Page 19 of The Grey Wolf
“Charles” was clearly confused by the silence and the stance. “Aren’t you going to ask?”
“This’s your party. You invited me here, I’m assuming for a reason. You’ll tell me, I’m sure. You don’t need to be interrogated, do you?”
This threw him off further. It was clearly not what “Charles” was expecting from the senior Sûreté officer whose home he’d burgled.
What was he expecting, Gamache wondered. But knew the answer. “Charles” was expecting to be arrested. And that still might happen.
It was possible he was also hoping to be arrested. That thought intrigued Gamache.
What “Charles” was not expecting was to be treated to cannoli and courtesy.
As Gamache watched, “Charles” reached for the water glass, then withdrew his hand as though it had bitten him.
“Okay, here’s the thing. Some guy gave me a hundred bucks to break into an apartment in Outremont. He gave me a key and the address and told me to go right away. He said no one would be at home, and not to take anything, just go in, then lock up again and leave.”
“He gave you a key to the place?” This was disconcerting, if true.
“Oui.I threw it into some dump truck.”
“How did the man contact you?”
“He came to the shelter I was in. Asked if I wanted to make some quick cash.”
“Why you?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“When was this?”
“About ten yesterday morning. When I unlocked the door and recognized you in the pictures, I panicked. I grabbed the coat, then got the hell out.”
Gamache paused, playing with the handle of his coffee mug. “Why take the coat?”
“Charles” shifted. “Winter’s coming. I know it seems a long way off to you. It’s only August. But if you’ve lived rough in Montréal…” His voice trailed off, and both men saw the snowdrifts, the bundles of ice-encrusted clothing lying curled over a Métro vent. The man or woman in the fetal position. The same position they had when entering the world.
Yes, winter was something to fear, and to prepare for. Even those with homes and warm clothing knew that.
“When I saw the coat, I grabbed it, thinking it would keep me warm and dry at least through the fall.” He was staring at Gamache, trying to read the Chief Inspector. But Gamache’s expression was noncommittal. Mostly because he didn’t yet know what to believe.
He had a lot of questions, but those would wait. For now he wanted to know the answers to questions he didn’t know to ask.
And so he lapsed into silence again and just watched the man across from him. His age, Gamache now realized, was hard to tell. He probably looked older than he was. Life on the street would do that.
Gamache also knew that many homeless were addicts or had psychiatric issues. Should, in fact, be getting help, be in care. Not dumped onto the streets like refuse.
How had this man ended up homeless? Or had he? Maybe it was all an act.
Gamache was frustrated with himself. He should be able to tell. But this man was confounding him. His instinct told him this “Charles” was lying, but about what? Everything? Most convincing liars started from the truth and took off from there into their own self-seeking fabrications.
If that was the case, what was “Charles” seeking? What was the purpose of all this?
Gamache pushed his untouched cannoli toward his companion.
“You don’t believe me, do you,” said “Charles.”
“I’m reserving judgment. I think some of what you’re telling me is the truth, some not so much. It doesn’t help that you started off lying about your name.”
“Did you expect the truth?”
