“Then why did she take the things to the theater?” asked Beauvoir, then held up his hand. “Wait. Don’t tell me. It’s to get them out of the house, so that the buyer can’t find them without her. And she won’t tell, without the money.”
He slammed his hand down on the conference table.
“Solved.”
“Aren’t you leaving out one detail?” asked Armand.
“The name of the killer?” asked Jean-Guy. “I got us this far, I think the Chief Inspector can do the rest, don’t you?”
Isabelle Lacoste was leaning back in her chair, tapping a pen against her lips. No longer listening, which was wise, but thinking.
“The wine,” she said. “Why would Antoinette drink a whole bottle before an important meeting? Wouldn’t she want a clear head?”
“Maybe she needed courage more,” said Beauvoir. “Besides, we don’t know that she drank it all herself. The killer might’ve had a couple of glasses then washed up. Or Antoinette might’ve been nervous and drank more than she meant to. After all, she knew she was meeting someone who’d already killed at least one person.”
Lacoste was nodding. “That could also explain her injury. It doesn’t look deliberate. If she was drunk and got into an argument, a shoving match, let’s say, with the buyer, she might’ve lost her balance.”
“And once she was out of the way, the buyer was free to search the house,” said Gamache. “Not realizing Antoinette had taken everything away.”
“Well, now, there’s another problem,” said Lacoste. “The search of the theater turned up nothing. No firing mechanism, no plans. So where did she put them?”
They stared at each other.
“We seem to have hit a dead end,” said Lacoste. “We obviously need more information.”
She looked over to Adam Cohen, who was sitting at a desk staring at his computer screen. If he’s playing games, she thought, and getting up, she crossed the room.
“We’re ready for your report.”
His hands rested on the keyboard but didn’t move as he stared at what Lacoste was relieved to see was text. Documents, it seemed.
“Almost ready,” he said, distracted. Then he looked up. “Sorry, sir. Ma’am. Chief Inspector.”
He bobbed slightly in what might have been a curtsy had he been standing.
“Come over when you’re finished.”
She’d given him the thankless task of tracking down documents, materials to support their investigation. Dr. Couture’s will. Antoinette’s tax returns.
“He’ll be another few minutes,” she said, returning to the conference table. “Did you ever hear back from your friend at CSIS?”
“I spoke to her just before coming here,” said Gamache. “She doesn’t know Mary Fraser or Sean Delorme personally but she looked up their records and confirmed that they work there. Their area of expertise is the Middle East, and Gerald Bull was indeed one of their dossiers.”
“If their field of expertise was the Middle East,” said Lacoste, “wouldn’t you expect her to know the difference between Arabic and Hebrew? When she saw the writing on the etching she thought it was Arabic.”
“I think she was playing dumb,” said Gamache. “I suspect she does that a lot. She might have also wanted to see if you knew.”
“Well, her act worked,” said Lacoste. “I told her.”
“No harm done,” said Gamache. “I’m sure Mary Fraser speaks Arabic and Hebrew and knew exactly what it said. My source said Fraser and Delorme have been with CSIS since the beginning.”
“When was that?” asked Beauvoir.
“Nineteen eighty-four,” said Gamache, and saw both of them raise their brows.
“You’re kidding. In 1984 Canada created a Big Brother?” asked Lacoste. “I hope at least one person appreciated the irony.”
But Beauvoir was looking less amused. “They’ve been there that long and they’re still file clerks?”
“That was the crux of our conversation. When my contact saw that, she also wondered, but it seems to be the truth.”
“I guess some people get lost in the system,” said Lacoste.
But Gamache knew the Mary Fraser he’d met the night before in the B and B might be the type to hide, but not the type to get lost.
“My friend did have one thought,” said Gamache.
“They aren’t really file clerks?” asked Beauvoir.