Page 22 of The Grey Wolf
Gamache did not need to say that he would not. But was that even true? If things had been different after his parents were killed in that accident? If he’d had no grandmother to raise him? No Stephen? If he’d found himself in foster care, then on the streets and starving? With holes in his shoes and thin clothing and a subway grate for a home? Who knew what he would become? What he would do?
“How did he pay you?”
“I take credit. How the fuck do you think he paid. Cash.”
“Before or after?”
“Before.”
“I see.”
“Charles” knew he’d made a mistake, knew Gamache could see it. And the fact that the Chief Inspector didn’t follow up was even more disconcerting.
“Describe the apartment.”
“Pardon?”
“My apartment. Describe it.”
There was a pause. Was this even the man who’d gone in? How much, Gamache wondered, was he being played?
“There’re posters. I recognized the Jazz Festival one. There’s a fireplace, and that’s where I saw you, in a photograph. Magazines and books were everywhere. That’s all I remember. It was…”
Gamache waited.
“… nice. Comfortable.”
There was a wistfulness to his voice. A longing that could not be hidden. And that Gamache did not think was feigned. An unintended truth.
“Which shelter are you in?”
“The Mission, in Old Montréal.”
Gamache knew it. It would be checked.
They would also, thanks to the coffee mug, have this man’s fingerprints.
Armand reached into his jacket pocket, brought out a notebook, and slid it across the table.
“I’d like you to write, ‘Please, I need to speak to you.’”
He handed “Charles” a pen. The man looked at Gamache, perplexed at first, and then he understood.
“You are not a trusting man,” he said as he wrote.
“Would you trust you?”
“Charles” gave one snort of near amusement, then pushed the paper back. “There. Satisfied?”
“Can you tell me why I asked you to do that?”
“Because that’s in the note I wrote you. That note, right?” “Charles” pointed to the paper the Chief Inspector now held.
Unfolding it, Gamache compared the writing. They were the same.
“Where was it put?” Gamache asked.
“Fuck, man, you really do have trust issues. I put it in the jacket pocket.” “Charles” mimicked placing a hand in the correct place.
