“Hmm.” The Chief Inspector sipped and thought. “What does that tell you?”

Alain Doucet looked surprised. He had clearly thought nothing of it but now he did.

“Well, I guess it might mean he found something in that first lot and thought there might be more.”

“Why the delay, though? If he bought the first couple boxes in the summer, why wait until after Christmas to contact you?”

“He’s probably like most collectors. Buys loads of books meaning to go through them but they just sit there for months until he gets around to it.”

Gamache nodded, remembering the rabbit warren that was Renaud’s home.

“Do these numbers mean anything to you?” He showed Doucet the catalog numbers found in Renaud’s diary. 9-8499 and 9-8572.

“No, but used books come in with all sorts of strange things written on them. Some are color-coded, some have numbers, some have signatures. Screws up their value, unless the signature is Beaudelaire or Proust.”

“How’d he seem when he came by for the other lot?”

“Renaud? As always. Brusque, anxious. He was like an addict before a fix. Book freaks are like that, and not just old guys. Look at kids lining up for the latest installment of their favorite books. Stories, they’re addictive.”

Gamache knew that was true. But what story had Augustin Renaud stumbled on? And where were the two books? Not in his apartment, not on his body. And what happened to the other books in the lot? They weren’t in the apartment either.

“Did he bring any books back?”

Doucet shook his head. “But you might ask the other used bookstores. I know he went to all of us.”

“I’ve asked. You’re the last, and the only one who bought the Literary and Historical Society books.”

“Only one stupid enough to try to sell English books in old Quebec City.”

The Chief’s phone vibrated and he took it out. It was a call from Émile.

“Do you mind?” he asked and Doucet shook his head. “Salut, Émile. Are you at home?”

“No, I’m in the Lit and His. Amazing place. I can’t believe I’ve never been before. Can you meet me here?”

“Have you found something?”

“I found Chiniquy.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Gamache rose and Henri rose with him, ready to go wherever Gamache went.

“Does the name Chiniquy mean anything to you?” he asked as they walked to the front of the store. It was almost four P.M. and the sun had set. Now the shop looked cozy, lit by lamps, the books merely suggestions in the shadows.

Doucet thought about it. “No, sorry.”

Time, thought Gamache as he stepped once more into the darkness, it covered over everything eventually. Events, people, memory. Chiniquy had disappeared beneath Time. How long before Augustin Renaud followed?

And yet Champlain had remained, and grown.

Not the man, Gamache knew, the mystery. Champlain missing was so much more potent than Champlain found.

Picking up his pace, he and Henri wove between the revelers carrying their hollow plastic canes filled with Caribou, wearing their Bonhomme pins on their down-filled parkas. They wore smiles and huge mittens and joyful fluffy, warm toques, like exclamation marks on their heads. In the distance he heard the almost haunting blast on a plastic horn. A call to arms, a call to party, a call to youth.

Gamache heard it, but the call wasn’t for him. He had another calling.

Within minutes he and Henri were standing outside the brightly lit Literary and Historical Society. The small crowd of gawkers had given up, perhaps called away by the horns to something more interesting. Called to life, not to death.

Gamache entered and found his old mentor in the library surrounded by small stacks of books. Mr. Blake had emigrated from his armchair to the sofa and the two elderly men were chatting. They looked over as the Chief Inspector entered, and waved.

Mr. Blake stood and indicated his place.

“No, please,” said Gamache, but it was too late. The courtly man was already standing next to his habitual chair.

“We’ve been having a terrific talk, you know,” said Mr. Blake. “All about Charles Chiniquy. Remarkable man. But then, we’re likely to think that,” he said with a laugh.

“Found another one, Monsieur Comeau,” Elizabeth MacWhirter called down from the balcony, then spying Gamache she waved.

Gamache caught Émile’s eye and smiled. He’d made a few conquests here.

Soon all four were sitting round the coffee table.