The Cruelest Month (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #3)

The Cruelest Month (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #3) Page 124

‘Know it? Know it? How can you?’ Francoeur shot to his feet, leaning over Gamache now. ‘It’s ridiculous to even be listening to you. A waste of time. You don’t have thoughts, you have sentiments.’

A few chuckles were heard.

‘I have both, Superintendent,’ said Gamache. Francoeur towered above him, one hand on the back of Gamache’s chair, the other on the table, as though to imprison the man.

‘You’re fucking arrogant,’ Francoeur yelled. ‘You’re the worst sort of officer. Full of yourself. You’ve created your own little army of underlings. People who’ll worship you. The rest of us choose the best of the police grads for the Sûreté, you deliberately choose the worst. You’re a dangerous man, Gamache. I’ve known it all along.’

Gamache stood up too, slowly, forcing Francoeur to back away.

‘My team has solved almost every murder it’s investigated. They’re brilliant and dedicated and courageous. You set yourself up as judge and you toss out those who don’t conform. Fine. But don’t blame me for picking up your garbage and seeing value in it.’

‘Even Agent Nichol?’ Francoeur had lowered his voice and now the rest had to strain to hear the words, but not Gamache. They were loud and clear.

‘Even Agent Nichol,’ he said, staring into the cold, hard eyes.

‘You tossed her back once as I remember,’ said Francoeur, his voice almost a hiss. ‘Fired her and she landed in my division. Narcotics. She took to it.’

‘Then why send her back to me?’ Gamache asked.

‘What is it you like to say, Chief Inspector? There’s a reason for everything. Very deep. There’s a reason for everything, Gamache. Figure it out. Now I have a question for you.’ His voice lowered even further. ‘What was in that envelope you were passing so secretively to your son? Daniel’s his name, I believe. Daughter, Florence. Wife. Did I hear she’s pregnant?’

Now no one else in the room could hear, the words were spoken so softly. Gamache had the strangest impression Francoeur hadn’t even spoken out loud, but had inserted them directly into his head. Sharp, stabbing, intended to wound and warn.

He inhaled sharply and tried to contain himself, to not bring his fist up and smash the leering, smug, wretched face.

‘Do it, Gamache,’ hissed Francoeur. ‘To save your family, do it.’

Was Francoeur inviting him to attack? So that he’d be arrested, imprisoned? Exposed to any ‘accident’ that might happen in the cells? Was that the price Francoeur was proposing for backing off his family?

‘Fucking coward.’ Francoeur smiled and stepped back, shaking his head. ‘I think the least Chief Inspector Gamache can do is explain himself,’ he said in a normal voice. The faces, strained and nervous, relaxed a little now that they could hear again. ‘I think before we can even consider acting on his behalf, or accepting his resignation, we need to know a few things. Like what was in the envelope he was passing to his son. Voyons, Chief Inspector, it’s a reasonable question.’

Around the conference table there were nods of agreement. Gamache looked over at Brébeuf who cocked his brow as though to say it was a strangely benign request. They’d get off easy if this was all the council wanted.

Gamache remained silent for a moment, thinking. Then he shook his head.

‘I’m sorry. It’s private. I can’t tell you.’

It was over, Gamache knew. He bent down and placed his papers in his satchel, then made for the door.

‘You’re a stupid man, Chief Inspector,’ Superintendent Francoeur called after him, smiling broadly. ‘You walk out of here now your life will be in ruins. The media will keep picking at you and your children until even the bones are gone. No careers, no friends, no privacy, no dignity. All because of your pride. What was it one of your favorite poets said? Yeats? Things fall apart. The center cannot hold.’

Gamache stopped, turned and deliberately walked back. With each step he seemed to expand. The officers around the table, wide-eyed, leaned out of his way. He walked to Francoeur, whose smile had disappeared.

‘This center will hold.’ Gamache pronounced each word slowly and clearly, his voice strong and low and more menacing than anything Francoeur had ever heard. He tried to recover himself as Gamache turned and walked through the door, but it was too late. Everyone in the room had seen fear on Francoeur’s face and more than one wondered whether they’d backed the wrong man.

But it was too late.

As Gamache strode down the corridor, men and women on each side smiling hello and nodding to him, his mind settled. Something Francoeur said had jogged something loose. Some piece of information had twisted in that instant and he’d seen it in a different way. But in the stress of the moment Gamache had lost it. Was it to do with Arnot? Or was it the case in Three Pines?