SEVENTEEN‘Success,’ Beauvoir said, striding into the warm situation room and shedding his heavy coat. He tossed his tuque onto his desk and his mitts soon followed. ‘You were right. The photographer has the pictures.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Gamache, clapping him. ‘Let’s see.’
‘Well, he doesn’t have them on him,’ said Beauvoir, as though that was really too much to expect.
‘Where are they?’ asked Gamache, his voice somewhat less thrilled.
‘He mailed the film to the lab he uses in St-Lambert. They went by priority post so they should arrive by tomorrow.’
‘At the lab.’
‘Précisément.’ Beauvoir could sense a little less enthusiasm than he would have wanted. ‘But he says he took hundreds of pictures at the breakfast and the curling.’
Beauvoir looked around. Isabelle Lacoste was engrossed in he
