Page 107

Gamache waited.

“Oh, older. About my age. But I can’t really remember anything else.”

“Was he a big man? Or slender?”

Godin shook his head. “Désolé.”

“Did he return?”

“Not that I know of. I think Pat would’ve told me.” Now he stared at Gamache. “You don’t think…”

“He said to get in touch. Did he leave a card or anything?”

Godin’s brow dropped in thought. “Well, he must’ve, don’t you think? But I can’t remember seeing one. Now that I’m thinking about it, he called himself a detective.”

“He was a police officer? A member of the Sûreté?”

Surely not, in his late sixties or early seventies. But age was hard to guess. He suspected some younger agents thought he himself was ancient. Maybe the man was a retired detective, and this was his hobby.

“I think he was a sort of private detective,” said Godin.

“That old letter, from Pierre Stone, was sent here by someone,” said Gamache. “Do you have any idea who?”

“Not a clue. I didn’t even know it came here.”

“And you say you didn’t have a forwarding address for Monsieur Williams?”

“No. I have no idea how Pat got it to him. I mean, how would she even know that he was related to this Stone fellow? Different last names.”

Yes, thought Armand as he got up. Good questions.

He left his card for Monsieur Godin, had a word with Beauvoir, then drove back to Three Pines to meet the conservator from the Musée in Montréal. Well aware that he was leaving with more questions than when he’d arrived.

CHAPTER 23

“Alors,” Dr. Mirlande Louissaint said, cocking her head slightly. It tipped further and further over until she was actually leaning to one side. Then the other. Like a very large, very slow pendulum.

She and her assistant had watched as Gamache unrolled the giant painting on the floor of the Incident Room, using books to weigh down the corners. As more and more of the work was revealed, Dr. Louissaint had made a series of sounds. Increasing in their astonishment but decreasing in volume.

Until finally the entire thing could be seen, and she whispered, “Alors.”

Then repeated it. “Alors.” Well. Well, well.

At least, thought Gamache as he straightened up and stretched, the Chief Conservator from the Musée had graduated from guttural sounds to an actual word.

“A World of Curiosities,” she whispered.

“Pardon?”

“The Paston Treasure.” She motioned toward the painting. “It’s the nickname given to it. Alors.” She leaned over the canvas before straightening up. “But this isn’t the real thing.”

“No.”

“What exactly do you want from me?”

“Anything you can tell me about it. How long ago it was painted. If the technique reminds you of any artist. Is there a painting underneath?” He brought out a baggie with the nails. “And I’d like you to look at these. Are they genuine or reproductions?”

She took the bag, glanced at it, then handed it back. “They’re real.”