“The next big thing. He missed it with Clara Morrow.”
“He sure did,” agreed Superintendent Brunel. “Which must make him desperate not to do it again.”
“So he’d want this artist?” Gamache indicated the now closed dossier on the table.
She nodded. “I think so. As I said, beautiful isn’t in, but then if you’re going to find the next big thing it won’t be among all the people doing what everyone else’s doing. You need to find someone creating their own form. Like her.”
She tapped the dossier with a manicured finger.
“And François Marois?” asked Gamache. “How does he fit in?”
“Ah, now there’s a good question. He gives every appearance of urbane disinterest, certainly in the infighting. Seems to live above the fray. Claims to only want to promote great art and the artists. And he certainly knows it. Of all the dealers in Canada, and certainly in this city, I’d say he’s most likely to recognize talent.”
“And then what?”
Thérèse Brunel looked at Gamache closely. “You’ve obviously spent time with him, Armand. What do you think?”
Gamache thought for a moment. “I think of all the dealers he’s the most likely to get what he wants.”
Brunel nodded slowly. “He’s a predator,” she finally said. “Patient, ruthless. As charming as can be, as you’ve probably noticed, until he spots what he wants. And then? Best to hide somewhere until the slaughter is over.”
“That bad?”
“That bad. I’ve never known François Marois not to get his way.”
“Has he ever broken the law?”
She shook her head. “Not the laws of man, anyway.”
The three friends sat quietly for a moment. Until finally Gamache spoke.
“I’ve come across a quote in this case and wonder if you know it. He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function.”
He sat back and watched their reactions. Thérèse, so serious a moment before, smiled a bit while her husband guffawed.
“I know that quote. From a critique, I believe. But many years ago,” said Thérèse.
“It was. A review in La Presse. Written by the dead woman.”
“By her or about her?”
“The review mentions a ‘he,’ Thérèse,” said her husband with amusement.
“That’s true, but Armand might have misquoted. He’s famous for shoddy work, you know,” she said with a smile, and Gamache laughed.
“Well, this time, by dumb luck, I got it right,” he said. “Do you remember who the line was written about?”
Thérèse Brunel thought, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, Armand. As I say, it’s become a famous line, but I suspect whoever it was written about didn’t become a famous artist.”
“Are reviews that important?”
“To Kapoor or Twombly, no. To someone just starting out, a first show, they’re crucial. Which reminds me, I saw the wonderful reviews of Clara’s show. We couldn’t make the vernissage, but I’m not surprised. Her works are genius. I called to congratulate her but couldn’t get through. I’m sure she’s busy.”
“Are Clara’s paintings better than these?” Gamache indicated the dossier.
“They’re different.”
“Oui. But if you were still the chief curator at the Musée, which artist would you buy, Clara Morrow or Lillian Dyson?”
Thérèse considered for a moment. “You know, I say they’re different, but they have one big thing in common. They’re both quite joyous, in their own way. How lovely if that’s where art’s heading.”
“Why?”
“Because it might mean that’s where the human spirit’s heading. Out of a period of darkness.”
“That would be good,” agreed Gamache, picking up his dossier. But before he rose he looked at Thérèse, then made up his mind.
“What do you know about Chief Justice Thierry Pineault?”
“Oh, God, Armand, don’t tell me he’s involved?”
“He is.”
Superintendent Brunel took a deep breath. “I don’t know him personally, only as a jurist. He seems very straight, upstanding. No blemishes on his judicial record. Everyone has their stumbles, but I haven’t heard anything against him as a sitting judge.”
“And off the bench?” pressed Gamache.
