Chapter 21 Chapter 21

Clara Moreau just wanted to be alone.But at this time, she found herself in the kitchen, listening to Dennis Fortin talking to himself.He looked more childish and contrite than ever. "Coffee?" she asked, then wondered why she asked.She just wants Fortin to leave now. "No, thank you." He smiled, "I really don't want to bother you." But you've interrupted, Clara thought, knowing it was mean.It was she who opened the door.She began to hate doors, closed or open. If someone had said a year ago that she wanted the famous gallerist out of her home, she would never have believed it.Because all her efforts, including Peter's, were to get Fortin's attention.The other painters she knew were no exception.But now all she wants is to get rid of him.

"I suppose you know what I'm here for," he said, with a charming smile on his face. "I would very much like to have a word with you and Peter. Is he home?" "No, he's not home. Do you want to come back when he comes home?" "I don't want to waste your time." He stands up. "I know we got off to a bad start. It's all my fault. I wish I could change that. I'm really, really stupid." She was about to say something, but he held up his hand, smiling. "You don't have to be so polite, I know I'm a jerk. But I've learned my lesson and I'll never be like that again. Whether it's to you or anyone else. I want to finish this and leave. Please you or your husband consider Just a moment, okay?"

Clara nodded. "I want to represent both you and Peter. I'm young and we can grow together. I'll spend a lot of time helping your career. I think it's important. My idea is to give you both a solo exhibition and then It's a joint art exhibition of two people, to develop the talents of both of you. It will be the best art exhibition of the year, or even the best art exhibition in 10 years. It's really exciting. Please think about it, this is all I ask. " Clara nodded and watched Fortin leave. Constable Beauvoir and the Inspector met on the bridge. "Look at this." Beauvoir handed him a piece of paper.

Garmash pays attention to the headline, reads down quickly, and then pauses, as if hitting a wall.He raised his eyes and met Beauvoir's gaze.The other party waited with a smile on his face. The inspector returned his gaze to the paper, and this time he read more slowly, reading to the end in one breath. He doesn't want to miss anything.They almost missed it. "Good job," he said, handing the paper back to Beauvoir. "How did you find it?" "I was sorting through the interview notes and it dawned on me that we probably haven't talked to everyone at the party."

Gamash nodded, "Okay, very good." He looked in the direction of the B&B and stretched out his arms, "Shall we go there?" Moments later, they stepped from the bright, warm sun to the cool of the patio.Normand and Paulette had been watching them come across the village green.In fact, Garmash suspects that everyone in the village saw it. Maybe Sansong Town looks sleepy on the surface, but in fact he is awake and paying attention to everything that happens. As they approached, the two painters looked up. "I wonder if you can do me a big favor?" Garmash asked with a smile.

"Of course." Paulette replied. "Will you take a walk around the village, or have a drink in the tavern? My treat." They looked at him, confused at first, then Paulette understood.She put away the books on the table and nodded. "It's a good idea to go for a walk, isn't it, Normand?" Normand didn't look like he wanted to move, he just wanted to sit on the swing on the cool front porch, a copy of Paris Match in hand and a glass of lemonade by his side.Garmash couldn't say anything, but he really needed them both to go. The two waited until the painters could no longer hear them, and then went to the third seated on the balcony.

Susan Coates sat in a rocking chair, a glass of lemonade in her hand, and not a magazine but a sketchbook on her lap. "Hello," she said, though she didn't get up. "Hello," Beauvoir replied. "Where is the Chief Justice?" "He's gone to Knowlton's. I'm staying here tonight." "Why?" Beauvoir asked.He pulled out a chair, and Garmash sat on a rocking chair next to him, crossing his legs. "I plan to stay here until you find out who killed Lillian. I guess it will be a big stimulus for you to solve the case as soon as possible?"

She smiled, and Beauvoir smiled back. "If you could tell us the truth, it would go a lot faster." The words wiped the smile off her face. "about what?" Beauvoir handed her the paper.Susan took it and looked at it, then handed it back.Her flood of energy suddenly withered, as if imploding.Her eyes shifted from Beauvoir to Gamache, but Gamache gave her no cue, he just watched them with interest. "You were here the night of the murder," Beauvoir said. Susan didn't speak for a while.Gamache was surprised to find that even at this point, when there was no hope of escape, she was still thinking of lying.

"Yes," she admitted finally, her eyes flicking from one man to the next. "Why didn't you tell us about this?" "You only asked me if I went to the art museum exhibition, which I didn't. You didn't ask me if I went to the party here." "You mean you're not lying?" Beauvoir demanded, looking at Gamache as if to say, see?Another deer on the old road.People don't change. "Here's the thing," said Susan, squirming in her chair. "I go to a lot of art shows, but the ones I go to most often are the aftermath parties. I told you. That's how I make extra money." Yeah, I didn't hide it. Well, I mean, I hid it from Canada Revenue Agency, but I told you all."

She looked at Garmash beggingly.The inspector nodded. "You didn't tell us all," Beauvoir retorted. "You didn't mention that you were here when your friend was murdered." "I'm not a guest. I work, not even a waiter. I've been in the kitchen all night. I didn't see Lillian and didn't even know she was here. How would I know? This party was a long time ago It was planned. I was hired weeks ago." "Have you mentioned this to Lillian?" Beauvoir asked. "Of course not. I'm not going to tell her every party I work at."

"Do you know who this party is for?" "Not at all. I know it's a painter, but that's mostly the case. The caterer who hires me always does art shows. It's not that I decide to come here, I'm just put here. I don't know It doesn't matter whose party it is. All I care about is that no one complains and I get paid what I deserve." "When we told you that Lillian died at a party in Three Pines, you must have known by then," Beauvoir demanded. "Why didn't you tell us then?" "I should have told you guys," she admitted. "I know, actually, that's one of the reasons I'm here. I know I have to tell you the truth. I'm just trying to muster up my courage." Beauvoir looked at her expression with both disgust and admiration. It's really a good show of deception.Beauvoir glanced at the inspector. Garmache was also thinking about this woman, but his expression was hard to read. "Why didn't you tell us last night?" Beauvoir asked again, "Why did you lie?" "I was in shock. I thought I must have misheard when you guys first mentioned Samson, and I didn't realize it until you left. I was here that night, even when she died .” "Then why didn't you tell us when you first arrived today?" Beauvoir asked. She shook her head, "I know, it's stupid. But the more time passed, the more I realized how bad it looked. Then I convinced myself that it was okay, because I stayed out of the pub all night." Half a step into the kitchen. I didn't see a thing, really." "Do you have a starter chip?" "what?" "AA starter chip, Bob says everyone has it. Do you have it?" Susan nodded. "Can I see it?" "I forgot. I gave it to someone else." Two men stared at her.She blushed. "To whom?" asked Garmache. Susan hesitated. "To whom?" Beauvoir pressed, leaning forward. "I don't know, I can't remember." "What you can't remember is a lie. We want the truth. Tell it." Beauvoir snapped. "Where's your starter chip?" Garmash asked. "I don't know. I gave it to a guy I lead, years ago. We all do that." But the inspector thought the chip was very close to them.He suspected it was in the evidence bag, found where Lillian had fallen, covered in mud.He suspected this was one of the many reasons Susan Coates had come to Three Pines.She's going to retrieve the missing chip, see how the investigation goes, and maybe mislead the police a bit. But anyway, not to tell the police the truth. Peter walked along the dirt road and found that his car was parked a little crookedly and parked on the edge of the grass. Clara went home. He sat in St. Thomas' Church for most of the afternoon, repeating prayers he remembered as a child, basically condensed into the Lord's Prayer and the Table Prayer, "Oh, thank the Lord for giving us food..." and Vespers . He sat quietly praying, and even sang something from the hymn book. His ass hurts and he feels neither joy nor elation. Therefore, he left.If God is at St. Thomas, God is hiding from Peter. Neither God nor Clara was avoiding him.It wasn't a good day by most people's standards.But on the way back to the village, he thought, even so, Lillian would be willing to change places with him. There are worse things than not seeing God, say, seeing Fortin. When he was almost home, he found that Dennis Fortin had just left.Peter walked up the path, and the two men waved to each other. He saw Clara standing in the kitchen, staring at the wall. "I just saw Fortin," said Peter, coming up behind her. "What is he doing here?" Clara turned around, and the smile on Peter's face froze. "What's wrong? What happened?" "I did a terrible thing," she said. "I need to talk to Myrna." Clara walked around him, toward the door. "No, wait, Clara, tell me, tell me." "Have you noticed her face?" Beauvoir asked, sprinting a few steps to catch up with Garmache. The two walked across the village green, leaving Susan sitting alone on the balcony.The rocking chair is now stationary.The watercolor on her leg, of Gabriel's leafy garden, had been crumpled and ruined.She destroyed it herself.The hand that once painted the picture has now destroyed it. But Beauvoir also saw Garmache's face, the seriousness of his face and the chill in his eyes. "Do you think that beginner's chip is hers?" Beauvoir caught up to Garmache, walking beside him. Garmash slowed down.They stood on the bridge again. "I don't know." The inspector looked serious. "Thanks to you, we know she lied and didn't tell us that she was in Sansong Town the night Lillian died." "She claims to have never left the kitchen," Beauvoir said, observing the village, "but if you go around the back of the shop, it is easy for her to come to the garden of the Moreau family." "And meet Lillian here," continued Garmash, turning to look at Moreau's house.A few trees and lilac bushes in the Morrow home garden give the garden some privacy.Even guests standing on the bridge would never see Lillian or Susan there. "She must have told Lillian about Clara's party, because she knew that Clara was on Lillian's list of apologies." Beauvoir reasoned, "I dare say she even encouraged Lillian to come here and arrange Meet her in the garden." Beauvoir looked around again, "This is the garden closest to the tavern and the most convenient. This explains why Lilian was found here. This could have been anyone's home garden, which just so happens to belong to Clara's." "Then she was lying when she said she didn't tell Lillian about the party," Garmash speculated. "And she was lying when she said she didn't know whose party it was." "I assure you, sir. Everything this woman says is a lie." Gamash nodded.Things are definitely starting to look like that. "Lillian might even have taken Susan's car—" Beauvoir said. "That doesn't make sense," said Garmash, "she has her own car." "That's right." Beauvoir said thoughtfully, trying to sort out the context of the matter, "but she might have come with Susan." Gamash considered this possibility and nodded, "This can explain how she found Sansong Town. She followed Susan." “But no one saw Lillian at the party,” Beauvoir said. “With her red dress, if she was here, someone would have seen her.” Garmash thought for a while, "Maybe Lillian didn't want to be seen before she was ready." "what to prepare?" "Apologize to Clara. Perhaps she stayed in the car until some appointed time to meet her leader in the garden. Perhaps Susan promised her that before she made this difficult apology, She cheers at the end. She must have thought Susan was doing her a big favor." "It did help a lot. Susan killed her." Gamash stood there deep in thought, then shook his head.The plot can be said to be right, but does it make sense?Why did Susan kill the people she led?Kill Lillian?And carefully planned.So cold-blooded, pinching his hands around Lilian's neck and wringing it off? What was it that drove Susan to do this? Was the victim not the woman Susan described at all?Was Beauvoir right again?Maybe Lillian hadn't changed at all, the cruel, selfish, manipulative woman Clara had known?Was she the one who drove Susan to this point? Maybe Susan fell from a height, but this time she caught Lillian and fell with her?grabbed her by the neck? Whoever killed Lillian must have hated her very much.This is not an accidental murder case, but carefully planned and designed.And the weapons: the murderer's own hands. "I made such a terrible mistake, Peter." Garmache turned his head to follow the voice, and Beauvoir was no exception.It was Clara's voice, coming from behind the lush foliage and lilac bushes of her garden. "Tell me, you can tell me," Peter said, his voice low and soft, as if trying to coax a cat out of under the sofa. "Oh, my God," Clara gasped, "what the hell have I done?" "What did you do?" Gamache and Beauvoir exchanged glances, and the two listened closely to the stone wall of the small bridge. "I went to see Lillian's parents." Neither of them could see Peter's and Clara's faces, but they could imagine them. There was a long silence. "You mean well," said Peter, sounding hesitant. "Not at all," Clara interrupted. "You should see their faces. It's like I found two dying people and I'm going to skin them alive. Oh, my God, Peter." , what have I done?" "You really don't want a beer?" "No, I don't want a beer. I want Myrna, I want..." Anyone but you. It wasn't said, but everyone heard it.Whether it's the people in the garden or the people on the bridge.Beauvoir felt his heart ache for Peter.Poor Peter, so lost. "No, wait a minute, Clara," Peter called.Clearly, Clara had left him. "Just tell me, please. I know Lillian too. I know you used to be good friends. You must love the Dysons too." "Yes," Clara said, pausing, "I love them." She made it very clear.She turned to Peter, to the officers hiding behind the trees, "They used to be nice to me, and now I'm doing this!" "Tell me about it," Peter begged. "I asked several people before I went, and they all gave the same answer," said Clara, walking back to Peter, "not to let me go. They said the Dysons would be very hurt if they saw me, but I went anyway. gone." "why?" "Because I wanted to say I'm sorry, about Lillian, and about our breakup. I wanted to give them a chance to talk about the past, about when Lillian was a kid. Maybe tell each other some stories, talk to someone who knew her and loved her. people talk to her." "But they don't want to talk?" "It was horrible. I knocked on the door and Mrs Dyson answered it. She had obviously been crying for a long time and looked broken. It took her a while to recognize me, but when she did, she... ..." Peter waited, and so did the people on the bridge, imagining the old lady at the door. "I never saw such hatred, never. If she could have killed me there, she would have. Mr. Dyson came to her side too. He is so small now that he is almost noticeable." No, almost just lingering. I remember how he used to be tall. He used to pick us up and carry us on his shoulders. But now, he's hunched over, and," she paused, apparently looking for Appropriate words, "tiny, really tiny." There are no more suitable words, almost none. "'You killed our daughter.' He said, 'You killed our daughter.' Then he swung the stick at me, but it got caught in the door. He ended up crying in despair." Beauvoir and Garmache seem to see it: Mr. Dyson, weak, miserable and gentlemanly, is almost murderous in rage. "You tried, Clara," said Peter, his voice calm and reassuring, "you tried to help them. You didn't know it would happen." "But everyone else knows, why don't I?" Clara sobbed.Again Peter wisely kept silent. "I've been thinking about that all the way back. You know what I thought?" Peter waited again, but Beauvoir, 15 feet away, almost shouted, "What?" "I convinced myself it was courageous, even virtuous, to visit and comfort the Dysons. But I did it for myself. Now look what I've done. If they Had I not been so old and frail, I feel Mr Dyson could have killed me." Gamache and Beauvoir could hear Clara's muffled sobs as Peter hugged her. The two left the small bridge and walked to the case room on the other side of the Bella River. After returning to the project room, the two split up.Beauvoir follows up on what appears to be an interesting clue, and Garmache is off to Montreal. "I'll be back before dinner," he confessed, getting into the Volvo. "I need to speak to Superintendent Brunel about the Lillian Dyson painting and see what it's worth." "good idea." Beauvoir, like Gamache, had seen her paintings on the walls of the victim's apartment.They look like strange, distorted images of the streets of Montreal.Familiar and recognizable, but the streets in real life are angular, but the streets in the painting are curved and flowing. The paintings made Beauvoir a little sick.He wondered what Superintendent Brunel would think. Inspector Gamache wanted to know too. It was already evening when we arrived in Montreal.After weaving through rush-hour traffic, Garmache arrives at Teresa Brunel's apartment in Outermont. He called ahead to make sure the Brunels were home.Just as he was climbing the stairs, Jerome opened the door.Jerome was almost old-fashioned, but definitely a good host. "Armand!" He held out his hand and shook hands with the inspector. "Theresa is in the kitchen, preparing something to eat. Let's sit on the balcony first. What would you like to drink?" "Pelvia is all right, Jerome," replied Garmash.He followed his master through the familiar living room, past stacks of open reference books and Jerome's jigsaw puzzles and code indexes, to the front balcony.From there you can see the lush park on the other side of the street.It's hard to believe that just around the corner is Rue Laurier, full of bistros, brasseries and gift shops. He and Rena Marie, who lived just a few streets away, were already regulars at the home, often coming in for a meal or a cocktail.The Brunel family also visited their home several times. Even though it wasn't a visit this time, the Brunels tried to make everything feel comfortable.If crime and murder must be discussed, why not have a drink, cheese, pepperoni and olives to accompany it? This was exactly what Armand Garmache wanted. "Thanks, Jerome," Teresa Brunel said, handing the tray of food to her husband and a glass of white wine. They stood on the balcony, bathed in the sunset, and admired the park. "The best time of the year, isn't it?" Teresa exclaimed. "It's so refreshing." Then she turned her attention to the man next to her. What Armand Garmache saw was a woman he had known for more than ten years.In fact, he taught her.He taught at the Police Academy.She stood out among all the students, not only because she was clearly wiser than the others, but because she was old enough to be the mother of the others.In fact, she was a full ten years older than Garmash himself. Before that, she was the curator at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts.After such an illustrious career, she joined the police force.As a well-known art historian, the police department once consulted her because of the appearance of a mysterious painting.It's not disappearing, notice, it's the sudden appearance of a painting. It was during that case investigation that she discovered her love for solving puzzles.After helping the police investigate several cases, she realized that this was what she really wanted to do, what she was born to do. So she went up to a startled recruiter and signed up. That was 12 years ago.Now she is one of the senior police officers in the police department, going above and beyond her teachers and mentors.But only because, both knew, Garmash had chosen and been given a different path. "How can I help you, Armand?" she asked, pointing with her long, graceful fingers to the chairs on the balcony. "Shall I back off?" Jerome asked, rising from his seat. "No, no," Gamash waved him to sit down, "if you want, come with us." Jerome had been willing.A retired emergency room doctor, he has had a lifelong love of jigsaw puzzles.He found it even more amusing that his wife, who had been teasing him about his endless puzzles, was now diving headfirst into the puzzle herself.A jigsaw puzzle of a more serious nature, of course. Inspector Garmash put down the Periya mineral water, took out the file from his bag, "I want you to read these and tell me what you think." Superintendent Brunel placed the photographs on a fine iron table, with wine glasses and trays pressed against the rim to keep them from being blown away by the breeze. She examined it carefully while Garmash waited quietly.Downstairs, cars drove past one by one.In the park, children are playing football and swinging. Armand Garmache sipped the sparkling mineral water, stirring the slice of lime in his finger, and watched her study the paintings that hung in Lillian Dyson's apartment. Teresa looks serious, and as a seasoned investigator, she is contributing her own perspective on the murder.Her eyes flicked from here to there, scanning the paintings in general.Then the gaze slows down, first resting on one painting, then another.She moved the position of the photo on the table, tilting her head to look at it from different angles. Her gaze never softened, but her expression softened, as if she had forgotten herself in these paintings. Armand said nothing about the pictures.Who painted the pictures, what he wanted to know, he didn't say a word.He didn't tell her anything, all she knew was that it was an investigation into a murder. He wanted her to form her own opinion, independent of his questions or comments. The Inspector had taught her at the police academy that crime scenes were not just what was on the ground, they were in people's brains.Their memories and insights, their feelings.You can't taint it with leading questions. Finally, she raised her head and leaned back in the chair.As always, he looked first at Jerome and then at Garmash. "How about it, Superintendent?" "Inspector, I can tell you that I have never seen these works or this artist before. The style is very unique, unlike other paintings. It looks simple on the surface, but it is not rough or deliberately. It is beautiful. " "Will it be worth it?" "Now there's a problem." She looked at the painting again. "Beauty doesn't mean fashion. Sharp, dark, harsh, cynical, that's what gallery owners and curators want. They seem to think that such paintings are more complicated." , more challenging. But I can tell you, it’s not. Light is just as challenging as darkness. There’s a lot we can discover about ourselves through appreciating beauty.” "Then these," Garmash pointed to the paintings on the table, "what can they tell you?" "My own opinion?" she asked, smiling. "If you will." "Who is he, Armand?" Gamash hesitated, "I'll tell you later, but I want to hear what you think first." "The person who can draw these pictures is a very good painter. I feel, not very young. There are too many small brushstrokes in it. As I said, it looks simple on the surface, but if you look closely, you will find the brushstrokes Very subtle. Like here," she pointed to a road next to a building, like a small river flowing through a boulder, "there's a slight use of light. And here, in the distance, the sky and the road and the building Where they meet, they blend into one color, making it difficult to distinguish." Teresa looked at the paintings and said almost wistfully, "They are beautiful. I wish I could meet the painter." She looked into Gamache's eyes, "but I doubt I can. He's dead, Really? He is the victim?" "why do you say that?" "Except for the fact that you are the head of the criminal investigation team?" She asked with a smile, "Because you showed me these paintings, it means that the artist is either a suspect or a victim. And drawing such paintings people don't kill." "why?" "Painters tend to paint what they are familiar with. A painting is a feeling. The best painters are able to express themselves in their work," said Superintendent Brunel, taking another look at the painting. These paintings of people are content. Maybe, not perfect, but a contented person." "The painter is a woman," said the Inspector. "You are right. She is dead." He told them about Lillian Dyson, her life and her murder. "Do you know who killed her?" Jerome asked. "We are approaching the mystery," replied Garmache, collecting the photographs on the table. "About François Marois and André Castonguet, do you know?" Teresa raised a delicately drawn eyebrow, "Art dealers? Are they also involved?" "And Dennis Fortin. Yes." "Well," Teresa took a sip of white wine, "Castongui has his own gallery, but most of his income comes from the contract with Kelly's company. He got this contract many years ago and has been grabbing I didn’t let go of the prison.” "Sounds like a lot of effort?" “I’m actually surprised he’s still on the contract. With a lot of new, more modern galleries opening, he’s been far less influential in recent years than he was before.” "Like Fortin's gallery?" "Yeah, something like Fortin. Fortin is very ambitious, he's one of those guys in the gentlemen's club who wants everything. I can't say it's his fault. They locked him out and he had no choice." , I can only slam the door hard." "Dennis Fortin doesn't seem content with just banging on doors," said Garmash, grabbing a thin slice of smoked sausage and a black olive, "I get the impression he wants to get all the word out to Cass In Dungui's ears. Fortin wants everything and must get it." "Van Gogh's ear," Teresa said with a smile.Garmash froze for a moment, and put the piece of sausage into his mouth. "I don't mean the sausage, Armand, you're safe. But I can't guarantee the olives." She gave him a mischievous look. "Did you mean Van Gogh's ears just now?" the inspector asked. "Someone mentioned this statement in the previous investigation, but I don't remember who said it. What does it mean?" "It means grab everything because you're afraid of missing something important, just like people in that era missed Van Gogh. That's what Denis Fortin did. He took all potential painters Under the banner, in case one of them turns out to be Van Gogh, or Damien Hirst, or Anish Kapoor." "The next big thing could be Clara Moreau, he can't pass up." "That's right," said Superintendent Brunel. "That makes him determined not to make another mistake." "Then he would want the painter?" Garmash pointed to the closed file on the table. She nodded, "I think so. As I said, being pretty doesn't mean being fashionable. But if you want to find the next big thing, he shouldn't be doing what everyone else is doing. You need to create your own unique art." people of form, like her." Teresa tapped the file with her manicured fingers. "And what of François Marois?" asked Garmache. "What part does he belong to?" "Well, that's a good question. It's all about the deliberate indifference he displays, of course an internal struggle. He seems to live outside the melee of the circle, claiming he only wants to promote great art and artists. Of course he does have Two eyes. Of all the art dealers in Canada, and undoubtedly in this city, I dare say he has the most discerning eye." "and then?" Teresa Brunel stared closely at Gamache. "You obviously know him a little bit, Armand. What do you think?" Garmash thought for a while, "I think, among all the art dealers, he is most likely to get what he wants." Brunel nodded slowly. "He's a carnivore." She finally said, "Patient, ruthless. Very charming, I guess you noticed too, until he found the target. And then? You'd better hide until The massacre is over." "So scary?" "It's terrible. I don't know of anything that François Marois can't achieve." "Has he ever broken the law?" She shook her head, "Anyway, I haven't violated the laws formulated by the country." The three sat in silence for a while, and at last Garmash spoke. "In this case, I heard a sentence, I don't know if you have heard it. He is a genius, and creating art is like his biological function." He leaned back in his chair, watching their reactions.Teresa, who had been serious before, smiled, and her husband laughed. "I know that line, it's from a reviewer, I believe it. But it was many years ago," Teresa said. "That's right, a review in the Press, written by the dead woman." "Did she write the comment? Or was it about her?" "That's a reference to 'he,' Teresa." Her husband laughed. "True. But Garmache may have misquoted too. He cut corners all the time, you know." She laughed, and Garmache laughed. "Haha, but this time I misunderstood, and I quoted correctly." He said, "Do you remember who wrote this sentence?" Teresa Brunel thought for a moment, then shook her head, "I'm sorry, Armand. Yes, it's a famous line, but I suspect that whoever was commenting on it, the painter didn't succeed in the end." "Are comments that important?" "For Kapoor or Twombly, it doesn't matter. But for a painter who is just starting out, for a first exhibition, reviews are very important. This reminds me, I saw those wonderful reviews of Clara's exhibition .We didn't get to see the preview, but I'm not surprised it got such a good response. Her paintings are genius. I've called her to congratulate her, but no one answered. She must be busy." "Are Clara's paintings better than these?" Garmash pointed to the file. "They're different styles." "True. But if you were the director of the gallery, which artist would you buy? Clara Moreau or Lillian Dyson?" 特蕾莎想了一会儿，“你知道，我说了它们是不一样的。但它们有很重要的一个共同点，它们都很欢欣鼓舞，以各自不同的方式。如果艺术都是朝着这个方向发展，该是多么好啊。” "why?" “因为这也许意味着人类精神的方向，走出黑暗阶段。” “那是很好。”加马什同意道，收起卷宗。但在起身之前，他看着特蕾莎，打定了主意。 “你对首席法官蒂埃里·皮诺特了解吗？” “哦，老天，阿尔芒，不要跟我说他也牵涉其中？” "yes." 布吕内尔警司深吸了一口气，“我对他个人不怎么了解，但作为法官，他似乎很正直、正派，司法记录上没有什么污点。每个人都有犯错误的时候，但作为在任法官，我还没有听说过什么关于他的说辞。” “那么在法庭之外呢？” “我听说他喜欢喝酒，有时候会喝得挺严重。但他有理由，失去了个孙子，或者是个小孙女？曾经有过酒后驾车的记录。那之后就戒酒了。” 加马什站起来，帮着清理桌子，把托盘拿到了厨房，然后向门口走去。在那里，他站住了。 一直以来，他都与特蕾莎和杰罗姆探讨各种事情。但如果说真的有那么一次机会，那就应该是现在。真的有那么一对值得信任的夫妻，那就应该是他们。 “我有个问题想问你们，”加马什平静地说，“与这个案子没有关系，是关于其他事情的。” "what?" “袭击案的视频，”他说，牢牢地盯着他们，“你们认为到底是谁把它泄露到了互联网上？” 杰罗姆看起来很困惑，但布吕内尔警司却非如此。她看起来很愤怒。