Renaud’s meeting with Leander Greenwell never happened. Friday afternoon — it must have been about 2 p.m., Peter and Pascal agreed — the book dealer committed suicide by slashing his wrists in the bathtub in the lavatory above his shop. Pascal came into the living room, where Peter was grinding through the latest email of clippings from Maddy, and even before Pascal spoke Peter read the tragedy in his face.
“Greenwell?” he guessed.
“Cut his wrists.”
Pascal had tried to visit the book dealer that very morning. A morbid thought now occurred to Peter: Renaud might have been standing at the entrance to the store about the time Leander was preparing to slit his veins.
“I could have stopped it,” Pascal said.
He walked over to the front window, where the sun was streaming in. Peter recognized his need to enter a bright space; it was a common reaction to the claustrophobia of guilt. Later, grief would drive the guilty into the shadows.
“How did you hear the news, Pascal?”
The transcript of the three Booth letters, which they had planned to review again in light of Olivier Seep’s recitations, sat at the end of the table, an unpleasant memento mori.
“Someone called me just now. Georges Keratis found Leander about an hour ago in the bathtub, bled to death. There was no saving him.”
Peter approached quietly. “You tried to see Greenwell. Let’s talk about it. I want you to tell me exactly what happened this morning.”
Peter spoke as a friend, only peripherally as a policeman. He was thankful that Pascal hadn’t been drinking; the professor now eyed the tray of liqueurs on the sideboard. Peter moved aside the papers on the table and sat his friend down on the chair across from him.
Pascal composed himself. “Step by step? I left here at ten o’clock. I walked over to his store, arriving at eleven or so. It’s a long way but I like to walk. I found everything locked up, the blinds upstairs pulled down . . .”
“Did you try the doorknob?” Peter interjected.
“Yes, I did. Locked. There was also a sign in the window saying the store was closed. The feeling of the house was cold. I’m not saying that nobody was in there but the building felt as if it had been shut for a long time. The bookshop is on the main floor and the top half is one apartment.”
“You rang the bell. Did you knock?”
Peter remained patient, watching the horror of Pascal’s timing sink in. “I rang the bell but you know, Peter, I didn’t hear it ring inside. I should have knocked. I should have knocked hard.”
“Leander disabled the bell,” Peter said.
“I watched the store from across the street for about fifteen minutes.”
“Did you see anyone else approach the shop?”
Pascal focused but his concentration turned to puzzlement as shock skewed his memory. “I guess not . . . No, no one.”
“No. You couldn’t have known.”
Pascal looked up, in tears. “But it’s what I did next, Peter.” There was a pause. “Peter, you know that I’m gay?”
Peter seldom lied but he did so now, telling himself that lying was the tribute one paid to friendship. “Yes, I know.”
“I’d met Georges casually. I know, I should have told you earlier in the interests of full disclosure. It hadn’t been my intention to make contact with him, but I guess I was excited. I went looking for him after I left the store.”
“More likely you were concerned about Leander,” Peter said sympathetically.
“I thought he might know where Leander had gone. He also might have a theory on the Club Parallel arson, I thought. I walked over to his apartment on St. Denis.”
“What did Georges say?”
Pascal leaned back in the chair. He exhaled loudly. Tears coursed down his face. “That’s the thing, Peter. He said hardly anything. Wouldn’t speculate on what happened at the club. Just said the owner is determined to reopen. He said he would drop by Leander’s shop to check on him. You see, I’m the reason Georges went over there. If I had arrived at Georges’s place earlier, if I hadn’t waited across the street or if I’d taken a cab, he might have reached Leander in time.”
Peter wanted more details but there was a proper pace at which to debrief a witness, he well knew. He went to the sideboard.
“You need a drink.”
The front doorbell rang at seven thirty and instinct told Peter that it was Deroche. His arrival at the townhouse had been just a matter of time.
Renaud was upstairs taking a shower — Peter had allowed him only two shots of brandy — when Peter opened the front door. Deroche did not smile.
“When did you arrive in Montreal?” Deroche said, as Peter led him into the living room.
“Yesterday. I have no official status.”
“Oh, really? That’s not what Mr. Counter tells me.”
Peter gave a strained laugh. He wondered if Sir Stephen had told Frank Counter to give Peter some slack — enough to hang himself? “What did he tell you, Sylvain?”
“Not a lot. You’re here under orders from Monsieur Bartleben? I have the impression Counter doesn’t like you much. I tried to tell him you are pretty good with a Taser . . .”
“Lord, I hope not.” Peter imagined Frank Counter recoiling as the Sûreté inspector related the saga of the shoot-’em-up at Caparza’s. They had agreed to downplay the story.
Deroche looked around the room. He was restless, as usual. He kept his long raincoat on and paced the living room. A mischievous look came over his face.
“Counter said he would ‘be in touch by email’ with you soon.”
Peter went over to the computer and found Frank Counter’s fresh message: “Malloway left for Montreal this morning.”
When Peter turned back he found Deroche slumped in a leather chair. As usual, Peter couldn’t tell whether he was beginning a shift, or just ending one.
“I came to interview Professor Renaud.”
“He’s upstairs. He told me he saw Georges Keratis earlier today.”
“I know. Keratis told me. I want to hear Renaud’s version. It was definitely suicide but why would Greenwell do that, Peter?”
“If you want, we can wait for the professor to come down. Avoid repeating ourselves.”
Deroche frowned. “We won’t be repeating ourselves, Chief Inspector. I simply want to talk to you first.”
“Did he leave a note?” Peter said, hoping to control the discussion. He wondered if Deroche suspected Pascal Renaud of foul play.
“No note, Peter. It was an act of despair. I like the French word better, désespoir. He bled to death in his bath, alone.”
They were talking policeman-to-policeman. Both men had encountered suicides and there was nothing sadder. Deroche wouldn’t be repeating the bathtub details to Renaud.
Peter saw that Deroche was waiting for something.
“Sylvain, it’s the arson at Club Parallel that’s bothering you, am I right?”
“Do you mean, did I get my wish?”
“All mafia, all the time,” reflected Peter. “Are you saying it’s the same bunch that’s been attacking the Rizzutos?”
“I don’t know. Even the mafia needs a reason to torch a business. I see no connection between the mob and the death of Mr. Carpenter.”
“Or Greenwell?”
Deroche’s demeanour turned secretive and grim. “Whoever torched the place, they were sending a threat Greenwell’s way, and he knew what it meant. This was a mob attack, Peter. He obviously feared they would kill him. Do you see a connection to Carpenter’s death? Something to do with those Civil War letters?”
“Doubtful.” He had reached a Rubicon with Deroche. Crossing it would mean that he wanted to be a player in Deroche’s epic obsession with la Cosa Nostra. All mafia all the time. Peter hedged. “But there might be some link to gambling syndicates in Europe and Asia.”
Deroche wasn’t stupid. “Asia? The Indian woman is the connection?”
“Too soon to tell.”
“Where is she?”
Peter gave a brief summary of Alida’s travels to Washington and Buffalo, and the sting operation at the Gorman. He wondered if his account jibed with the story furnished by Malloway and Counter.
“I don’t know where the girl is. I wish I knew,” Peter said.
Sylvain continued. “Leander wanted, above all, to protect Georges. He was removing himself from the picture. For some reason, the mafia is — was — after Leander.”
They heard Renaud moving about upstairs, so Deroche finished his private questions.
“Peter, I read the copies of the three letters you provided. Were they important enough to kill for?”
“I think that Carpenter was murdered for them. They could bring fifty to eighty thousand or more on the market.”
Deroche grunted, dissatisfied with everything.
Pascal came downstairs and the inspector’s interrogation moved briskly. Neither man seemed to mind that Peter remained for the interview. The few new facts that Peter learned were significant, although he did not yet know how they fit in the puzzle. Coincidentally, minutes after Pascal gave up his vigil at the bookshop, Georges Keratis called Leander but got no answer. When Pascal arrived at the flat and explained his efforts to find Leander, Georges rushed over to the shop. Both Pascal and Georges had reason to feel guilty, for persistence by either of them that morning might have interrupted Leander at a fatal decision point.
Deroche disclosed that Club Parallel had never been bothered before by the mafia, and the owners were not paying out protection money. Pascal remained contrite but could add little more.
The inspector delivered one more surprise at the end of the half-hour interview. “As you probably know, someone beat up Georges Keratis a few days ago. His boss went to the police on Georges’s behalf. In effect, we didn’t offer much help at the time. I owe something to Georges and Leander.”