Page 107 of The Grey Wolf
Beauvoir barely suppressed a laugh. The painting showed a man tied to a post and shot full of arrows. That was not the funny part. But the expression on his face was. Sébastien looked, in a vast understatement, slightly worried.
Jean-Guy sat down and went through the records. Not yet computerized, they were on file cards. But the job was not quite as daunting as he thought since not that many Québécois men signed up to be monks anymore, never mind Dominican monks.
Across town, Armand Gamache was at the Archdiocese of Montréal, to start his search for Dom Philippe.
“The Gilbertine?” the young priest on the front desk asked. “From the recordings?”
“Oui.One and the same,” said Gamache, at his most affable. He added, “Mon père,” as a sign of respect, though he was easily old enough to be the priest’spère.
Young priests, Gamache knew, were similar to medical interns and police rookies. Treated by their elders with a strange mix of gratitude and disdain. Any sign of respect that did not come from their mothers was appreciated.
Gamache looked up at the large photo above the desk. It showed a distinguished man in a red mantle over simple black clothing and clerical collar. Gamache held the familiar eyes for a beat longer than would be considered normal, then turned back to the young priest.
“Is His Grace in? I’d like just a few minutes of his time.”
“Archbishop Fleury is at a luncheon right now. He should be back in an hour, but I’m afraid he’s all booked up today.”
Gamache had hoped not to have to do it, but had no choice. He brought out his ID.
“I’m Chief Inspector Gamache. The head of homicide for the Sûreté. I won’t take much of the Archbishop’s time, but I do need to speak with him.”
“I thought you looked familiar. I see you in the news.” He glanced around before saying, “Has the Archbishop done something wrong?”
“Non, nothing. I just need some information from him about Dom Philippe, who also has done nothing wrong.”
“Oh.” The young man went to put Gamache’s name in the book, but the Chief Inspector stopped him.
“Perhaps we can keep this between ourselves. Discretion.”
“Understood. Come back at two thirty.”
“Merci.”
Chief Inspector Gamache strolled out of the diocese building as though in no hurry. Then his arm shot up to hail a cab.
“Sûreté headquarters.” After a couple of minutes, he changed his mind. “Pull over here and wait, please.”
“I’ll need to circle the block. I can’t stop.”
“Fine.”
Gamache got out of the taxi and went into the Musée des beaux-arts in Montréal. From the double-height lobby, he placed a call. To London.
“Caufield, it’s Gamache.”
“Armand. God, I haven’t heard from you since you were fired as head of the Sûreté. What do you want? I’m busy.”
Sherry Caufield was the head of counterintelligence in the UK. She ran the ad hoc international committee on current threats. It amazed Gamache that she had not yet started a war.
“Sherry, have you heard any chatter about threats to Montréal’s drinking water?”
There was a pause. Her tone had changed. “You’ve got something?”
“Nothing solid. It’s vague, but…”
It was, of course, the “buts” that needed investigating.
“Send me what you have and I’ll take a closer look. I haven’t heard anything, but…”
