Page 163

They were all listening, though it was clear that he was speaking directly to Daniel.

“Yes?”

“She had a file on Stephen, information collected at the end of the war. It questioned whether he really worked for the Resistance or was a Nazi sympathizer, even a collaborator.”

“Come on. Anyone who knows him would know that’s ridiculous,” said Daniel.

“But most people don’t know him. Not personally. All they’d have to do is raise a suspicion, and the damage is done,” said his mother. “We all know how easy it is to commit character assassination.”

She glanced at her husband, the target of many such assassination attempts.

“We think Stephen went to the company and told them, or hinted at, what he’d discovered,” said Armand. “Demanded they stop whatever it is, and that he get to speak to the board. Whatever it is, it’s enough to ruin them. So they had to stop him.”

“They thought they could blackmail him into silence,” said Reine-Marie. “When that didn’t work …”

They all knew what happened next.

What Daniel didn’t know was why they were staring at him. All except Madame Arbour, who was looking out the window.

“I was at the archives this morning, to check into that old file,” said Reine-Marie, her voice ominously gentle. “According to their records, the dossier on Stephen was requested five weeks ago. By you.”

“What?” said Daniel, his face going an immediate, and vibrant, red. “I never did that. Why would I do that? I didn’t even know there were records on Stephen in the archives.”

His voice had risen, loud and high.

“We believe you,” said Armand.

“Wait a minute,” said Daniel, and they fell silent, allowing him to think it through. “The cop Fontaine had that file. She’s the one who showed it to you, right? Is she the one setting me up? Did she put my name on the request, thinking you’d believe I was also involved?”

“She might’ve been the one who did that,” said his father. “But they’d know we’d never believe it, and we don’t. They’re playing with us. Showing us what they can do, if they want. It’s psychological warfare.”

Jean-Guy turned to Annie. “In legal jargon that’s called a mind-fuck.”

“Yet more for Honoré’s vocabulary,” she said, and Jean-Guy laughed.

Daniel was pale. “They’re predicting our every move.”

“Not all,” said his father.

Just then the doorbell chimed. It was the food and drink.

Plates of finger sandwiches, egg mayonnaise, coronation chicken, smoked salmon, and cucumber were put on the table, along with tea cakes and scones. Clotted cream and jams.

And two large bowls of seasoned frites with mayonnaise.

Armand signed for it and received an envelope from the waiter, which he opened, scanned, then placed in his pocket.

As they helped themselves to the food and drink, Armand brought Stephen’s agenda from his breast pocket and turned to the upcoming week. As he did, the scrap of paper he’d tucked into the flap fluttered to the ground.

Séverine Arbour quickly stooped down and picked it up, beating Gamache to it. Though Beauvoir noticed he didn’t really try. And wondered if that paper had really fallen by accident.

“AFP,” she read as she placed it on the table. “Monsieur Horowitz’s writing?”

“Yes,” said Gamache.

“Agence France-Presse?”

“Alexander Francis Plessner. We think the dates are when Stephen and Plessner met. He made the same notation, AFP, in his agenda this past Friday, the day Plessner arrived in Paris.” He handed the slip to Daniel. “Do the dates mean anything to you?”