They stopped at rue des Jardins. Like most of the streets in the old city, this one curved and disappeared around a corner. There was nothing even approaching a grid system, just a higgledy-piggledy warren of tiny cobbled streets and old homes.
“Which way?” Émile asked.
Gamache froze. It took him a moment to remember where that came from. The last time someone asked him that question. Jean-Guy. Staring down the long corridor, first in one direction then the other, then at him. Demanding to know which way?
“This way.”
It had been a guess then and it was a guess now. Gamache could feel his heart thumping from the memory and had to remind himself it was just that. It was past, done. Dead and gone.
“You’re right,” said Émile, pointing to a gray stone building with an ornate, carved, wooden door, and the number above. 1809.
Gamache rang the doorbell and they waited. Two men and a dog. The door was opened by a middle-aged man.
“Oui?”
“Mr. Patrick,” said Gamache, in English. “My name is Gamache. I left a message on your machine this morning. This is my colleague Émile Comeau. I wonder if I might ask you some questions?”
“Quoi?”
“Some questions,” said Gamache more loudly, since the man seemed not to have heard.
“Je ne comprends pas,” said the man, irritated, and began to close the door.
“No, wait,” said Gamache quickly, this time in French. “Désolé. I thought you might be English.”
“Everyone thinks that,” said the man, exasperated. “My name’s Sean Patrick.” He pronounced it Patreek. “Don’t speak a word of English. Sorry.”
Once again he went to close the door.
“But, monsieur, that wasn’t my question,” Gamache hurried on. “It’s about the death of Augustin Renaud.”
The door stopped closing, then slowly opened again and Gamache, Émile and Henri were admitted.
Monsieur Patrick pointed them to a room.Gamache ordered Henri to lie down by the front door then they took off their boots and followed Monsieur Patrick into the parlor, an old-fashioned word but one that fit. It certainly didn’t seem to be a living room. Looking at the sofas Gamache could see no sign a body had ever touched those cushions, and weren’t about to now. Monsieur Patrick did not invite them to sit down. Instead they clustered in the middle of the stuffy room.
“Lovely furniture,” said Émile, looking around him.
“From my grandparents.”
“Are those them?” asked Gamache, wandering over to the photos on the wall.
“Yes. And those are my parents. My great-grandparents lived in Quebec City too. That’s them over there.”
He waved to another set of photos and Gamache looked at two stern people. He always wondered what happened the instant after the shot was taken. Did they exhale, glad that was over? Did they turn to each other and smile? Was this who they really were, or simply a function of a primitive technology that demanded they stay still and stare sternly at the camera?
Though—
Gamache was drawn to another photo on the wall. It showed a group of dirty men with shovels standing in front of a huge hole. Behind them was a stone building. Most of the workers looked glum, but two were grinning.
“How wonderful to have these,” said Gamache. But Patrick didn’t look like it was wonderful, or terrible, or anything. Indeed, Gamache thought he probably hadn’t looked at the sepia photos in decades. Perhaps ever. “How well did you know Augustin Renaud?” the Chief Inspector turned back into the room.
“Didn’t know him at all.”
“Then why did you meet him?”
“Are you kidding? Meet him? When?”
“A week before he died. He’d arranged to meet with you, Monsieur O’Mara and two others. A Chin and a JD.”
“Never heard of ’em.”
“But you do know Augustin Renaud,” said Émile.
“Of him. I know of him. I don’t know him.”
“Are you saying Augustin Renaud never contacted you?” asked Gamache.
“Are you with the police?” Patrick had grown suspicious.
“We’re helping the investigation,” said Gamache, vaguely. Fortunately Monsieur Patrick wasn’t very observant or curious, otherwise he might wonder why Gamache was there with an elderly man and a dog. A police dog, granted, but it was still unusual. But Sean Patrick didn’t seem to care. Like most Quebeckers, he was simply fixated on Augustin Renaud.