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“Yesterday,” said Beauvoir, sitting on her other side and looking at the screen. “From four o’clock on.”

“We have a lot of cameras,” she explained as she tapped keys. “Even knowing what date and time you need to see, it’ll take hours to go through them all.”

“Just the main entrance,” said Gamache.

Within a minute the image and time stamp popped up.

They watched for a few minutes at double speed. People whizzing in and out, their now frantic movements made comical. Then Beauvoir said, “Stop. Back up slightly. There.” The image froze. “Stephen.”

The time was 4:53.

Armand leaned closer.

Stephen looked haggard. More tired, Armand thought, than when they’d parted.

The video started again. Stephen walked across the Art Deco lobby and disappeared.

He was alone.

“Can we see where he went?” Gamache asked.

Madame Béland hit more keys. They were able to track Stephen’s progress through the lobby, down the hall to the right. Through the large open room where elegantly dressed men and women were having afternoon tea or drinks. Stephen looked around before heading down the hall to the bank of elevators.

Madame Béland brought up the camera outside his suite. The elevator doors opened, and Stephen stepped out and disappeared into his suite.

“Can you go back? To the elevator?” asked Gamache.

Madame Béland did.

“Stop, please,” said Gamache.

There, frozen on the screen, was Stephen. Alone in the elevator. Armand realized he’d never actually seen his godfather when he thought no one was looking.

And what he saw was a very elderly man. Grim. Vulnerable.

Determined. Afraid.

A Burgher of Calais in the George V elevator.

“Is that such a good idea, sir,” asked Irena Fontaine. “To take everything?”

Claude Dussault smiled at her as he replaced items in the box. “We’ve been through it, more than once, and didn’t find anything. It’s possible Monsieur Gamache will. And I suspect he’d notice if anything’s missing. Even this.”

He held up a screw, then dropped it into the box.

“We need to go back to the front door,” said Beauvoir. “See who else arrived. Who Stephen was expecting. He ordered that second beer for someone.”

The video played. They saw guests and visitors and staff entering and exiting. And then they saw him.

At 5:26 Alexander Plessner walked confidently through the lobby of the grand hotel, a satchel over his shoulder.

“He must’ve come straight from the airport,” said Beauvoir.

A hotel official stopped Plessner, and they watched as the older man chattered, gesturing toward the hotel bar. The official nodded and watched him walk away.

“Your security?” asked Gamache.

“Yes. Private firm. Very good. Trained to be courteous, and to take down an assassin.”