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“Who are you?” he asked.
Two large men in beautifully tailored suits and wearing earpieces stood behind him.
They looked out of place in the almost effete surroundings. Like street fighters at a tea party.
George V was home to many wealthy and powerful people. Clearly there was need of a security presence. And not a very discreet one.
“My name is Reine-Marie Gamache,” she said, slowly walking down the last few steps. “I’m a friend of Stephen Horowitz. I’m afraid he’s been in an accident.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is he all right?”
“He’s in the hospital.”
“There was a man with you. Where is he?” the manager asked, trying to get around her.
Reine-Marie stood her ground, blocking their way. “I’ve told you who I am. Who are you?”
The man, a little taken aback, said, “I’m the duty manager.”
“Yes, but what’s your name? I’m going to have to see your ID before I let you in.”
He seemed reluctant to give it, then relented. “Auguste Pannier.” He showed her his hotel identity card. Which she studied. At some length.
“I don’t want to be rude,” she eventually said, handing it back. “But what are you doing here?”
Now the manager was really stumped. This woman was clearly a trespasser, yet she acted like she not only belonged but owned the place.
He was, perforce, a judge if not of character, then clothing. He quickly took in her bearing, her good-quality slacks, silk scarf, elegant autumn coat. Her style was classic. Her eyes intelligent.
And yet she was hiding something, he knew. Someone, to be more precise.
He was about to repeat his question when they heard footsteps on the stairs and a man appeared.
Middle-aged. Distinguished. In a good suit, tie. Shoes polished. Well-groomed. He, too, looked like he belonged here.
The only things out of place were the cardboard box he carried and the worn leather satchel over his shoulder.
“Bonjour,” said Armand. “We’re sorry to have just let ourselves in, but as my wife said, Monsieur Horowitz has been in an accident and we wanted to collect some things for him.”
Armand did not offer his hand, preferring to appear cordial but aloof. An attitude he’d observed in his godfather more than once.
But he did offer his name. “My name is Armand Gamache.”
“And who are you to Monsieur Horowitz?”
“A close friend.”
“I see. Shall we continue this conversation in my office?”
“If you wish,” said Armand.
“I hope you understand,” said Monsieur Pannier, once in his large mahogany-paneled office behind reception. “But I would like to see what you’ve taken from the suite.”
Armand placed the satchel on the desk and unzipped it.
Inside were pajamas, a dressing gown. Toiletries.
Satisfied, the manager then nodded to the box.
