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“If he stays?” Fontaine looked at Beauvoir as though he was something she’d scraped off the bottom of her shoe.

Then she appealed to the Prefect, who shrugged.

“Fine,” she said. “As long as I don’t have to deal with him.”

“Is there a wallet?” Dussault asked. “Any ID at all?”

“None,” she said, kneeling beside the coroner now. “All his pockets are turned out.”

“May I?” asked Gamache.

“Oh, what the fuck,” muttered Fontaine. Then gestured toward the body, inviting Gamache forward and watching as he pulled aside the dead man’s jacket and felt inside. He lifted a flap to reveal a hidden zipper and pocket.

But he didn’t undo it, preferring to let Fontaine do that.

A moment later she pulled out a thin wallet.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“It’s something seasoned travelers often do. Have hidden pockets in their clothes.”

He chose not to explain that Stephen also had one. Nor did he tell them that he and Reine-Marie had found Stephen’s agenda and passport there.

Fontaine handed the wallet to the Prefect, who walked away from the activity around the body. Gamache and Beauvoir joined him by the window.

“His name’s Alexander Francis Plessner,” said Dussault. “Mean anything to you?”

Armand thought. “Non. Stephen never mentioned him. You?”

Jean-Guy shook his head.

“Driver’s license is from Ontario,” said Dussault.

Irena Fontaine joined them and gave Dussault a passport. “We found it under that dresser. But no phone yet, and no keys.”

“If they found his passport,” said Gamache, “they must’ve realized they hadn’t killed Stephen Horowitz.”

“They killed the wrong man,” said Dussault.

“Or not,” said Gamache, and the Prefect nodded. Or not.

“Canadian,” said Jean-Guy, looking at the passport. “Issued a year ago.”

Claude Dussault flipped through it and sighed. “With kiosks at most customs now, passports aren’t stamped anymore. We’ll have to be in touch with Interpol.”

“I’ll scan the bar code over later today,” said Irena Fontaine.

“Best to do it as soon as possible,” said Gamache. “In my dealings with Interpol, it can take a little while for them to get the information. Even days.”

“This’s the brigade criminelle, monsieur,” she said. “In Paris. Not the Sûreté du Québec. Interpol responds quickly to us. They know if we ask, it must be serious.”

Beauvoir opened his mouth, but at a small glance from Gamache remained quiet.

This Fontaine obviously didn’t know that Gamache had been approached in just the last six months to move to Lyon and take over Interpol. He’d refused, preferring to hunt murderers in Québec.

If Gamache wasn’t going to tell her, he sure wouldn’t. Though he was longing to.

“Thank you for explaining that, Commander,” said Gamache. “Does the passport have any stamps at all?”