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Where are you? Where did they bury you? And why don’t we know?
Émile rose and waved hiot up
"Chief Inspector," they said and introduced themselves
"René Dallaire," the tall, rotundGamache’s hand
"Jean Hamel," the small, slim one said Had René sported a cropped moustache the two men could have passed for Laurel and Hardy
Ga his hat, scarf and mitts into a sleeve He sat and put his hands to his face, feeling the burning Extreuishable from a sunburn But within minutes it had subsided, and the circulation had returned to his hands, helped along by sitting on them
They ordered drinks and lunch and chatted about Carnaval, about the weather, about politics It was clear the three ed to the same club for decades
The Champlain Society
Their drinks and a basket of rolls arrived They sipped their Scotches and Gae to take a war the, so out the
The St-Laurent Bar was at the far end of the Château, down the gracious, wide, endless corridor, through the double doors and into another world Unlike the rest of thebuilt into one of the turrets of the Château Its curved walls were paneled in dark wood and fireplaces stood on either side A round bar took up the center, with tables surrounding it
That, for any norh but Quebec City was far from normal, and within it, the Château was unique
For curving along the far wall of the bar s Tall, fraany, wide and mullioned Out of them opened the most splendid vista Gamache had ever seen True, as a Québécois, no other view could ever ara Falls, Everest This was Machu Picchu, Kilioogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true"></ins>