Page 77 of All the Devils Are Here

“I can guarantee it,” said Gamache. “Stephen chose her for that reason, and kept her for that reason.”

“Even under torture, Mrs. McGillicuddy wouldn’t reveal anything,” Stephen used to say. And Armand knew he wasn’t joking.

Stephen Horowitz knew who would crack, and who would not. It was how he measured people. Most, of course, came up short. But not Agnes McGillicuddy.

Fortunately, the press in Canada, though capable of tormenting, hadn’t yet stooped to actual torture.

Gamache, while often in their crosshairs, had a great deal of respect for journalists.

He now filled the Prefect in on everything Mrs. McGillicuddy had said.

“So she claims not to know why Monsieur Horowitz was in Paris,” said Dussault.

“If she says it, it’s true.”

“She did admit Monsieur Horowitz knew Alexander Plessner,” said Dussault. “That’s something.”

Gamache uncrossed his legs and placed the demitasse on the table. “Monsieur Plessner was an engineer.”

“C’est vrai?” said Dussault.

He sounded as though this was news, and yet he didn’t look surprised. Not by the information, at least. Perhaps slightly by the fact Gamache knew.

“Oui. My second-in-command, Isabelle Lacoste, passed along the information a few minutes ago. Trained as a mechanical engineer. Worked in the field for several years before making a fortune in venture capital.”

Dussault was taking notes. “Merci.”

It seemed incredible, and unlikely, to Gamache that Dussault’s own people hadn’t found this out themselves.

“I’d like to go through the box of Stephen’s things again,” he said. “I didn’t get a good look the first time.”

“I don’t have it. Handed it over to Commander Fontaine. I’ll ask her to give you what you want. But that reminds me. Monsieur Horowitz’s laptop is in there. We need the password and any codes he might’ve used. Do you know them?”

“No, but I can ask Mrs. McGillicuddy.”

“That’s okay, I’ll ask.”

“I doubt she’d give them to you.”

Dussault’s eyes widened. “She’ll have to. She wants to help the investigation, doesn’t she?”

“Of course, but she doesn’t know you. She knows me. Let me ask.”

Dussault hesitated, then nodded. “Of course. And I have some news for you. We found the van.”

Armand leaned forward.

“It was wiped clean. Our forensics team’s going over it for DNA. But …” Dussault put up his hands to express faint hope.

“Clean clean?” Gamache asked.

Dussault nodded. Both men knew it was extraordinarily difficult to take away all physical evidence. It meant using special cleansers designed to destroy DNA. Not everyone knew about them. Fewer had access.

And the person had to be meticulous to get every molecule. A pro.

Either that, or the forensics had to be incredibly sloppy. Could that be it? And not just incredibly but intentionally sloppy?

“The coroner called me about an hour ago. She’s preparing Monsieur Plessner’s body for the autopsy—”