The Hangman Read Online Free PDF Page B

trying to help, and she looked at me like I was crap.”
    He sighed and opened his eyes.
    “I couldn’t stand it anymore. I’m thirty-eight years old. Not even halfway through my life. I couldn’t see living like this for another month, never mind forty years.”
    “What was your plan?” Gamache asked, though he suspected the answer. It was the April plan.
    “I wasn’t sure. I wanted to come to a fancy place. Have the best room, eat the best food. See if I’d be happy then. But it didn’t work. I went for a walk in the woods, trying to think of what to do. I don’t want to live, but I’m too afraid to die.”
    “Is that when you found the dead man?”
    “Yes.” He looked into Gamache’s eyes. This time with wonder. “Do you think it was a sign from God?”
    “Saying what?”
    “That I shouldn’t kill myself. That this is what it looks like. It looked horrible.”
    “You think God would kill a man to save you?” Gamache asked. His voice wasn’t accusing. It was curious. The ways of the Creator, he knew, were hard to fathom. But not nearly as hard as the ways of the created.
    “I think maybe the man was going to kill himself anyway, and maybe the gift was having me find him.”
    Gamache smiled then. Sometimes hope takes its time, but it finally appears. If you hold on justlong enough. And he saw it now, deep down in Tom Scott’s eyes. A tiny spring.
    But that did not mean that Tom Scott wasn’t a killer. A man willing to die could also be willing to kill.
    “Did Arthur Ellis ever speak to you?” Gamache asked.
    Scott hesitated. “He saw me talking to that receptionist...”
    “Angela.”
    “Yes, her, and he asked me to stop. We had words.”
    “Angry words?”
    Scott nodded.
    “Anything else?” Gamache asked.
    “Before that, we’d talked a little. He wanted to know where I was from.”
    “What did you tell him?”
    “I said I was a New Yorker. An investment banker.” Scott managed a weak smile and shrugged. Old habits.
    “Did he believe you?”
    “I don’t think he cared. Most people don’t.”
    But Gamache disagreed. He suspected Arthur Ellis, or James Hill, cared deeply.
    Gamache went in search of Angela and found her talking to her husband. He was of medium height and heavy-set. His hair was thick and a brilliant red.
    “Hello.” Gamache smiled.
    “Chief Inspector, this is my husband, Mike.”
    They shook hands.
    “Did Mr. Ellis speak to you?” he asked Mike.
    “No. He thanked me for opening a door for him once. He seemed polite but quiet. Like he didn’t want company.”
    Gamache turned to Angela. “But he spoke to you quite a bit, it seems.”
    As usual, she blushed. “Well, I guess I was the one who kept talking to him. He just seemed so alone.”
    “Did he tell you anything about himself?”
    “Only that he was here for a vacation and that he had a son who would love to live in a place like this. He wondered if there were many jobs for young people.”
    “Chief Inspector?” Dominique Gilbert popped her head through the living room door. “There’s a phone call for you.”
    “Chief,” came Beauvoir’s voice. “I know why James Hill was here.”

Chapter Eleven

    Chief Inspector Gamache met Beauvoir at the bench on the village green. Around them, villagers walked dogs. They did their shopping. Some worked in their gardens. But no one stopped moving. It was too cold.
    But the two men on the bench had something worse than cold to worry about. They had murder on their minds.
    Gamache pulled his coat tighter around him and looked at his inspector.
    “Okay,” said Beauvoir. “We ran James Hill’s fingerprints and licence plate. He lived and worked in Ottawa. With the government. In the Department of Records.”
    Armand Gamache shifted a bit on the bench. The Department of Records. It was huge, of course. It kept track of Canada’s official documents. Not people’s private lives, but their public ones. Taxes, passports, court papers. Any time a Canadian came in