“Merci, ma belle.” He kissed her again and returned to the car, and the car returned to the road. Back to the Manoir Bellechasse.
As they turned the final corner of the dirt road they saw the old log lodge through the windshield wipers, and they saw a Sûreté vehicle parked on the winding drive. Then more police vehicles, as they got closer. Some Sûreté, some municipal police. Even a Royal Canadian Mounted Police truck. The drive was packed with vehicles parked higgledy-piggledy.
The chatting stopped in the car and it grew very silent, except for the clack, clack, clack of the wiper. Gamache’s face grew stern and hard and watchful. The three of them dashed through the rain and into the reception room of the Manoir.
“Bon Dieu, thank God you’re here,” said little Madame Dubois. “They’re in the Great Room.”
Gamache walked quickly.
At the opening of the door all eyes turned to him. There in the center stood Jean Guy Beauvoir, surrounded by the Morrows, what looked like the entire staff of the Manoir, and men and women in assorted uniforms. A huge ordnance map was hanging from the fireplace mantel.
“Bon,” said Beauvoir. “I believe you know this man. Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec.”
There was a murmur and some nodding. A few of the officers offered salutes. Gamache nodded back.
“What’s happened?” Gamache asked.
“Elliot Byrne is missing,” said Beauvoir. “It was noticed sometime between the breakfast and the luncheon service.”
“Who reported it?”
“I did.” Chef Véronique stepped forward. And as Gamache looked at her he wondered how he hadn’t seen it before. Reine-Marie was right. “He wasn’t there for the breakfast service,” the chef was explaining, “and that was unusual but not unheard of. He’d worked dinner the night before and sometimes their schedule gives them the next breakfast off. So I didn’t say anything. But he should have been there to set up for lunch.”
“What did you do?” asked Gamache.
“I spoke to Pierre, the maître d’,” said Véronique.
Pierre Patenaude stepped forward, looking shaken and worried.
“Shouldn’t we be looking for him?” he asked.
“We are, monsieur,” said Beauvoir. “We have calls out to police and the media, to the bus and train stations.”
“But he might be out there.” Pierre waved outside, where rain was now pouring down the windows, making the outside world distorted and grotesque.
“We’ll form search parties, but first we need information and a plan. Go on.” Gamache turned to Beauvoir.
“Monsieur Patenaude managed a quick search of the bunks and the grounds, to make sure Elliot wasn’t sick or hurt or maybe just goofing off,” said Beauvoir. “Nothing was found.”
“Were his clothes gone?” asked Gamache.
“No,” said Beauvoir, and their eyes locked for an instant. “We were just about to form search parties for the surrounding area.” Beauvoir addressed the room. “Everyone who wants to volunteer please stay. The rest, please leave.”
“Can I help?” Little Madame Dubois, dwarfed by the sequoia-like RCMP officers, stepped forward.
“You can help me, madame,” said Gamache. “Carry on.” He nodded to Beauvoir, and to everyone’s astonishment the Chief Inspector took Madame Dubois’s arm and they left the Great Room.
“Coward.” The whispered word in the Morrow voice slid off Gamache’s back and to the floor, where it evaporated.
“What can I do, monsieur?” she asked when they arrived in the outer office.
“You can find me Elliot’s employment application and whatever information you have about him. And you can place these phone calls.”
He jotted down a list.
“Are you sure?” she asked, perplexed by the list, but seeing his face she didn’t wait for an answer.
He walked into the library and closed the door. In the hallway he heard the trooping of heavy feet as the searchers prepared to go out into the rain. Not a storm, but the rain and wind would make the ground sodden and slippery. It was going to be miserable.
After making a few more notes he looked up and stared out of the window. Then he quickly walked out of the French doors and through the rain across the lawn, toward a group of searchers just entering the woods. They were wearing bright orange coats, supplied by the local hunt and game society, who were also volunteering. Each team would have a police officer and a local hunter. The last thing they needed was to lose the searchers. It happened. How often had the lost reappeared and the searchers disappeared, only to be found as bones years later. The Canadian wilderness didn’t give up her territory or her dead easily.
