Page 18 of The Grey Wolf
Gamache took a sip of coffee. “I ask because not many know this place as Open Da Night.”
“I must’ve read an article about it online. I thought you probably knew it since you live close by. I wanted a place where you’d feel comfortable.”
“Merci.Most thoughtful.” It was bullshit, Gamache knew, but was happy for now not to challenge him. “Would you like something else to eat? They make wonderful cornetti.”
The man had already finished off his cannoli.
“No, thank you.” Now he looked perplexed. “Aren’t you mad at me?”
He sounded almost childish.
“Well, I’m not pleased. You broke into my home and stole my coat.But you returned it, which I appreciate.” Gamache leaned forward. “What’s your name?”
“Charles.”
“Charles what?”
“Just that.”
Since “Charles” was almost certainly not his real name, Gamache didn’t feel the need to press for a fake last name too.
“Why are we here, Charles?”
“I needed to talk to you.”
Gamache just waited. “Charles” glanced over his shoulder into the body of the café. Gamache wondered if he realized most of the people there were Sûreté agents. If he did, it didn’t seem to matter. He returned his gaze to the Chief Inspector.
“This was a mistake.”
“What was?”
“Meeting you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s just not a good idea. You’re a public figure. Someone might see us together.”
“Would that be a problem?”
Now “Charles” almost smiled. “Well, we probably wouldn’t be mistaken for friends.”
“Then why do it? What do you want to tell me?”
“Charles” leaned closer. Whipped cream still clung to his fingers, and Armand was fighting the temptation to hand him a paper napkin. Or even to wipe it off himself.
There was something about this young man. He was swinging wildly from arrogance, even belligerence, to vulnerability. It was as though he couldn’t decide who he was, or which attitude to strike when faced with this famous cop.
So he tried them all, and ended up just a strange man with whipped cream and dirt on his nibbled fingers. It was somehow endearing.
The younger man was slick with perspiration now, but from the heavy sweatshirt in the heat and humidity of the close café or nerves, Gamache didn’t know.
“Charles” dropped his voice to a whisper, a rasp. “Look, I really didn’t know it was your place. I’d never have agreed if I’d known.”
The Chief was silent. He knew this “Charles” was waiting for him to ask questions, many of which were obvious. Which was precisely why Gamache did not.
Questions could have limited use. Be limiting. The person would only answer the questions that the interrogator thought to ask. It was the questions he didn’t know that would get at the truth.
And so, Chief Inspector Gamache crossed his legs, sat back in his chair, folded his hands on his lap, and waited.
