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“Only one,” said Dussault. “A trip to Peru a year ago.”

“Peru?” asked Beauvoir.

“Big tourist spot,” said Dussault. “Machu Picchu. The Nazca Lines.”

“The what?” asked Fontaine, and Beauvoir was glad she was the one who showed ignorance. Normally that was his job.

He’d actually thought the Prefect had said “Nascar,” and was about to ask about that.

“Look them up,” said Dussault. “One of the great mysteries of the world.”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars Canadian,” Fontaine reported as she went through the wallet. “Seventy euros. Two Visa cards and”— she held up a white business card—“this.”

She handed it to Dussault.

He read the name on the card. “Stephen Horowitz. That confirms it. The dead man knew Horowitz. But how? Friend? Business associate? Must be more than an acquaintance to be in his apartment.”

“May I?” asked Armand, and held out his hand for the card. “Monsieur Plessner was much more than an acquaintance, to have this.”

He handed it back to Fontaine.

“Why?” she asked. “It’s just a simple business card.”

“But without an address?” said Beauvoir. “Not even a phone number or email? What business card has just a name?”

“Not just that,” Dussault pointed out. “Someone’s written JSPS after his name. What does that mean, Armand? ‘Justice of the Peace’? Is it an honorific?”

Gamache was smiling. “Not exactly.”

Bringing out his own wallet, he removed a dog-eared, slightly scruffy business card. The paper was thin and worn, but the printing was exactly the same.

Stephen Horowitz. And after the name exactly the same four letters. Written longhand.

JSPS.

“It’s something my grandmother Zora always called him,” Armand explained.

“But what does it mean?” asked Dussault.

“‘JSPS’ stands for ‘Just Some Poor Schmuck.’”

Dussault laughed. “Really? But ‘schmuck,’ that’s an insult, isn’t it? Why did your grandmother call him that? Was it a private joke, a term of endearment?”

“Just the opposite,” said Armand. “She loathed him. Did from the moment they met in the late 1940s. He was an easy man to dislike.”

Jean-Guy smiled. It was true. Stephen Horowitz could be a real piece of merde. And it wasn’t an act. It was genuinely who he was. But Beauvoir knew that was just one side of a complex man.

“How did she know him?” asked Fontaine. “Come to think of it, how did you?”

“My father hired him to do odd jobs. Stephen had nothing when he came to Québec after the war, but my father quickly saw his potential. They were roughly the same age, and only fate decided that one would lose his home and family, and the other would have both. My father had huge admiration for Stephen, but Zora hated him from the get-go. She called him—”

“Just some poor schmuck?” said Dussault.

“C’est ça. And that was when she was being polite.” Armand smiled, remembering her muttering “Alte kaker” whenever Stephen showed up.

“Why did she hate him so much?” asked Fontaine. “What did he do to her?”

“Nothing, except to be born German. I think it was asking a bit too much of her, at that time, to like or trust anyone who was German.”