Page 152

“Are you accusing him?”

“No.” Not yet. Though this did explain Boisfranc’s loathing of Gamache. Almost certainly of all cops. And who could blame him?

But alarms were going off for the Chief Inspector. “Do you know the name of the halfway home?”

“No, but I can find it for you. Does it really matter?”

“Do you have Claude’s address?”

“Here? I let him stay in the church basement. Why?”

“How about the name of the woman who suggested him?”

Robert laughed. “You’re kidding, right? That’s almost two years ago.” Then he stopped and tilted his head. “Actually, strangely, I do remember. It was—”

Before he even said it, Gamache knew.

“—Mountweazel,” said Robert. “I know that Claude’s a little odd, taciturn. But he’s been a godsend.”

“Yes, I’m sure he has. Listen, Robert, Reine-Marie won’t be back until tomorrow at the earliest. Come over for dinner. Stay the night. Please.”

The minister considered for a moment. “Merci. I’d like that. I’m not sure I could sleep at home…”

“Yes.”

They were silent, Armand aware of the need to leave soon.

“I hope Reine-Marie’s enjoyed herself,” said Robert. “Sylvie and I used to love visiting galleries and museums in London. And Paris, of course. Her favorite thing in Paris were the flea markets. The big one, what’s it called again? My mind isn’t working.”

“Les Puces.”

The minister gave one short laugh. “Of course. Les Puces. The Fleas. You must miss Reine-Marie when she’s away.”

“I do.”

“You must tell her that, Armand.” The minister turned and looked at him directly, for the first time since Armand had arrived.

“She knows.”

“Yes, I imagine she does. But you can never say it too often. You can never let someone know too often that they’re precious. That they’re missed.” He paused. “Believe me.”

And Armand did.

“Did anyone visit Sylvie yesterday?”

“No. We were at Clara’s briefly, but no one came to the house. Why?”

“Think, Robert. Anyone?”

“What is it, Armand, why’re you asking?”

“I’m just wondering.”

“You’re more than wondering,” said the minister. “Tell me.”

“Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”

Mongeau stared at him. “Occupational? You’re not thinking she was … That’s insane.” His voice was rising into the hysteria range. “Why would you say that?”