Page 21 of The Grey Wolf
This clearly shocked “Charles.” He looked around, then leaned closer.
“Look, I think I’m being set up. I think something’s happening and they want me to be blamed. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. To ask for help. For protection.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t know.”
The man’s voice had risen to a whine, and his joual was stronger now, the accent broad. If the language was indeed winter, Armand was in a sudden squall, in danger of losing his way.
“Why would someone hire me to break into your home and tell me not to take anything? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Non.What doesn’t make sense is what you’re saying,” snapped Gamache. And he didn’t mean just the accent.
Once again, “Charles” looked around. It was becoming almostcomical, certainly clichéd. He was the very image of a nervous man afraid he was being watched by the “bad guys.”
And yet, thought Gamache with annoyance, cliché or no, it could be true. He could really be afraid. Or not.
Gamache had rarely felt so lost when faced with a suspect. Though there was nothing “suspect” about “Charles.” He was guilty. But the question Armand needed answering was who’d put him up to it. Because someone had.
“You might not have known it was my home, but the guy who hired you almost certainly did. Who was it?”
“I don’t know.”
With that, Gamache made to get up.
“No, wait,” said “Charles,” reaching out to grab Gamache’s sleeve.
Armand pulled it away, then leaned back in the chair, staring, daring this strange man to tell another lie.
“He was wearing a leather jacket and clean shirt.” “Charles’s” voice was now eager. “Good shoes. I notice shoes. Yours are good too. Not cheap shit that’ll fall apart in the first rain.”
This seemed a tangent, and yet it fed into the man’s story that he lived for the most part on the streets. Where being able to tell good footwear from flimsy became vital to survival.
“I’m not interested in his clothing. Describe the man.”
“I dunno, a guy.”
“Old, young? French? Tall, short? Come on.”
“He was French. Older than me but not as old as you.” Clearly, to him, Gamache seemed ancient. “About my height, with dark hair. He looked fit. Like he worked out.”
Either “Charles” paid much more attention than he claimed, or he was making it all up. Armand was leaning heavily toward the latter.
“Did he tell you why you were to go into the apartment?”
“Just that it was a bet. But I didn’t really ask. I just wanted the money.”
“A bet? Didn’t that strike you as strange?”
“What the fuck, man.” The belligerent, defensive “Charles” had returned. “I’m starving and some guy offers me money? I’d haveblown him for less. So no, I don’t even know why he told me that much. I didn’t ask.”
“Why you?”
“Probably because I looked the most likely to be able to do it without totally fucking up.”
“And the most willing?”
“Oui.And why not?Tabernak, who wouldn’t?”
