Chapter 11 Chapter Eleven

"Honestly, you are the worst investigator ever." Dominique said. "At least I'm asking questions," Ruth retorted. "That's just because I can't get my mouth in." Myrna and Clara walked into the tavern, joining two other female friends.They sat in front of the fireplace, where the fire was lit more for show than necessity. "She asked Andre Castongui how big his 'job' was." "I'm not. I'm asking what kind of 'dumb bird' he is. It's different." Ruth held up her thumb and forefinger to make a two-inch gesture.

Clara couldn't help giggling.She often wants to ask gallery owners the same question. Dominique shook her head. "And then she asked another—" "François Marois?" Clara asked.She would have liked to leave the painters to Dominique and Ruth and deal with the dealers herself; but she didn't want to see Castongui just yet, especially after his congratulatory phone call and her conversation with Peter . "Yes, François Marois. She asked him what his favorite color was." "I thought this question might be useful," Ruth said. "The result?" Dominique asked urgently.

"Not as useful as I thought," Ruth admitted. "So, after this cross-examination, no one admitted to killing Lillian Dyson?" Mona asked. "They held it surprisingly well," Dominique said, "although Castongui did slip up and say his first car was a Gremlin." "He's not insane?" said Ruth. "How was your harvest, both of you?" Dominique asked, reaching for the lemon juice. "I'm not sure," Myrna replied, almost grabbing the cashews out of the bowl. "I like the way you did that guy in Normand just now, when he brought up Dennis Fortin."

"What do you mean?" Clara asked. "Well, it was you who told him you invited Fortin yourself. Actually, thinking about it now, it's another mystery. What is Dennis Fortin doing here?" "I don't want to tell you," Clara admitted, "but I did invite him." "Why did you do that, kid?" Myrna asked. "He did that to you." "Well, if I turned away every dealer and gallery owner who ever turned me down, the place would be deserted." It was not the first time that Mona really admired Clara. She had such a tolerant heart, and there were so many things to be tolerant of.Putting herself in the situation, she wondered if she would survive the brutal art world.

She wondered who else had been forgiven, invited, even though it shouldn't have been seen from outsiders. Garmash had called ahead and was now parking in the parking lot in the backyard of the Fortin Gallery on Avenue Saint-Denis in Montreal.The car park is reserved for employees, but it's 5:30pm on a Sunday and most people have gone home. He got out of the car and looked around.Saint-Denis is a cosmopolitan avenue in Montreal, but the back alleys are filthy.Used condoms, empty needles, thrown everywhere. Under the gorgeous appearance, there is filth hidden. So which side is the real Saint-Denis?He locked the car, thought while walking towards the lively street.

The glass front door of the Fortin Gallery is locked.Garmash was looking for the doorbell when Dennis Fortin appeared and opened the door for him with a broad smile. "Mr. Gammache," he said, extending his hand to the Inspector, "it is an honor to see you again." "Oh, no," said the inspector, with a slight bow, "it was my pleasure. Thank you for seeing me so late." "Give me a chance to catch up on some work. You know what's going on." Fortin carefully locked the door, waved to the inspector, and gestured to the inside of the gallery, "My office is upstairs."

Garmash followed the younger man.They had met a few times before, because Fortin had been to Sansong Township and was thinking about holding an exhibition for Clara.He is about 40 years old, elegant and crisp, wearing a well-tailored jacket, open-collared shirt, pressed and pressed, and black jeans.Well-dressed and stylish. They went upstairs together.Fortin was explaining some of the paintings hanging on the wall with great interest. While listening carefully, the inspector kept an eye out for Lillian Dyson's works in the gallery.Her style is very unique and instantly recognizable.But on the four walls, although there are some very nice paintings, there are no Dysons.

"Some coffee?" Fortin pointed to a cappuccino machine outside the office. "no thank you." "How about some beer? It's getting a little hot now." "Okay," the Inspector replied, trying to look as casual as possible in Fortin's office.As soon as Fortin went out, Garmash leaned over and quickly scanned the documents on the table.It is mainly the contracts signed with the painters, and some publicity model pictures for the upcoming art exhibition.One is a well-known Quebec painter, the other Garmache has never heard of, and is probably a newcomer on the rise.

But as far as he could see, there was no Lillian Dyson, nor Clara Moreau. Garmash heard light footsteps.The moment Fortin stepped through the office door, he returned to his seat. "Come on." The gallery owner held a tray with two glasses of beer and some cheese. "We always have some wine, beer and cheese, the tools of the trade." "Not a drawing board and a paintbrush?" asked the inspector, picking up a glass of cold beer with condensation hanging from the side. "Those are for creative people. I'm just a small businessman, a bridge between talent and money."

"Cheers." The inspector raised his glass, and Fortin also raised it, and they both took a sip with satisfaction. "Creative," repeated Garmash, putting down his glass and taking a block of Stilton, "but painters are also emotional and sometimes fickle, aren't they?" "Painter?" Fortin asked. "What do you mean?" He laughed, a lighthearted smile.Gamache couldn't help laughing too.It's hard not to like this guy. He knew that, in the gallery business, glamour, too, was a tool.Fortin delivered cheese and glamor if need be. "I think," continued Fortin, "it depends on what you compare them to. For example, comparing them to a ferocious coyote, or a hungry cobra, is a good metaphor for a painter. "

"It sounds like you don't like painters very much." "Actually, I like them. But more importantly, I understand them. Their egos, their fears, and their insecurities. Very few painters feel at ease with other people, most choose to Working alone and quietly in a studio. 'Hell is other people' must have been said by a painter." "Sartre said it," said Garmache, "a writer." "If you talk to publishers, maybe they have the same feeling with writers that I feel with painters. It seems to me that what these painters are trying to capture on their easels in small apartments is not only It's real life, it's the mystery, it's the soul, it's the conflicted emotions deep down in being human. And most of them hate and fear other people. I understand that." "You understand? Why?" There was a moment of silence, and the atmosphere was a little tense.Dennis Fortin, though affable, disliked hard questions.He prefers to dominate the conversation rather than be dominated.Garmash realized that he was used to being heard, acquiesced, or flattered; he was used to having his decisions accepted.In a world of vulnerable people, Dennis Fortin is a strong man. "I have a theory, Inspector," said Fortin, crossing his legs and smoothing out his jeans, "that most jobs are self-selecting. We may settle into a job slowly, but mostly , we go into a career just because it suits us. I love art, but I can't draw well. I know it because I tried. I did want to be a painter, but failed miserably But took me on the path I was destined to go: discovering other people's talent. It's a great match. I make a living doing it and not only have a good life, but I'm surrounded by great art, and great artists .I became part of this creative culture without having to suffer the pain of creating it myself." "Perhaps your world is not without pain." "That's right. If I decide which painter to represent and his exhibition fails, it will affect me badly. If that happens, I will try to save it and give people the impression that it is my big Bold, risk-taking, avant-garde. It always works.” "But the painter . . . " said Garmache, hesitant to speak. "Oh, then you understand. He'll be punished." Garmash looked at Fortin, trying not to show his disgust.Like the main street where the gallery is located, Fortin has an attractive exterior, but hides a rather dirty interior.He is an opportunist, living off other people's talents and making a fortune on other people's talents.And most painters can barely make ends meet themselves, and take all the risks. "Do you protect them?" asked Garmash, "support them when someone criticizes them?" Fortin looked both surprised and amused, "They're adults, Mr. Garmache. If there's praise, they take it; if there's criticism, they have to take it. It's never a good idea to treat a painter like a child." good idea." "Maybe not as a child," Garmash said, "but as a respected partner. If a respected partner is attacked, wouldn't you take his side?" "I don't have a partner." Fortin retorted, the smile still on his face, but it seemed to freeze a little bit. "It's going to be troublesome. You can definitely understand that it's better not to support anyone. It will make you lose your judgment." .” "It's an interesting perspective," Gamash said.That's when he realized that Fortin must have seen the video of the factory attack.Fortin's words implicitly allude to what happened.Fortin and everyone else in the world saw his failure to protect his own people, to save them. "As you know, I failed to protect my own people," said Garmash, "but at least I tried. Don't you?" Evidently, Fortin had not expected the Inspector to confront the matter so directly.This threw him off a bit. In fact, you are not as calm as you seem, Garmash thought, maybe you are more like a painter, although you don't want to admit it. "Fortunately, people don't actually shoot at my painters," Fortin concludes. "No, but there are other forms of assault and injury, even killing. You can murder a person's reputation, you can kill their drive and desire, even their creativity, if you use enough force. " Fortin laughs. "If a painter is so fragile, he should either change his career or stay out of the house. Just throw the canvas out and lock the door. But most painters I know have strong ego, Big ambition. They want to be praised, to be recognized. That's their problem. That's what makes them vulnerable. It's not their talent, it's their ego." "But you admit they are vulnerable?" "Yes, I just said that." "And do you admit that this vulnerability frightens some painters?" Fortin hesitated, sensing a trap ahead, but not sure exactly where.He nodded. "Do fearful people violently attack others?" "Probably. What the hell are we talking about? This doesn't sound like a nice Sunday afternoon chat. I guess you don't want to buy my paintings either." Suddenly, they become "my" paintings.Gamash noticed. "No, sir. I'll tell you right away, if you'll make me easy." Fortin glanced at his watch. All skill, all charm, was gone. "I wonder why you went to Clara Moreau's celebration yesterday." Garmash's question made Fortin speechless at first, and then laughed out loud, which did not become the last straw that crushed him at all. "Is that what you came for? I'm confused. I can't possibly be doing something wrong. Besides, Clara herself invited me." "Really? But you're not on the guest list." "I know not. I heard about her preview at the museum and decided to go." "Why? You changed your mind about the art exhibition. The relationship between the two of you is not very good. In fact, you humiliated her. " "Did she tell you that?" Garmash didn't speak, but stared straight at each other. "It must have been her. Where else would you have heard it? Now that I think of it, you two are friends. That's what you're here for? To threaten me?" "Am I threatening you? I'm afraid it's hard for anyone to believe it." Garmash tilted his beer glass towards the gallery owner, who was still surprised. "In addition to pointing a gun at me, there are other ways of threatening." Fortin snapped. "Yes, that's the point I just made. There are different ways of violence, different ways of killing without blood. But I'm not here to threaten you." Is he really so easily threatened?Gamash doubted.He's so vulnerable that a simple conversation with a police officer feels like an attack?Perhaps Fortin was really more like the painters he represented, although he didn't want to believe it.Maybe he lived in fear too, though he didn't want to admit it. "I'm going to finish soon, and then I'll give you back the rest of my Sunday," said Gamache, in a pleasant tone. "If you don't think Clara Moreau's paintings are worth your time, why Do you still want to visit her art exhibition?" Fortin took a deep breath, held it for a moment, stared at Garmash, and then let out a long breath, full of alcohol. "I went to apologize to her." Now it was Gamache's turn to be surprised.Fortin doesn't seem like the type to admit mistakes easily. Fortin took another deep breath.Obviously, it was difficult for him. "When I went to Three Pines last summer to talk to Clara about the art show, we had a drink in the tavern and we were served by a big man. Anyway, after he left, I said something nasty to him. Later Well, Clara blamed me for this and I got so mad I threw a tantrum and canceled her show. It was stupid and I regretted it almost immediately. But it was too late and I announced it and couldn't Eat your own words." Garmash stared at Dennis Fortin, wondering if he could be trusted.But it is very simple to confirm his statement, just ask Clara directly. "Then you went to the opening ceremony just to apologize to Clara? Why bother?" Fortin's face flushed slightly, and he looked out the window to the right.Night is coming.Outside, people are starting to gather at cafés large and small on the rue Saint-Denis, drinking beer, martinis, wine or jugs of cider.Enjoy the warm and comfortable evening in late spring. However, in this quiet gallery, the atmosphere is neither warm nor comfortable. "I knew she was going to be famous. I asked her for a solo exhibition because her paintings are unique. Did you see that too?" Fortin leaned forward towards Garmash, no longer wrapped in his anxiety, no longer defensive.Right now, he's almost slouchy, excited.He talks with great energy about great works of art. This, Garmash realized, was the real love of art.He may be a businessman, he may be an opportunist, or he may be an egoist who puts no one in his eyes, but he knows and loves great art, like Clara's paintings. What about Lillian Dyson's art? "I have," said the Inspector. "And I agree. She is very good." Fortin began to dissect Clara's portrait at length.Those subtle differences, some small strokes are used in the slow strokes.Garmash listened fascinated.He found himself genuinely enjoying his time with Fortin. But he didn't go on to talk about Clara's painting. "If I remember correctly, you called Gabriel a 'fucking fake bitch'?" The words had an immediate effect.Not only is it appalling, it's disgusting, shameful, especially after Fortin had just described the art - the light and grace and hope that Clara made. "Yes," Fortin admitted. "I say that a lot. I used to. Not anymore." "Why do you say such things?" "This is also what you just said, different ways of killing people. Many of my painters are gay. If I knew which painter I was new to was gay, I would point at someone else and curse what you just said Words. It throws them off balance, out of control. It's mental rape. If they don't fight back, I know I've got them." "Then will they?" "Fight back? Clara was the first. It also made me realize that she was different, a painter with her own voice, point of view, and backbone. But that backbone can be inconvenient at times. I I just hope they'll be gentler." "So you terminate her contract and slander her reputation?" "It didn't work," he said with a rueful laugh. "The MoMA took her away. I went to apologize. I knew she'd be famous and famous in no time." "Aroused your selfishness?" asked Garmache. "It's better that it never happened," Fortin said. "What happened after you went?" "I went early. The first person I met was that guy I scolded once." "Gabri." "That's right. I realized I owed him an apology too, so I apologized to him first. It was Shrovetide." Gamache laughed again.Fortin finally showed his sincerity.It was easy for Gamache to ascertain whether he was telling the truth.In fact, it was so easy to verify that Garmash was sure he was telling the truth.Although he was not invited, Dennis Fortin went to the exhibition to apologize. "And then you went to Clara again. What did she say?" "Actually, she was the one who spoke to me first. I think she heard me apologize to Gabriel. I said I was sorry and wished her a successful exhibition. I said I wish the exhibition would be at the Fortin Gallery, but It's more classy at the Modern Museum. She's been nice." Garmash could hear the relief in Fortin's tone, even surprise. "She invited me to a party that night in Three Pine. I actually had a date that night, but felt like I couldn't say no to her, so I canceled the party with my friends and went to a BBQ." "How long have you been here?" "To be honest? Not long. It takes a long time to drive on the road. I just had a brief exchange with a few colleagues, and then rejected a few mediocre painters—" Gamache wondered if Normand and Paulette were included here, and he surmised the answer was yes. "Talked to Clara and Peter for a while to let them know I'm coming. Then I left." "Have you spoken to André Castonguet and François Marois?" "I've spoken to both of them. Castongui's gallery is just down the street, if you're looking for him." "I've spoken to him. He's still in Samson, and so is M. Marois." "Really?" Fortin asked. "I want to know why." Garmash felt in his pocket and took out the coin from it.He held up the small evidence bag containing the coins and placed it between them. "Have you seen anything like this before?" "silver?" "Please take a closer look." "Can you?" Fortin motioned for the coin, and Garmash handed it to him. "Very light." Fortin looked at one side, then the other, and finally handed it back to the inspector. "I'm sorry. I don't know what it is." He watched the Inspector carefully. "I'm patient enough," said Fortin. "Perhaps now you can tell me what it is?" "Did you know a woman named Lillian Dyson?" Fortin thought for a while, then shook his head, "Should I know him? A painter?" "I have a picture of her, would you mind looking at it?" "Of course not." Fortin stretched out his hand, looked at Garmash suspiciously, his eyes fell on the photo, and his brows were furrowed. "She looks..." Garmash did not take Fortin's word.Did he say "very familiar" or "dead"? "Asleep. Are you?" "do you know her?" "Maybe at a few art shows. But I'll meet a lot of people." "Did you see her at Clara's exhibition?" Fortin thought for a while, then shook his head, "I didn't see her when I was there. But I went early, and there weren't many people in the exhibition hall yet." "What about the BBQ party?" "It was already dark when I got there. So maybe she was there and I just didn't notice." "She must be there," said Garmash, putting the coin back in his pocket. "She was killed there." Fortin stared at him dumbfounded, "Someone was killed at the party? Where exactly? How?" "Have you ever seen a picture of her, Mr. Fortin?" "The woman's?" Fortin asked, shaking his head in the direction of the photo, which now rests on the table between them. "Never. I've never seen her, never seen a painting of her." , so far as I know." Garmash thought of another problem. "Suppose she's a good painter. Which is more valuable to the gallery if she lives or dies?" "That's a terrible question, Inspector." But Fortin still thought about it, "If she was alive, she would paint more paintings for the gallery and sell them, which means more money for the gallery. But died?" "how is it?" "If her paintings are very good, the fewer works she has, the better. There may be a bidding war, and the price..." Fortin looked at the ceiling.Gamash already has the answer.But is he asking the right question?