Page 15 of The Grey Wolf
It had been equally useless to ask the Chief if maybe he should be armed, but Beauvoir did anyway, and got exactly the reply he’d expected. An almost amused look.
“Take a firearm into a crowded café,mon ami?Non.I’ll leave it to you to kill any innocent bystanders.”
It was as close to gallows humor as Jean-Guy had seen the Chief come.
“Those bomboloni are to die for,” said Beauvoir.
“I’ll get you one if you promise not to shoot. And certainly not to shoot me.”
Beauvoir almost added,Again.But decided that was a step too far, and perhaps not something either man wanted to remember.
The fellow on the security video hadn’t arrived yet. But then, he might not be the thief. This was the disconcerting part. They really had no idea who would show up. Or why.
The place was actually called Café Olimpico. It got its nickname when some letters fell off the sign and were never replaced.Open Day and NightbecameOpen Da Night.
It was interesting, perhaps telling, that the thief knew the nickname. Not everyone did.
Was it just coincidence that the thief had chosen perhaps the one café in Montréal that Armand was most familiar with? Where he felt most comfortable, most at home. Safest?
He’d been in many times, often for espresso allongés on a Sunday morning with Reine-Marie. Early in their marriage they’d read the paper, nurse a coffee, and chat with Rocco, the original owner.
Armand looked down at the pages in his hands. The lab had finished with the notes and returned them to the Chief. Folding them up again, he put them in his breast pocket and reached for the door.
“I can come in with you,” said Jean-Guy.
“Better if you’re out here,” said Armand.
They’d also been through this. If the thief had studied the photographs, he might recognize Jean-Guy, who was in several of them.
While the note did not say to come alone, Gamache thought it best not to advertise that the place was now throbbing with Sûreté officers.
He walked into the café and waved at Vito, one of the longtime baristas.
“Un allongé, per favore.”
“Already being made, Chief. I saw you coming.”
It didn’t matter that Vito had just announced to everyone there, a few of whom were not cops, that the Chief Inspector was in thebuilding. It would not come as a surprise to the fellow he was meeting. Besides, Gamache was hardly incognito.
He made himself comfortable in a corner table. From there he had a good view of the whole place.
The café was noisy, with the televisions blaring, replaying classic soccer matches that Italy invariably won. Baristas shouted orders and occasionally burst into self-mocking song, and regulars howled at the screens, though everyone knew the happy outcome of the games.
In the opposite corner two elderly men played cards. They wore white tank tops stained with sweat and mud-smeared green slacks, dirty from tending the tall tomato plants in the patch of garden at the front of their row homes.
It was not a relaxing place, but it was vibrant and comfortable and familiar, and very old-world. With its stone walls and long marble bar and tin tiled ceiling, it really hadn’t changed since Armand’s godfather, Stephen, had taken him there when he wasn’t yet shaving.
He’d had his first cappuccino over there, at the round table by the window. He’d hated the bitter taste. But then he’d also hated his first beer and first scotch and first taste of smoked salmon. Took him a while, and some perseverance, to get used to the taste of adulthood.
Now, the cannoli were a different matter. He’d liked those from the get-go.
Vito brought him his coffee and with it a pastry. Uninvited, but appreciated.
“Grazie.”
“Prego.”
“Can you bring me another cannoli, please? I’m expecting someone.”
