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“Yes,” said Armand.

“I see the evidence was in that file after all.” Pinot nodded toward the dossier.

Dussault held it up. “All here. Memos, emails, notes in the margins of schematics. Reports by accident investigators, suppressed of course. Damning, to say the least.”

“And you brought it here, knowing what we’d do with it,” said Pinot. “I doubt your godfather would’ve approved. He was willing to die to protect it, and you just hand it over. If I betrayed him, so did you. Good thing you weren’t in the Resistance, Armand. You’d have given them all away.”

“What makes you think you won’t end up in some Parisian landfill?” Gamache asked him. “Just another piece of toxic waste.”

“Because I hold the purse strings. Those hundreds of millions Stephen paid me for the seat on the board.” On seeing Gamache’s raised brows he smiled. “Yes. He actually gave me the money on the understanding that when we met this morning, I’d sign over the board seat. Like you, he had no idea what was actually happening.”

“Are you so sure?” asked Gamache.

“Well, he’s dying, and you and your son are standing here at gunpoint. This can’t be going according to plan.”

“True. But neither is it going according to your plan. I did suspect you, but hoped I was wrong.”

“That’s bullshit,” said Pinot. “You never suspected me.”

“I did, you know. Why do you think I asked Madame Lenoir to lock you in the basement?”

“Now this is interesting,” said Girard, who clearly had little time for Alain Pinot. “What gave him away?”

“The attack on Stephen Friday night,” said Gamache, speaking directly to Pinot. “Someone had to know where he’d be. He was very careful. He knew he’d be targeted, which was why he wasn’t staying here, in his own apartment. But someone found out he’d be at Juveniles. You. You were the one he met for drinks earlier Friday evening. In his agenda he’d written AFP. Stands for Agence France-Presse, but they’re also your initials. That confused us for a while. We thought AFP stood for Alexander Francis Plessner. And those notes he made, with dates? They were ones he asked you to look up from your files.”

“True,” said Pinot.

“But of course, you told him you found nothing. And that was your mistake. Stephen knew there was something there. That’s when he, too, began to suspect you.”

“Impossible,” said Pinot. “I’d have known. When we met Friday afternoon, he was his usual self. I’d asked him to bring the evidence with him so that I could see it before committing.”

“And did he?”

“Well, no. He said he’d left it here, in his apartment.”

Gamache gave him a contemptuous look.

“Just an old man’s memory lapse? You really are a fool.” Gamache turned to Girard. “Is that when the wheels started coming off your plans? Was he supposed to have an unfortunate accident leaving his meeting with Pinot? But when he didn’t bring the evidence, you had to scramble.” He turned back to Pinot. “Did Stephen tell you about his dinner plans? No, I doubt he’d do that. So how did you know? His agenda?”

“I saw it there,” said Pinot.

“What did you do then?” Armand sounded calm, but his mind was whirring. Trying to keep them engaged, trying to stay one step ahead. “Wait, don’t tell me. You came to the apartment, thinking Stephen would be here, changing for dinner. You could force the evidence out of him, then kill him. But once again, things didn’t go to plan. Instead of Stephen, you ran into Plessner. But …” His mind skidded to a halt and changed direction. “… No, I have that wrong, don’t I?”

He turned to Daniel. “Girard here couldn’t have come to the apartment because he was in the George V, having tea with you”—he looked at Dussault—“and the head of GHS Engineering.”

Girard’s eyes narrowed and his lips compressed. But Dussault looked almost amused.

“I told you it was a mistake to underestimate him.”

“Did Madame Roquebrune want to know why your operation was such a dog’s breakfast?” Gamache asked.

“No, not that exactly. She didn’t want any details, just that it was being handled.”

“But it wasn’t. In fact, it was about to get even worse,” said Gamache. “You didn’t find the evidence, one of your operatives shot Plessner, making it impossible to claim accident, and then your attack on Stephen was bungled. Must’ve been some pretty stressful hours, sitting there with me in the hospital. Is that why you hung around? To see what I knew?”

“And to make sure Horowitz didn’t regain consciousness, oui,” said Dussault. “And to comfort you, of course.”

“Merci.”