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They looked blank.

“The man who was killed,” Jean-Guy explained.

“No,” said Madame. “But Fridays are always busy. I’m doing the cleaning, and Monsieur here is dealing with the garbage and recycling.”

“There was a leak in the radiator of the apartment on the first floor,” he said. “I was fixing that. It’s always something in these old buildings.”

But what had happened the day before, thought Armand as they left, was something else entirely.

Once in the courtyard, Gamache touched Beauvoir’s arm in a silent request to pause.

A single tree, thick-trunked, tall and gnarled, dominated the space. Lace curtains fluttered at windows where boxes were planted with bright red geranium and soft blue pansies.

Even Beauvoir, not given to appreciating aesthetics, could appreciate this.

It was one of the many peculiarities of Paris. Hidden behind many of the simple wooden doors were these courtyards and secret gardens.

It was a city of façades. Of beauty, both obvious and obscure. Of heroism, both obvious and obscure. Of dreadful deeds, both obvious and obscure.

“Is it possible,” Armand began, his voice low so that none of the other residents, whose windows opened onto the courtyard, could hear, “Alexander Plessner let his killer into the apartment?”

“But why would he do that?”

“Two reasons,” said Gamache. “Either Plessner had been bought off, and the killer was actually an accomplice—”

“Then why kill him?” asked Beauvoir. “Especially before he’d found the documents? The place was turned upside down. They were pretty desperate to find something. And apparently never did.”

“Or,” continued Gamache, “Plessner was working with Stephen to uncover something. He’d hidden the evidence in his apartment and sent Plessner there to recover it. And to meet someone else there. Someone they trusted.”

“But who would they trust that much?”

“Who were you told to always trust, as a child?”

“Not the man with the candy, that’s for sure.” Beauvoir thought, then turned to his father-in-law. “A cop.”

“Oui. Stephen wouldn’t trust just any cop, but a senior one …”

“The most senior one,” said Beauvoir. He glanced around and lowered his voice still further. “The Prefect of Police?”

“Stephen wouldn’t go to the apartment himself for fear it was being watched and he’d be recognized. So he sent Plessner, who no one would know, and arranged for a senior cop, Claude Dussault or someone else, to meet him there.”

“Let in through the fire escape so no one could see.”

“Could be.”

“But again, why kill Monsieur Plessner before the evidence was found? The place was turned upside down. Plessner obviously hadn’t handed it over.”

“Maybe he suspected something,” said Gamache. “Maybe Plessner refused to do it, and was shot trying to get away.”

Some of the pieces fit.

Some did not.

“So, to recap,” said Beauvoir. “There might or might not be something wrong with the Luxembourg project, GHS might or might not be involved, Alexander Plessner might or might not have been working with Stephen to expose some wrongdoing. And the Prefect of Police might or might not be involved.”

“Exactly,” said Gamache.

“You know,” said Beauvoir. “Can’t say I really miss homicide investigations.”