Chapter 5 chapter Five

Inspector Garmash picked up the stack of newspapers on the inside of the yellow tape and handed it to Clara. "I'm sure the critics liked your show," he said. "Well, why are you wasting your time on such a trivial occupation instead of being an art critic?" Clara asked. "It's a waste of life, I agree," said the inspector. "Well," she looked down at the paper, "I guess there won't be any more bodies. I'd better read the paper now." She looked around.Peter had already entered the house, and Clara wondered if she should go in too, reading the exhibition reviews alone in the quiet and peace.

However, she did not return to the house.Instead, she thanked Inspector Garmache and made her way to the tavern, clutching the heavy stack of newspapers to her breast.She saw Olivier serving drinks to the guests on the terrace.Mr Bellival sat at the table, drinking wine and reading the weekend paper, his blue and white parasol beside him. Virtually all the tables were occupied, villagers, friends lounging about Sunday brunch.As soon as she came, all eyes turned to her. Then everyone looked away again. She felt a rush of anger welling up.Not because of these people, but because of Lillian.Lillian ruins the biggest day of Clara's career.No smiles, no waves, no comments about that big celebration, and now people are avoiding her.Once again Clara's victory is stolen, and it's Lillian again.

She looked at Mr. Beliveau, the grocer, who immediately lowered his gaze. So did Clara. A moment later, when she raised her eyes, Olivier was standing beside her, holding two glasses in his hands. "Damn it," she cursed angrily. "Shandy," he said. "Ginger beer and ale, to your liking." Clara looked at the wine glass, then at Olivier.A light breeze stirred his thinning blond hair.Even with the apron on his slender body, he tried his best to look shrewd and relaxed.But Clara still remembered the look they had exchanged that night as she knelt in the hallway of the Museum of Modern Art.

"You're fast enough," she said. "Well. In fact, this wine was mixed for others, but it is a special case for you to come." "So obvious?" Clara said with a smile. "It's hard not to be obvious, especially when a dead body turns up in your garden. I know that." "Yes," Clara said, "you do know." Olivier gestured to the chair on the grass, and the two walked over.Clara threw the thick stack of newspapers on the chair with a thud, and then sat down heavily on the chair herself. She took the shandy from Olivier.The two sat side by side, with their backs to the tavern, their backs to the crowd, and the crime scene, their backs to those searching eyes, and their avoiding eyes.

"Are you okay?" Olivier asked.He almost asked if she was okay, but the answer was clearly no. "I wish I could answer you. It would be a shock if a living Lillian turned up in my back garden. But a dead Lillian? Unthinkable." "Who is she?" "Friends from a long time ago, but not friends anymore. We broke up." Clara didn't continue talking, and Olivier didn't ask any more.They sipped their beers, and the three towering pines behind them cast a cool shade, overlooking the village. "How does it feel to see Garmash again?" Clara asked.

Olivier paused to think for a moment, then smiled.He looks like a big boy, very young, far from 38 years old. "Not very comfortable. Do you think he'll notice?" "I think it's possible," Clara said, squeezing Olivier's hand. "You haven't forgiven him yet?" "Can you?" Now it was Clara's turn to stop and think, not the answer; she had the answer, but wondered if she should say it. "We forgive you," she said at last, hoping it was gentle enough, soft enough, hoping the words wouldn't hurt; but she could still feel Olivier tense and back away.It wasn't a physical reaction, but an emotional withdrawal.

"Really?" He finally spoke, and his tone was very gentle.It's not an accusation, but more of a surprise, as if this is what he quietly asks himself every day. Is he really forgiven? True, he did not murder Hemet.But he betrayed Hemet, stole from him, and took everything the reclusive old man gave him, even what the old man didn't give him. In later interrogation, when all the facts came to light, he saw the look on their faces. It was as if they were suddenly staring at a stranger, a monster among them. "What makes you think we haven't forgiven you?" Clara asked.

"Well, Ruth, for example." "Oh, forget it," Clara laughed, "she's been calling you an idiot." "True. But do you know what she calls me now?" "What?" She grinned. "Olivier." The smile on Clara's face faded. "You know," said Olivier, "I thought prison was the worst. The shame, the panic. It's amazing how resilient people are. Those memories are starting to fade even now .No, not really subsiding, but they're implanted more deeply in my head now than here." He pressed his hand to his chest, "But you know what doesn't subside?"

Clara shook her head, trying to strengthen herself, "Tell me." She didn't want to hear what Olivier had to say.Those burning memories.A gay man is in prison.A good man, in prison.He was flawed, and God knew it, probably better than anyone else.But his punishment far outweighed his guilt. Clara couldn't hear the funniest part of his time in prison, and now she had to listen to the worst part.But he had to talk, and Clara had to listen. "It wasn't the interrogation, not even the prison part." Olivier looked at her sadly, "Do you know what makes me flustered and heartbroken, waking up at two o'clock in the morning?"

Clara waited, feeling her heart pounding. "Here it is. After I was released, I got out of the car with Beauvoir and Gamache, walked through the snow, and walked to the bistro. It was a long way." Clara looked at her friend, not quite understanding.How could going back home in Samson Town be scarier than being locked up in jail? She remembers that day clearly.It was a Sunday afternoon in February, another cold, dry winter day.She and Myrna, and Ruth and Peter, and most of the village, sat comfortably in the tavern, drinking coffee with milk and talking.She was talking to Myrna then, and noticed Gabriel suddenly and uncharacteristically quiet, staring out the window, and she looked back.The children skated in the pond, played hockey, went sledding, had snowball fights, and built castles.She saw the familiar Volvo driving slowly along Murin Avenue into Sansong Township and parked beside the public green space.Three men in thick parkas got out of the car.They stopped, and then walked slowly a few steps to the door of the tavern.

Gabriel stood up, nearly knocking over his coffee mug.The entire tavern fell silent, and all eyes followed Gabriel's.They saw the three men approaching as if three pine trees had come to life. Clara said nothing, waiting for Olivier to continue. "I know it's just a few yards, really," he said at last, "but the tavern looks so far away. It's bitterly cold, you can feel the chill right through your clothes. Our boots groan in the snow. There was a creaking sound, as if stepping on some living thing and hurting it." Olivier stopped and narrowed his eyes again. "I can see everyone in there. I can see the logs burning in the fireplace. I can see the frost on the window panes." Clara seemed to see all that through his eyes. "I didn't even mention it to Gabriel, I didn't want to hurt him, I didn't want him to misunderstand. We walked to the tavern, and I could barely walk and stopped, almost begging them to take me somewhere else, wherever .” "Why?" Clara asked in a low voice, almost a whisper. "Because I was terrified, more terrified than at any point in my life, even more terrified than being in prison." "afraid of what?" Once again Olivier felt the cold wind whip against his cheeks, heard the crunch of boots on the snow, and saw the warm bistro through the mullioned glass.His friends and neighbors were drinking, chatting, and laughing.A fire was burning in the fireplace. Safe and warm. they are inside.He was outside, looking in. A door separates him from all the good things he desires. He almost fainted in terror.If he had ever heard his own voice, he was sure he had yelled at Garmache to have the inspector take him back to Montreal and dump him in some shabby little hotel.There he might not be accepted, but he wouldn't be rejected either. "I'm worried that you guys don't want me back. I don't feel like I belong anymore." Olivier sighed, lowered his head, and stared at the ground, as if to see every blade of grass clearly. "Oh my God, Olivier," Clara yelled, setting the glass on the newspaper, which fell and soaked the newspaper, "never." "Are you sure?" He turned to stare into her face, asking for confirmation. "Absolutely. We've really put it aside." He was quiet for a while.At the far end of the village common they saw Ruth leave her little house and limp to another bench.When she got there, she looked at the two of them and raised her hand. Please, thought Olivier, give me the middle finger and say something rude.Call me gay, freak, idiot. "Although you say that, I really don't think you have." He looked at Ruth, but said to Clara, "I mean, you put it aside." Ruth looked at Olivier, hesitated, then waved. Olivier paused and nodded.He turned to Clara and smiled wearily. "Thank you for listening. If you ever want to talk about Lillian, or anything, you know where to find me." He beckoned, not to the tavern, but to Gabriel.At this point Gabriel was busy chatting with a friend and forgot about the customers.Olivier looked at Gabriel with a smile. Yes, Clara thought, Gabriel was his home. She picked up the drenched newspaper and was about to walk across the green as Olivier called to her from behind.She turned and he came after her. "Here you are. You spilled yours." He offered his Shandy. "No, it's okay. I'll go to Myrna's for a drink." "Hold it?" he insisted. She looked at the half-drunk Chandy and then at him.He gave him a kind, pleading look, and she took the glass. "Thank you, Olivier dear." She walked towards the village shop, thinking about what Olivier had said. She was thinking maybe he was right, maybe they hadn't forgiven him. At this moment, two men came out of the tavern and walked slowly along Mulin Street to the hot spring hotel on the top of the mountain.She turned and looked at them in surprise.They are there, and they are together. Then she shifted her gaze to her own home.A person stood alone in the corner of the room, also looking at the two men. It was Inspector Gamash. Gamache watched François Marois and André Castongui walk slowly up the hill. They didn't seem to be talking, but they did seem friendly and harmonious. Have they always been like this?Garmash wondered.Or how different would it have been decades ago, when both were brats about to get started?Is it because of their respective territories, for influence, for painters to fight each other? Perhaps the two had always liked and respected each other, but Garmash doubted that.Both were too pushy, too ambitious, with too many conflicts of interest.They can be polite and courteous to each other, but they almost certainly won't be friends. Yet here they are, like old comrades in arms, climbing the mountain together. Garmash watched and smelled a familiar aroma.He turned slightly and saw that he was standing beside a clump of old lilac trees in the corner of Clara's house. Cloves look delicate and fragile, but Garmash knows that cloves actually live a long time.They can endure storms and droughts, and survive autumn frosts and severe winters.Even when other apparently hardy plants die, lilacs thrive and bloom. He noticed that the small villages in Sansong Town were dotted with lilac trees.Not bright new varieties of double-petaled flowers, but the lilac-and-white single-petaled lilacs of his grandmother's garden.What age were they when they were young plants?Did the infantry returning from Vimy, Flanders, or Passchendaele walk through these bushes?Did they also smell the flowers and know they were finally home?Back to tranquility? He turned his head and happened to see the two of them turning a corner, one was walking into the entrance of the hot spring hotel and disappeared inside. "Inspector," Beauvoir came towards him from the back garden of Clara's house, "the field team has been cleaned up, and Lacoste has returned from the bistro. When we got back to the tavern, we announced the incident." "and then?" "There were no clues. Everyone reacted as you would expect, curious, sad, fearing for their safety, but there was no real sadness, no one seemed to know the deceased," Lacoste said. People showed pictures of the deceased, described what she looked like, but no one remembered ever seeing her at a barbecue party." Gamache was disappointed, but not surprised.He became more and more suspicious that this woman didn't want to be seen, at least not alive. "Lacoste built a project room in the old railway station." "Okay." Gamache walked across the park, followed by Beauvoir. "I doubt we should have a permanent branch there." Beauvoir smiled, "Why not move the entire criminal investigation team here? By the way, we found Mrs. Dyson's car. It looks like she drove here by herself, and there it is." Beauvoir Wa pointed to Mulin Street, "Want to see it?" "certainly." The two turned around and walked along the road that the two art dealers had just walked.Once over the top of the hill, Garmash saw a gray Toyota parked on the side of the road a hundred yards away. "It's a long way from Moreau's house and where the parties are," Gamash said.He felt the warmth of the afternoon sun shining through the leaves. "Yeah, I figured there might be cars parked all over the place, and maybe this was the closest she could find to a party." Garmash nodded slowly, "That means she wasn't among the first to arrive. Maybe she parked so far away on purpose." "Why did she do that?" "Probably don't want to be found out." "Then why the bright red dress?" Gamache laughed. It was a good question. "It's annoying to have a clever lieutenant. I miss the days when you used to be my respectful little sidekick and do your bidding." "When was that?" "It's coming again. It must be stopped." He smiled to himself. They walked to the car and stopped. "It's all been searched. Fingerprints taken, assay samples taken. But before I haul it away, I want you to see it for yourself." "thanks." Beauvoir opened the car door, and the inspector got in and sat in the driver's seat.He adjusted the seat back to make more room. There are several maps on the passenger seat. He opened the glove box, which contained tissues, rubber bands, Band-Aids, and two A-size batteries.There is a slip of paper with some information, insurance number and registration number on the car.Garmash pulled out the note and examined it carefully.It was five years old, but Lillian Dyson had bought it eight months earlier.He closed the glove box, picked up the map, and put on his half-moon reading glasses to examine it.The map showed signs of haphazard folding, the kind of haphazard folding common to impatient people dealing with annoying maps. One is a map of the whole of Quebec, not very helpful, unless you plan to invade Montreal and Quebec City, just know the general location.The other one is more detailed, mainly some towns in the east. Lillian Dyson wouldn't have known it when she bought the maps, and they weren't useful.In order to be sure, he opened a map. The location of Sansong Town was shown on the map as the meandering Beira River, mountains and forests.Nothing else, at least to these official map printers, the town of San Song does not exist. They never surveyed and mapped the town of San Song.No matter how advanced the satellite navigation system is, it will never find this small village.It seems that the only way to stumble upon it is to go over the ridge.Seems impossible to find unless you're lost. Is Lillian Dyson lost?Did she come to Sansong Town by mistake and break into the party by accident? Impossible, there will be no such coincidence.She was clearly wearing a party outfit, meant to attract attention. So why didn't anyone see her? "Why did Lilian come here?" He asked as if talking to himself. "You think she knows that Clara's home is here?" Beauvoir asked. "I'm thinking about it too," replied Garmash, taking off his glasses and getting out of the car. "Whether you know it or not," said Beauvoir, "here she is." "But how did it come about?" "Drive," Beauvoir replied. "Yes, I thought of that too." Garmash laughed. "But how did she drive here?" "Map?" Beauvoir asked, looking very patient, but when he saw Garmache shaking his head, he thought about it again, "Not relying on the map?" Gamache said nothing, leaving his deputy to find out for himself. "On these maps, she couldn't find San Song Town." Beauvoir said slowly, "There is none on them." He paused, thinking, "Then how did she find it here?" Garmash turned and began to walk back, slowly and rhythmically. When walking side by side with the inspector, Beauvoir suddenly thought of something, "How did those people come here? Those people from Montreal?" "Clara and Peter marked the direction on the invitation letter." "Well, here's your answer," said Beauvoir. "She has the location instructions." "But she wasn't invited. And even if she manages to get an invitation and directions, where are those things? Not in her handbag, not on the body, not in the car." Beauvoir looked away, "So, there is no map, no location description, how did she find this place?" Garmash stopped, his back turned to the hot spring hotel. "I don't know either," he admitted, and turned to look at the hotel.This was once a mammoth, monumental Victorian home built more than a century ago. It was meant to stand out from the village below.But San Pine has survived recession, depression, and war, while this towering monster has fallen into disrepair, leaving nothing but regret and regret. When the villagers looked up, what they saw was not a monument but a shadow, a sigh from the hill. But not anymore.It is now an elegant, brand new country inn. But sometimes, from a certain angle, under a certain light, Garmash can still see the regret here.In the evening, in the breeze, he seemed to be able to hear the sigh. In Garmache's breast pocket was the list of guests Clara and Peter had invited from Montreal.Is the murderer's name in it? Or was the murderer not a guest at all, but someone who was already here? "Hey, look." Beauvoir beside him first broke the silence.He tried not to show it, but the old house, even after the repairs, still gave him chills. Dominique Gilbert appeared in front of the hotel.Dressed in jodhpurs, a black velvet riding cap and a leather riding whip, she looked as though she was either riding a horse or directing a Mike Sennett-esque film. She recognized them, smiled and held out her hand. "Inspector." She shook Garmache's hand, then extended it to Beauvoir, and her smile faded away. "So the corpse in Clara's garden is real?" She took off her hat, her brown hair clinging to her scalp from sweat.Dominique Gilbert is in her late twenties and has a slim figure.She and her husband Mark retired from the city to the country after earning a fortune. Her former bank colleagues had predicted they wouldn't survive the winter.But now it's the second year, and they don't regret buying the run-down house and renovating it into an inviting spa hotel. "I'm afraid it is true," said Gamache. "Can I borrow your phone?" Beauvoir asked.He kept trying to reach the forensics team on his phone, even though he knew it wouldn't work. "Damn it," he muttered, "it's like going back to the Stone Age here." "Go ahead." Dominique pointed to the room, "You don't even have to wind the clock anymore." But her humor didn't work on Beauvoir.He stepped inside, still pressing the redial button on his phone. "I heard some guests from the party last night stayed here?" Garmash asked standing on the balcony. "There are several. Some are pre-booked, and some are on the spur of the moment." "Drink a little too much?" "Drunk." "Are they still here?" "They've struggled to get out of bed for the past two hours. Your agent told them not to leave San Pine, but most of them can barely get out of bed. There's no danger of them getting away, at most You can say crawl away, you will never run away.” "Where's my agent?" Garmash looked around.Hearing that there were guests staying overnight, he instructed Lacoste to assign two junior detectives, one to guard the B&B and the other to come here. "He's back with the horses." "Really?" said Garmache, "Look at the horses?" "As you know, Inspector, our horses are not in danger of absconding." He knew that one of the first things Dominique did after moving here was to buy horses and fulfill a childhood dream. But instead of thoroughbreds such as Black Beauty, Flicka, or Pegasus, Dominique bought four old horses that were fit only to be sent to the slaughterhouse. In fact, one of them looked more like a moose than a horse. But such is the nature of dreams.At the beginning, people didn't see it very clearly. "They'll come to tow the car in a minute." Beauvoir returned.Garmash noticed that he was still clutching the phone.This is his tranquilizer. "A few able-bodied guests wanted to go horseback riding," Dominique explained. "I was about to take them, and your agent said yes. He wasn't sure at first, but seeing those He relented. I guess he realized they weren't going to go to the border. I hope I didn't get him into trouble." "It's all right," said Garmash.But Beauvoir looked surprised that he could answer like this. They walked across the meadow towards the stables, and saw the guests and the horses in the shadows, silhouetted as if pasted there. In the middle of the crowd was the silhouette of a young detective in uniform.He was thin, awkward, and even kept a distance from the crowd. Inspector Garmash felt his heart suddenly beating violently, and the blood rushed straight to his forehead.For a split second, he felt top-heavy and almost fainted.His hands became cold.It is not known whether Beauvoir noticed his sudden reaction, this unexpected convulsion.Another agent entered his mind and instantly came to life. Then died again. The impact was so great that Garmash didn't know where he was for a moment.He was almost staggering, but after the phantom disappeared, he found that his body was still moving forward, and his expression was still calm.The scene of an epileptic seizure just now was not noticed. Except for his right hand trembling slightly.He clenched it into a fist now. The silhouette of the young detective runs out of the crowd into the sunlight, a whole man.His handsome face looked anxious and worried, and he hurried towards them. "Sir." He saluted the inspector.Garmash waved his hand to him, motioning for him to put it down. "I'm just here to see," the agent blurted out, "to make sure they're riding. I'm not thinking of AWOL." The young detective had never spoken to Inspector Garmash before.He had apparently only seen the Inspector at a distance, like most people in the province, in news interviews, in newspaper photographs, and at the televised funeral of the fallen Inspector.He was only transferred to Garmash's staff six months ago. The detective even heard a speech given by the inspector at the Police Academy. But now, when he confronts the detective, all other images are gone, replaced by a leaked video of the police station in action.No one should have seen the footage, but millions of people did because it was posted on the internet.Anyone who has seen the Inspector and the scar on his temple has seen the video online. And in front of him was the detective himself, the famous head of the criminal investigation team.He was so close that the young detective could even smell the Inspector.A touch of sandalwood, and what else.rose water.The agent looked into Garmash's dark brown eyes and realized they were unlike anyone he'd ever seen.He has been watched by many officers.In fact, anyone has more seniority than him.But he had never felt like this before. The inspector's gaze was wise and deep, as if searching for something. Other people in their police station might have cynical or critical eyes, but Garmash's eyes were different. They are kind. Now, the agent and the famous Inspector finally come face to face.So where did the detective see him?In front of the stables.He reeked of horse dung, was feeding carrots to the moose-like horse and saddled the murder suspects. He waited for wrath, for punishment. But Inspector Garmash did the unbelievable. The inspector held out his hand. The young agent stared at the hand for a moment, noticing the slightest trembling in it.He took the hand, feeling its strength. "Inspector Garmash." The big man introduced himself. "Yes, sir. This is Agent Yves Russo of the Cowensville Detachment." "Is everything normal here?" "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, but perhaps I shouldn't have allowed them to ride." Gamache smiled. "You have no power to stop them. Besides, I don't think they can ride very far." The three looked towards the stables. Dominique and the two women each led a horse and came out. Garmash turned his gaze back to the agents in front of him, "Do you know their names and addresses?" "Yes, sir, and I double-checked their IDs. I have everyone's information." He took his notebook out of his pocket. "Perhaps you should take it to the case room," Garmash said, "to Detective Lacoste." "Yes." Russo agreed and recorded it. Beauvoir groaned inwardly.Here we go again, he thought, and he's going to invite the brat to take part in the investigation.Has he not learned his lesson yet? Armand Garmache nodded to Russo with a smile, turned and walked towards the hotel, leaving behind two surprised men.Russo was surprised that the inspector spoke to him so politely.Beauvoir was surprised that Garmache hadn’t done what he had done almost every case he had done in the past: invite a young local detective to join them. Beauvoir knew he should be happy and relieved. However, why did he feel so sad? As soon as he entered the hot spring hotel, Garmash was attracted by the cool and peaceful atmosphere inside.This old Victorian building has been restored with love.The sun shone brightly on the glossy black and white tiles of the foyer in emeralds, sapphire blues, and garnets.The interior is circular, with a wide mahogany staircase spiraling up. In the center of the hall is a clean wooden table with a large flower basket containing cloves, polygonatum and apple branches. It makes people feel fresh, bright, comfortable and cozy. "Need my help?" asked the young receptionist. "We are looking for two guests, Monsieur Marois and Monsieur Castongue." "They're in the living room." She smiled and led them to the right. The two officers knew exactly where the living room was because they had been there many times before, but they let the waiter lead the way. She offered to bring them coffee, but was declined, took them to the living room door, and left.Garmash looked around the room.The living room is bright and spacious with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the small village below.The fireplace was stacked with logs, but not lit.Flowers in vases adorn the tables.The furnishing in the rooms is modern yet traditional in detail and design.The owners of the hotel have really put a lot of effort into bringing this ancient ruin into the 21st century. "Hello!" François Marois got up from an Emers swivel chair and put down the day's "Obligation" in his hand. André Castongui, who was reading The New York Times in an easy chair, got up when the two police officers entered the room. Gamache knew François Marois, of course, having spoken to him at the preview that day.But the other person was very strange to him, he had only heard of it before.Castongui stood up, and what Garmash saw was a tall man, perhaps a little sleepy from last night's festivities.His face was swollen and red from broken capillaries in his nose and cheeks. "I didn't expect to see you here," said Garmache, coming forward and shaking Marois's hand as if welcoming a guest. "I didn't expect to see you either," Marois replied. "André, this is Inspector Garmache of the Quebec Police. Do you know my colleague André Castongui?" "I've only heard of it. It's famous. Castongui Gallery is well-known. You represent some excellent painters." "I'm glad you can say that, Mr Inspector," said Castonguei. Gamache introduced Beauvoir.Beauvoir was full of guard, and immediately hated the man in front of him.In fact, Castongui hated the dealer even before he spoke to the Inspector.The owner of any high-end gallery, if not a murder suspect, is almost certainly arrogant.And no matter what, Beauvoir could not tolerate it. But Gamache was not offended.In fact, he seemed to like Andre Castongui's reaction.Beauvoir noticed something else. Castongui began to relax and become more confident in himself.He dismisses the officer, and the inspector doesn't fire back.Obviously, Castongui is very superior. Beauvoir smiled, and he lowered his head so that Castongui would not notice his expression. "Your men took our names and addresses," Castongui said, sitting back in the big easy chair near the fireplace, "our home and business addresses. Does that mean we're all suspects?" ?” "Oh, no, sir," said Garmash, and sat down on the sofa opposite Castongui.Beauvoir stood aside, and M. Maroir sat down by the mantelpiece. "I hope we haven't troubled you." Gamache looked concerned, even remorseful.Andre Castongui was more relaxed.Obviously, he is used to being condescending and has the upper hand in front of everyone. Beauvoir noticed that the Inspector seemed to be resigned to Castonguey.To put it bluntly, the Inspector groveled before such a proud and conceited man. "Okay," Castonguei said. "I'm glad we've talked about it. You didn't bother us. We were planning to stay for a few days anyway." us.Beauvoir thought, looking at François Marois, guessing that they were about the same age.Castongui has a thick head of white hair; Marois is bald and his gray hair is carefully trimmed.Both were clean and well-dressed. "Here is my business card, Inspector." Castongui handed Garmash a business card. "You specialize in modern art?" Garmash asked, crossing his legs, as if he wanted to have a good chat with him. Beauvoir, who knew Garmache better than anyone, watched with interest, even absurdity.Castongui accepts the flattery.It worked, and he obviously believed that Inspector Garmash had just evolved from a beast, an evolutionary animal that just walked upright and didn't have a frontal lobe.Beauvoir can think of how Castongui sees himself, he probably hasn't evolved well yet. 波伏瓦希望能说点什么显得睿智的话，或者，如果说不出来，就说些让卡斯顿圭震惊的话，异常粗野的话，让这个自以为是的家伙明白并不是一切都由他说了算。 但波伏瓦还是努力忍住了，主要是因为他对艺术实在发表不了什么高见。 现在卡斯顿圭和探长在讨论现代美术的趋向。主要是卡斯顿圭在长篇大论，而加马什在倾听，一副全神贯注的样子。 弗朗索瓦·马鲁瓦呢？ 波伏瓦几乎忘记了他。他是如此安静，但现在波伏瓦把视线投向了他，发现这个安静的男人也没闲着。马鲁瓦在盯着加马什，研究、琢磨着探长；然后他把目光转向波伏瓦，明亮而尖锐，但并不冰冷。 波伏瓦的血液凝住了。 探长和卡斯顿圭的谈话转到了谋杀案上。 “太可怕了。”卡斯顿圭说，好像在发表独特而有洞察力的感慨。 “很糟糕。”加马什附和道，身体前倾了一下，“我们有几张被害女人的照片。你是否愿意看一看？” 波伏瓦首先把照片递给了弗朗索瓦·马鲁瓦。他看了看，转给安德烈·卡斯顿圭。 “恐怕我不认识她。”卡斯顿圭说，“她是谁？”虽然很不喜欢他，但是波伏瓦承认他在看到女人的照片时显得很痛苦。 “马鲁瓦先生？”加马什转向弗朗索瓦·马鲁瓦。 “恐怕我也不认识她。她去了派对？” “我们正要弄清楚这个。你们俩谁曾在那里见过她吗？正如你们在照片里看到的，她穿着非常显眼的红裙子。” 两个男人对视了一下，但摇了摇头。 “对不起，”卡斯顿圭说，“那晚我主要在和一些难得一见的朋友聊天。她也许在那里，但我没注意到。她是谁？”他再次问道。 照片又传回给波伏瓦。 “她的名字叫莉莲·戴森。” 这个名字没有引起谁的反应。 “她是个画家吗？”卡斯顿圭问。 “你为什么这么问？”加马什反问。 “穿着红裙子，招摇过市。画家要么放浪形骸，不食人间烟火；要么过分讲究，就像那样，”他指了指波伏瓦手中的照片，“太过火了，太招摇了，那种'大家都看我'的类型。两种人都很没劲。” “你似乎不怎么喜欢画家。”加马什说。 “我只是喜欢他们的作品，而非他们本人。画家都是些贫乏、疯狂的人，他们需要大量的时间和空间，让人筋疲力尽，就像婴儿一样。” “不过我相信，你也曾经是个画家。”弗朗索瓦·马鲁瓦说。 警官们向壁炉边那个一直很安静的男人看去。他脸上露出的是一种得意的神色吗？ “我曾经是，但我太过清醒，很难成功。” 马鲁瓦笑了起来。卡斯顿圭看起来很恼火，似乎这并不是一个玩笑。 “昨天你参观博物馆的预展了吗，卡斯顿圭先生？”加马什问。 “是的，瓦妮莎邀请了我。当然，瓦妮莎和我关系很好。我在伦敦的时候我们经常一起吃饭。” “瓦妮莎·德坦·布朗？伦敦泰特现代美术馆的馆长？”加马什问，显然他很感兴趣，“她昨晚也在？” “哦，是的，到处都有她的身影。我们还长谈了写实艺术的未来。” “但她没有留下来？她没有住在旅馆里吗？” “没有，她提前走了。汉堡和小提琴音乐应该不是她的口味。” “符合你的口味吗？” 波伏瓦想知道安德烈·卡斯顿圭是否注意到了潮流的转移。 “通常来说不是，但我想跟这里的一些人说说话。” “谁呢？” "what?" 加马什依然很诚恳、很谦和的样子，但很显然他才是掌控大局的人。他一直都是。 波伏瓦又看了眼弗朗索瓦·马鲁瓦，不知道这情势的转移是否会让他感到惊讶。 “你特别想和派对上的哪些人谈话？”加马什问道。他说得很耐心，很清楚。 “比如说克莱拉·莫罗。我想感谢她的作品。” "Who else?" “这是私人问题。”卡斯顿圭说。 这么说他意识到了，波伏瓦想，但是太晚了。加马什探长是海潮，而安德烈·卡斯顿圭只是一根小树枝。对他来说，最好的结果就是浮在水面上。 “这很重要，先生。如果和案件无关，那我保证对此保密。” “我希望能够接近彼得·莫罗。他是个很好的画家。” “但是不如他的妻子优秀。” 弗朗索瓦·马鲁瓦悄声说道，就像在自言自语。但是每个人都转头看向他。 “她的作品那么好吗？”加马什问。 马鲁瓦瞅了加马什一会儿，“我很高兴回答你的问题，但我很想听听你的想法。你也参观了预展，是你指出那幅圣母马利亚是非凡之作。” “什么？”卡斯顿圭问道，“根本没有什么圣母马利亚的作品啊。” “如果你仔细看就有。”马鲁瓦肯定道，然后又转向探长，“你是真正注意到她艺术价值的极少数人之一。” “我昨晚也提到了，克莱拉和彼得夫妇是我的私人朋友。”加马什说。 卡斯顿圭显出惊讶和怀疑的神色。 “这样是被允许的吗？这意味着你在为谋杀案调查朋友啊，难道不是吗？” 波伏瓦向前一步，“也许你不知道，加马什探长——” 但是探长抬起手，波伏瓦赶紧闭上嘴。 “这个问题有道理。”加马什转向卡斯顿圭，“他们是我的朋友，是的，但他们也是嫌疑人。实际上，这个村子里我有很多朋友，现在他们也都是嫌疑人。我知道这可以被视为不利之处，但事实是，我了解他们。我了解他们的弱点，他们的盲点，他们的恐惧。要在他们中间找到凶手，有谁能更胜任这项工作呢？如果，”加马什慢慢向卡斯顿圭倾了一下身体，“如果你认为我可能会找到凶手却放掉他……” 话语很和善，探长的脸上甚至有一丝微笑，但即便是卡斯顿圭也不会不注意到他嗓音和眼神中的严肃。 “不，我认为你不会这样做。” “我很高兴听见你这么说。”加马什再次靠回到椅子上。 波伏瓦又向卡斯顿圭瞪了一会儿，确信他不会再次挑战探长。加马什也许认为自己被挑战是很自然甚至很健康的事情，但是波伏瓦不这么认为。 “你对莫罗夫人画作的看法是错误的。”卡斯顿圭说，面有愠色，“不过是一些老女人的肖像画而已，没什么新意。” “每一幅都有新意，如果你能看到表面之下的东西。”马鲁瓦说，坐在了卡斯顿圭身边的安乐椅上，“再仔细看看，我的朋友。” 很显然，他们不是朋友，或许也谈不上是敌人；但他们会邀请对方去餐馆吃顿友好的午饭，或者去蒙特利尔的酒吧喝上一杯吗？ No.卡斯顿圭也许会，但马鲁瓦不会。 “那么你为什么留在这里呢，先生？”加马什问马鲁瓦。似乎这两个人之间不存在什么力量的角斗。There is no need for this.每个人都很自信。 “我是个画商，但不是画廊老板。我昨晚告诉过你，馆长给了我一个目录，我被莫罗女士的作品吸引住了，我希望能亲自看到它们。而且，”他遗憾地笑了笑，“恐怕即便这个年纪了，我也是个浪漫主义者。” “难道你是说你对克莱拉·莫罗有了感觉？” 弗朗索瓦·马鲁瓦笑了，“不完全是。但是看了她的作品之后，我很难不喜欢她。不过更多的是一种哲学高度，我的浪漫主义。” "How do you say it?" “一位艺术家能够在默默无闻中被挖掘，在将近50岁的时候被发现，我喜欢这种感觉。哪位艺术家不梦想成功呢？哪位艺术家每天早上醒来时不幻想这件事在睡觉前会发生呢？还记得马格利特吗，那位比利时画家？” “《这不是一个烟斗》？”加马什问。波伏瓦已经完全摸不着头脑了，他希望探长不是突然犯了什么病，说起胡话来。 “这是一个例子。马格利特默默无闻地画了几十年，穷困潦倒。他靠仿造毕加索的画还有伪造钞票过活。他在创作时，不仅被画廊和收藏家们所无视，还被其他的画家所嘲笑，他们认为他是傻瓜。我不得不说，如果连其他的画家都认为你是傻瓜的话，那日子真是太难过了。” 加马什笑了，“他是吗？” “嗯，也许吧。你见过他的作品吗？” “我见过，很喜欢。但如果没有人告诉过我这些作品是天才之作的话，我不确定自己是否还会这么想。” “没错。”马鲁瓦说，突然身体前倾，比波伏瓦见过的任何时候都更加活跃，甚至是激动，“就是这一点让我的工作每天都像过圣诞节。每个艺术家早上醒来的时候，都相信在今天他的天赋就会被发现，而每个画商早上醒来时都相信今天他会发现天才。” “但谁能决定呢？” “这就是让人激动的地方。” 波伏瓦能看出来，这个人不是在演戏。他两眼闪闪发光，双手挥动着，并没有在狂舞，但是很激动。 “我认为美妙绝伦的画作，旁人看来却可能很无聊，无趣，就比如我们对克莱拉·莫罗作品的不同反应。” “我还是认为那些画没什么意思。”卡斯顿圭说。 “但我认为很好。谁又能说谁是对的呢？这就是能让画家和画商发疯的地方，太主观了。” “我认为他们生来就是疯狂的。”卡斯顿圭嘟哝着。 “这说明了你为什么参观预展。”加马什说，“那么为什么又来到三松镇呢？” 马鲁瓦迟疑着，在考虑怎么回答，甚至都没有试着掩藏他的犹豫不决。 加马什等着。波伏瓦则把笔记本摊开，笔拿在手里，开始乱画起来。是幅线条画，一匹马，或者是只驼鹿。旁边的安乐椅上传来了卡斯顿圭粗重的呼吸声。 “我曾经有个客户，几年前就去世了，很可爱的一个人，是个商业画家，但也是非常优秀的创意画家。他家里满是美妙的画作。在他年纪已经很大的时候，我发现了他，尽管现在想来，当时他比我现在还年轻。” 马鲁瓦笑了。加马什也笑了，他知道这种感觉。 “他画得很好，是我的第一批客户。他很兴奋，他妻子也是。有一天他请我帮忙，是否能把他妻子的几幅作品放在他下一次的画展上。我很礼貌，但是拒绝了他。而他一反常态地坚持。我不很了解她，也根本不了解她的作品。我怀疑是不是她在给他施加压力。但是我能看出来这对他很重要，于是我发了慈悲，给了她一个屋角，还有一把锤子。” 他停了一下，眼光闪烁着。 “现在说来我有点惭愧。我要么应该尊重地对待她，要么就完全拒绝；但是当时我还年轻，还有很多东西要学。” 他叹了口气，“预展那天晚上我第一次见到她的作品。我走进展厅，发现所有人都挤在那个角落。你能猜到发生了什么。” “她的作品全卖出去了。”加马什说。 马鲁瓦点点头，“每幅画，人们还买了她留在家里没展出的画，有几幅作品甚至还引起了竞标。我的客户是个有天分的画家，但是她更出色，出色得多。这是个令人震惊的发现，绝对是凡高的耳朵。” “对不起？”加马什问道，“你说什么？” “那个老头什么反应？”卡斯顿圭插嘴道，他也开始注意听起来，“他肯定很生气吧？” “没有。他是个可爱的人。他教会了我如何为人谦和。他就是这样。但我永远忘记不了的却是她的反应。”他停下来，眼前浮现出两位老画家的模样，“她放弃了绘画，不仅没有再参加画展，而且再也没有拿起画笔。她看到了这件事对他造成的伤害，尽管他隐藏得很好。他的幸福对她来说比她自己的幸福更重要，比她的艺术更重要。” 加马什探长知道这听起来应该像个爱情故事。个人的牺牲，无私的选择。但对他来说，却更是个悲剧。 “这是你来这里的原因吗？”加马什问画商。 马鲁瓦点点头，“恐怕是。” “什么原因？”卡斯顿圭坚持问，他再次失去了线索。 “你没看到昨天克莱拉·莫罗看她丈夫的眼神吗？”马鲁瓦问。 “还有他看她的眼神。”加马什说。 两人视线对接。“但克莱拉并不是你记忆中的那个女人。”探长说。 “没错。”弗朗索瓦·马鲁瓦承认道，“但彼得·莫罗也不是我的那位老客户。” “你真的认为克莱拉会放弃绘画？”加马什问。 “为了挽救她的婚姻？为了挽救她的丈夫？”马鲁瓦问，“大多数人不会。但是创作了如此画作的女人可能会。” 加马什从未想过这种可能性，但现在想起来，他意识到也许弗朗索瓦·马鲁瓦是对的。 “那么，”他说，“你希望对此能做些什么呢？” “嗯，”马鲁瓦回答，“也做不了什么，但至少我想看看这些年来她藏在哪里。我很好奇。” "Only this?" “你难道不想去吉维尼看看莫奈创作的地方，或者去温斯洛·荷马在普劳茨狭地的画室看看吗？或者看看莎士比亚和维克多·雨果写作的地方？” “你说得非常对。”加马什承认道，“我和夫人的确参观了很多我们喜爱的艺术家、作家和诗人的故居。” "why?" 加马什顿了一下，考虑着，“因为那里似乎具有魔力。” 卡斯顿圭鼻子里哼了一声。波伏瓦有些恼火，他替探长感到尴尬。这是个可笑的回答，甚至是个虚弱的回答，向谋杀案嫌疑人承认他相信魔力。 但马鲁瓦静静地坐着，注视着探长，最后缓缓地点点头。波伏瓦甚至感觉到，他还有一丝颤抖。 “是这么回事。”马鲁瓦最后说道，“魔力。我本来没打算来，但当我在预展上看到她的作品时，我真的想看看创作了如此魔力的村庄。” 他们又谈了几分钟各自的所见所闻，比如看到了谁，与谁说了话。但是正如其他人一样，没有什么特别的。 加马什和波伏瓦与两位画商告辞后又继续寻找其他客人。不到一个小时的时间，他们和每个人都谈了话。 没有一个人认识死者。谁也没看到什么可疑的人或事。没有人提供有价值的信息。 他们走下山，回到三松镇。一路上加马什回顾着他们的访谈，还有弗朗索瓦·马鲁瓦说的话。 但三松镇拥有的不仅仅是魔力。有个可怕的东西潜入了村庄绿地，吃了食物，还在人们中间跳了舞。一个恐怖的东西昨天晚上参加了派对。 并且制造了谋杀案，而不是魔力。