would break and she’d fall. But that was part of the fun. Anything could happen.

And then she stopped, amazed that she’d missed it.

She looked down at her hands, then up into the chief’s thoughtful eyes.

“His hands,” she said. “They were clean. No dirt. No tree bark. He didn’t climb that tree himself.”

“No,” said Gamache sadly. “He was helped up it and helped off it. He was murdered.”

Chapter Three

Chief Inspector Gamache stood outside the Inn and Spa. It used to be a large private home, but it had been turned into a small hotel. The wide porch felt welcoming, and he could smell the smoke from a wood fire inside. The cold had chilled him, and he longed for warmth.

Pushing open the large wooden door, Gamache walked over to the front desk. A woman in her early forties looked up and smiled.

It was Dominique Gilbert, one of the owners of the Inn and Spa.

“Hello, Chief Inspector.” She shook hands with the large man. “Come for a massage? Or perhaps a pedicure?”

“Sadly, no.” He returned her smile. He liked Mrs. Gilbert. He’d met her on earlier cases in this part of Quebec. “I’m afraid my visit is much more serious in nature.”

He watched as her smile faded and a look of worry crossed her face.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s been a murder.”

“Oh, no. Who?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m here. He might be one of your guests.”

“Really? What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. I have a picture of him.” The chief inspector studied Dominique Gilbert. She was a sensible woman. A former Montrealer who had moved to the country to open the Inn and Spa. It was a great success, but anything Dominique Gilbert did would likely succeed.

Dominique nodded, knowing what it meant to look at the picture. She steeled herself. “Of course. Angela?”

A woman in her mid-thirties appeared. “Yes, Mrs. Gilbert?”

“Could you look after the front desk?”

Dominique led the chief inspector into her office and closed the door. She squared her shoulders and looked directly at Gamache.

“I’m ready.”

Armand Gamache thought she probably wasn’t ready. No one could be prepared for what he was about to show her.

As she looked at the picture, her face became pained, as though he’d hit her.

“Are you all right?”

It was, he knew, a stupid question. Of course she wasn’t all right. She’d just seen the face of a man strangled to death.

“I’m sorry,” she kept saying, as if she had something to be sorry for.

Finally, colour returned to her face.

“What happened to him?”

Gamache chose to ignore her question. “Do you know him?”

“It’s hard to say, but I think he might be Mr. Ellis. One of our guests.”

“What can you tell me about Mr. Ellis?”

Chief Inspector Gamache led her to a comfortable chair. She sat and he pulled another chair over.

“Not much, I’m afraid, but Angela might be able to help. I think she checked him in.”

He went to the door and quietly asked Angela to join them. There were no guests around, so she was able to leave the front desk.

“Is anything the matter?” she asked as she entered.

“Angela, this is Chief Inspector Gamache, of the Quebec Provincial Police. I’m afraid a man has been murdered, and he might have been one of our guests.”

Angela’s blue eyes widened. Red spread across her pale skin, moving up her neck to her cheeks.

A blusher, Gamache guessed. Some people were. They turned red when anyone so much as looked at them. Or was there another reason? Did this young woman know something?

“Angela,” the chief inspector began, and Angela blushed to almost purple. “What can you tell me about Mr. Ellis?”

“Oh, no. It’s not him, is it?”

“Please just answer the question.” The chief made his demand gently.

“Well, he arrived two days ago. He was by himself. He’d booked a standard room, but
since business is slow, I gave him a better one.” Angela looked at Dominique for approval, and Dominique smiled at her. It occurred to Gamache that they were about the same age. But Angela seemed so young, and Dominique seemed, what? Not old. Mature.

“Is Mr. Ellis the dead man?” Angela asked.

“We think so,” said Gamache. “Can you describe him?”

When she did, Gamache had little doubt that the man in the tree had been Mr. Ellis.

“You liked him?”

She nodded. “He seemed lonely. He always smiled, but his smile never reached his eyes, you know?”

Gamache did know. He’d met many people who could easily put a fake smile on their lips, but they could never put a fake sparkle into their eyes.

“Did he have any spa treatments?”

“None,” said Angela.

“Was this his first visit?”

She nodded.

“Then why was he here?” Gamache asked.

“Not everyone comes for the spa, Chief Inspector,” said Dominique, now fully recovered from her shock at seeing the dead man’s picture. “Some are looking for peace and quiet.”

Gamache thought of the dead man, swinging from the tree. He might have been looking for peace and quiet, but something else had found him. Something horrible.

Chapter Four

Chief Inspector Gamache stood alone in Mr. Ellis’s room. Arthur, that was his first name on the register. He had paid cash and planned to be there a week. That was a long time to stay at a costly place. Dominique herself had been surprised when Angela had told her. Most guests were there two nights, maybe three. Few stayed longer.

Almost no one stayed a week.

And, as it turned out, Mr. Ellis didn’t stay a week, either.

The chief inspector started a careful search of the room. It was very comfortable. And very tidy. Mr. Ellis had been an orderly man.

Gamache walked around, opening drawers and doors with his gloved hands. There were clothes neatly put away in the dresser and hung in the closet. Good clothes, but no designer labels.

Opening the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, he found nothing unusual. Though there was a bottle of extra-strong aspirin. Did Mr. Ellis get headaches? The bottle was half empty. In the Gamache home, a bottle of aspirin could last him and his wife a year or more. Gamache glanced at the “best before” date. Still two years away. It had to be a fairly new bottle, and yet it was already half gone.

He would ask Inspector Beauvoir to have the room searched for fingerprints, but he was certain this was where Mr. Ellis had spent his last days.

They had not found a wallet on the dead man, and there was no wallet here. No papers at all to say who he was. And yet Mr. Ellis had signed the register and told people his name. He did not seem to be hiding.