The Beautiful Mystery (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #8)

The Beautiful Mystery (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #8) Page 106

Was he downloading something? Beauvoir couldn’t see how. The satellite connection hadn’t worked since they arrived. Unless Francoeur had gotten it to work, but Beauvoir doubted it. He wasn’t that smart.

Francoeur had the guilty look of a teenager interrupted by Mom.

“Well?” The Superintendent glared at Beauvoir.

“I heard voices,” he said and immediately regretted it.

Francoeur gave him a dismissive look and picking up a dossier he started to read. Ignoring Beauvoir completely. As though a hole in the atmosphere had just walked in. Nothing. No one. Beauvoir was empty air as far as the Superintendent was concerned.

“What did you mean earlier?” Beauvoir shut the door hard and Francoeur looked up.

Jean-Guy hadn’t meant to ask, had promised himself not to. And had Gamache been there he certainly would never have asked. But the Chief wasn’t there, and Francoeur was, and the question shot out, like lightning from a storm cloud.

Francoeur ignored him.

“Tell me,” Beauvoir kicked the chair, then grabbed it from behind and leaned over it, toward the Superintendent.

“Or what?” asked Francoeur. He was amused, not afraid at all, and Beauvoir felt his cheeks burning. His knuckles turned white where he gripped the wooden chair.

“You going to beat me up?” the Superintendent asked. “Threaten me? That’s what you do, isn’t it? You’re Gamache’s dog.” Now Francoeur put the dossier down and leaned toward Beauvoir. “You want to know what I meant when I said I thought you had no balls? That’s what I meant. It’s what all your colleagues say, Jean-Guy. Is it true?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“That your only use is as Armand Gamache’s puppy. They call you his bitch, because while you growl and sometimes bite, they don’t think you actually have balls.”

Francoeur looked at Beauvoir as if he was something soft and smelly real men wiped from the bottom of their shoes. The chair squeaked as the Superintendent leaned back, comfortably. His suit jacket opened and Beauvoir saw his gun there.

Through the howl of rage in his head Beauvoir had enough presence of mind to wonder why the Chief Superintendent, a bureaucrat, wore a gun.

And why he had brought it into the abbey.

Not even Gamache wore a gun, though Beauvoir did. And now he was glad.

“That’s what I meant earlier,” said Francoeur. “I went with you when you interviewed that monk not because you invited me, but because I was curious. How would this man who was the laughingstock of the Sûreté handle an interrogation? But you surprised me. I was actually impressed.”

And Beauvoir surprised himself. Some small part of him was relieved to hear that. But it was deeply buried under the wrath, the rage, the near apocalyptic fury of the insult.

He opened his mouth but only stuttering came out. No words formed. Just empty air.

“You can’t tell me you didn’t know.” Francoeur actually looked surprised. “Come on, man, only an idiot could miss that. You strut through headquarters, half a pace behind your master, practically sniveling, and you think the other agents and inspectors admire you? They admire the Chief Inspector, and fear him a little. If he could cut your balls off, maybe he could do it to them too. Look, no one blames you. You were this little agent in a little Sûreté outpost. You were about to be fired because no one wanted to work with you, and Gamache hired you. Right?”

Beauvoir stared at Francoeur, dumbfounded.

“Right,” Francoeur leaned forward. “And why do you think he did that? Why do you think he’s surrounded himself with agents no one else wanted? He just promoted Isabelle Lacoste to inspector. Your rank—” Francoeur gave Beauvoir a sharp look, “—I’d watch that if I were you. Not good when you’re supposed to be the second in command but she’s the one left at headquarters, in charge. What was I saying? Oui, the Chief Inspector’s hiring practices. Have you looked around the homicide department? He’s created a division of losers. He’s taken the dregs. Why?”

Now Beauvoir’s anger finally erupted. He lifted the chair and brought it down so hard the two back legs broke off. But he didn’t care. He only had eyes for the man in front of him. He had Superintendent Francoeur in his sights.

“Losers?” Beauvoir rasped. “The Chief Inspector surrounds himself with agents who think for themselves, who can act on their own. The rest of you shits are afraid of us. You toss us out, demote us, treat us like crap until we quit. And why?”