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“Yes, because people don’t,” said Beauvoir, all but rolling his eyes. The taxi had arrived at the Lutetia.

Getting out, Gamache took a step toward the liveried woman holding the heavy door open for them.

Then stopped.

Though he’d known the history of the hotel, including during the war, what Gamache had heard most about was that this was where the survivors of some of the concentration camps had been brought immediately after liberation.

He’d seen photographs of emaciated men, their striped clothing still hanging in tatters from their bones. They sat glaze-eyed in the opulent surroundings.

This was an act of brutality. Though unintentional. What had the liberators been thinking, to bring the survivors there?

What had those ghostly men and women been thinking as they looked around?

There was no celebration, no triumph, in those blank faces. Those photographs spoke only of savagery. Of an unspeakable cruelty, made even more hideous, if that was possible, by the luxury around them.

Yes, he’d known about what seemed a misguided attempt at kindness.

But now another image superimposed itself. Of Stephen. His hand on the shoulder of the monster who had done that.

“Patron?” Beauvoir broke into his thoughts.

Gamache turned away. “I’m going across to Stephen’s apartment. I have some questions for the concierge.”

Beauvoir watched as his father-in-law jogged across rue de Sèvres, between oncoming vehicles.

He’d seen Gamache go into homes, warehouses, forests where they knew heavily armed gunmen waited.

Armand Gamache had never hesitated. Had only ever moved forward, the first in. His agents following him.

And now Beauvoir followed Gamache as he ran away.

“You know she was messing with you,” said Beauvoir once he’d caught up with Gamache.

“Fontaine? I don’t think she was,” said Gamache, walking rapidly along the sidewalk. “I think she believes what she said about Stephen.”

“Do you? Believe it, I mean.”

To Jean-Guy’s surprise, Armand hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Not in the least.”

At the huge red-lacquered doors into Stephen’s building, Gamache pressed a button. A minute later the door was opened by a thin older man, who peered out, then smiled.

“It’s the boy,” he called behind him. Then opening the door fully, he let Armand and Jean-Guy in.

Claude Dussault sat in his office, going through the box. Again.

Was it just the annual report Armand wanted to see, or was there something else?

There were the predictable items. Stephen Horowitz’s wallet, with euros and some Canadian money. Various credit cards and ID.

Dussault took out Stephen’s passport and examined it. There were no stamps, but then there wouldn’t be if he’d traveled elsewhere in Europe.

Like Luxembourg, for instance.

There were pens and paper clips in the box. Two screws and an Allen wrench. Scotch tape and a pristine notepad with the George V logo. All of which Armand had swept into the container while Reine-Marie stalled the manager.

Then there were the interesting items.

The slender laptop. The crushed phone.