River City

by John Farrow

  By the summer of 1944, no one could imagine that he might sabotage a war that was going well, and the demands upon King to release him increased. The prime minister finally acceded, not wishing to further damage his own reputation in the city, and the papers announced that Camillien Houde was coming home.

  He told Roger, “When you get out, come see me. We’ll work together again.” “Go see my wife. Make sure she’s all right.”

  “I shall. Be of good cheer, Roger. You’ll be free soon. The war goes well for your side.”

  He said goodbye to the inmates, and understood as he was doing so that he had enjoyed the company of the communists far more than that of the fascists. And now that the fascists were confronting defeat abroad, they made for even less of a convivial band.

  In Sherbrooke, a few hours east of Montreal, Houde got off the train. He spent the night there before proceeding on. After all, the citizens of his home city had not had ample time to arrange a celebration for his arrival, and he owed it to them to give them that. As well, he much needed to improve the state of his haberdashery, for the finer clothes he’d brought to the camp were now worn and bedraggled.

  He decked himself out well. He returned to Montreal wearing a morning coat over an elegant grey vest. Broad suspenders held up his striped trousers, the creases sharp and accentuated. He bought new shoes. Even though they sparkled, he had them buffed until he could peer over his belly and see himself wink in their mirror finish, then protected the shine with grey spats. To complete the effect of his attire, he found in Sherbrooke a Malacca walking stick—a real find, a cane he could twirl as he whistled down any boulevard.

  His life had not been easy, despite his successes and the station to which he’d arisen. The first of ten children, each of his siblings had died in childhood, and when he was nine his father had passed away as well. His first election victory, to the Quebec legislature, had saved him from penury. Indeed, he had run for office back then to make a salary, and had won by threatening to flatten the top hat of the premier of the province, the old-money Liberal Taschereau. He then lost the next election. Impoverished again, he ran for mayor, winning despite being destitute and living in a grimy, cold, poor man’s flat.

  The role of the politician had reminded him of a time in his schooldays when he played Cyrano. He hadn’t required a fake nose, as his own had served the purpose. He could drive an audience to a fever pitch, fill them with rage and conviction, then, with his next words, cause them to laugh and dab tears of pleasure from their eyes. His critics called him a clown, yet in considering the insult, an astute writer observed that clowns were the most intelligent characters in Shakespeare’s plays, and in that tradition, Houde could play the role of the clown very well. The office of the mayor had been emasculated by the provincial government after Houde escorted the city into bankruptcy. He’d be obliged to serve as a figurehead only, but Houde had set his sights on that prize, and when he stepped off the train in Montreal, he was greeted by more than ten thousand citizens, all come to welcome him home and praise his name.

  Working his way through the crowds in Windsor Station was a difficult task. He was glad that he had his cane with him. On the street, a speaker’s stand had been erected, with microphones, and from that raised podium he spoke to the enchanted crowd. “I was lonesome for you in the concentration camp,” he called out to them.

  They cheered, and so many women wept.

  “And it looks as though you were lonesome for me, too.”

  Their shouts became more feverish.

  “I am ready to accept my mandate from the people who are crying for me. Your spontaneous ovation should be a warning to all political leaders.” As one, the crowd took up the fight with him.

  A reporter asked, upon his announcement that he would again seek the mayor’s chair, “Do you not fear that your support for Pétain and Mussolini will be held against you?”

  Houde shrugged. “I don’t recall speaking of support for Pétain. I was in a concentration camp when he came to power, so that opportunity was denied me. As for Mussolini, the people will say that the war is over, or almost over, and do you know what? They’ll be right.”

  When reminded that he had left the city bankrupt, he repeated his constant theme on the subject. “The banks wanted me to starve the poor. I declined to do so. I know how the bankers have judged me, and I know how the prime minister of Canada has judged me. Now let us see what the people think, and let them be the final judge.”

  Houde won. He wrote to Roger Clément,

  Roger,

  I need you here to take care of the rough boys, to be their boss. Things have heated up, gotten out of hand. Seventeen men were shot on election day. Can you believe it? Do you remember the good old days of baseball bats and fists? Of course you do. When you return, you’ll find that it’s all about guns and knives now, brass knuckles and lead pipes. Oh, you’ll love it, Roger! It’s all so exciting. I shall use my new influence as mayor to do what I can to secure your release. In the meantime, I have looked in on your beloved Carole. She has managed to sustain herself, but misses you terribly, as you miss her. I’m afraid that she finds me a bit of a fascist, to use her word, and so I am limited in what I might do for her. Rest assured that I shall watch over her from a safe distance (safe for me from her, you understand), and I have already seen to it that her house tax has been reduced. She’ll never know why unless you tell her. Don’t tell her, Roger. She might pay a higher tax if only to spite me. Be brave, Roger. See you soon.

  Yours truly,

  Camillien

  P.S. Roger! I’m back. I told you I’d be back.

  The war was over, and the old gang was back.

  Duplessis was premier and Houde the mayor. Roger Clément returned also, with a few boys from the internment camp who had won jobs with Houde. He kissed his wife and held her for a full twenty minutes before he managed to release her and introduce her to his friends. Then they all went home to his house to party.

  Late in the evening, a knock was heard at the front door and Roger answered. The mayor stood before him, grinning as widely as the mouth of the St. Lawrence and holding up a bottle. “Champagne!” he enthused. “Good for what ails you.” The mayor, too, joined the party, which lasted until dawn, long after Roger had walked off to bed with Carole, where they kissed one another and loved one another to sleep. When he briefly awoke to shift his weight, to take in the room that was his own, to pinch himself with the knowledge that he was free and Carole again lay beside him, Roger heard the mayor’s voice, boisterous and laughing in the front room—“Did I ever tell you the story of the man it took six years to bury?”—and Roger smiled, for all was well, and he returned to the arms of his wife, and to sleep.

  Across town, in his sister’s tiny apartment, where he had gone after his return to civilian life and where he slept under her bed, Armand Touton tried on his new uniform. He was a policeman now. He thought he looked mighty sharp in blue.

  He did strike a handsome figure.

  Before the bathroom mirror, the young veteran smacked his powerful right fist into the opposite palm, and smiled. Hard and fast—that’s the kind of cop he would be. Commando style. He vowed that no man would ever be braver.

  In New York City, a traveller by the name of Count Jacques Dugé de Bernonville tried on a priest’s cassock. He was hoping that the disguise would allow him to cross the border into Quebec, for what would be more familiar in Quebec than a priest’s black robes? He had spent the war hunting down Jews in France to hand over to the Nazis, and torturing and shooting resistance fighters. He was now living the opposite life, on the run. A war criminal, they said. He did not know how there could be such a thing. A war was a war—how could any action be considered a crime? And yet, the war was obviously not finished for him. He had found no peace. He was looking for a home.

  Dressed as a priest, de Bernonville entered Quebec, where, he heard, many remained sympathetic, even loyal, to the true cause.

  CHAPTER
23

  1970

  IN A BORROWED CAB, THEY DROVE UP WINDING STREETS ALONG A RIM of Mount Royal, through a community of mansions they hadn’t even known existed prior to beginning this operation.

  We’ve tracked you down. On your mountain. You’re in our sights.

  One man knocked.

  Your friends call you Jasper.

  They waited on the stoop.

  The housekeeper answered. Politely, Jacques asked her to sign for a birthday gift. Yves carried the long, narrow box across his arms. Days earlier, James “Jasper” Cross had turned forty-nine.

  Jacques forgot to hand her the receipt for her signature.

  It begins.

  Swiftly, he thrust it forward. He didn’t have a pen handy—part of the plan. He dropped his hand into a pocket to fish for one and pulled out a black. 22-calibre Beretta pistol. He thrust the muzzle into the woman’s belly and pushed her inside as he entered.

  She put her hands up and talked excitedly in Portuguese.

  Yves followed him in and pulled on his gloves. He reached into the giftbox and retrieved his M1 rifle. Tossed the box on the floor.

  Still on the street, Marc saw that they’d made it inside. His cue. He ran up from the street, trying to conceal his own sawed-off M1. A gardener across the avenue concerned him, so he kept the stunted rifle tight to his body as he went inside.

  A little girl suddenly appeared in the front room, shocked by the entry of the men and calling to her mother, the housekeeper. The first unexpected occurrence. The second was a dog’s bark from upstairs.

  “Pick her up,” Jacques told the woman. The Portuguese maid plucked her daughter off the floor and bound her into her arms. “Where’s Cross?”

  The woman pointed upstairs.

  The mansion had twenty-two rooms.

  Upstairs, Jacques found a short, stout woman in bed and James Richard Cross padding around in his pyjamas. A Dalmatian leaped onto the bed, growling but seeking shelter in the covers. “We’re the FLQ,” Jacques told them. He pointed his black gun at the man. “Lie down on the floor.” He told the woman, “Control your dog or I’ll shoot it.”

  She calmed the animal on the bed. Her eyes shone with fright.

  Jacques signalled for the others to come up.

  Yves pushed the maid and her child into the room ahead of his M1. Face down on the floor, Cross asked, “What do you want?” “Liberation,” Jacques told him. “I can give you money.”

  “Rich man, you can’t buy your way out of this one. Stand up. Get dressed.”

  Each of the women held onto a smaller life, one a dog’s, the other a child’s.

  Cross had a dressing room. A whole room for storing and putting on his clothes. That alone seemed reason enough for a revolution. Jacques watched him dress, and the two men emerged together.

  “Say goodbye.”

  Wearing grey slacks, a shirt and a green-checked jacket, Jasper Cross stepped shakily towards his wife and kissed her. He patted the head of his dog.

  Then Yves handcuffed his wrists in front of him, tugging down the sleeves of the jacket to hide the cuffs. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Jacques gave final orders to the others in the house. “Don’t call the police for an hour. If you do, we’ll kill your husband.”

  On the way out, he tossed a raincoat over the man’s hands.

  He held the pistol against Cross’s back as they led him down the walk to the taxi.

  When it comes, people aren’t ready for the moment. When a man needs his boots and an iron constitution, he’s wearing bedroom slippers. He’s taken by surprise.

  Through the upstairs window, Mrs. Cross waved wildly to the gardener across the street, who was raking leaves.

  He stared up at her.

  The men and Cross climbed into a taxi. “Don’t make a sound, Jasper.”

  He was pushed down onto the floorboards of the car’s back seat.

  They changed cars at the Royal Victoria Hospital, getting into a Chrysler. A man being assisted from a taxi into another car would not be conspicuous around the hospital, where so many required assistance. With Cross on the floor of the Chrysler, Marc put a gas mask over the man’s face, the eyes blacked out. Then he straightened up and said, “Shit.”

  “What?” Jacques asked him.

  “Our masks.”

  They all looked at each other.

  “What about them?” asked the woman who’d been waiting for them and who was driving now. They didn’t answer. Then she understood.

  Jacques explained it anyway. “We forgot to wear our masks.”

  Gaston Fleury understood the question. He just couldn’t work his tongue around the answer. He had been disturbed by the answer in the past, putting it aside, letting it fall away from his consciousness. Why had he not pursued the discrepancies? “Hard to say.”

  Cinq-Mars continued to wait for a more satisfactory response. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Fifteen years,” Cinq-Mars said, but his tone suggested that this was not a lifetime. Men could remember important events that were fifteen years old without this jittery impairment. The young officer reviewed the facts for him again—for the fifth time, by his count. “Sir, you were looking into limousines owned and operated by the provincial, federal and municipal governments.”

  “Right,” Fleury agreed. That was the easy part. Cinq-Mars had come to him and said he needed to ask more questions. A nuisance, these years later. Fleury had made captain, responsible for the Department of Research and Strategic Planning. He’d lost interest in Touton’s pet case, now passed along to Constable Cinq-Mars.

  “You discovered that the logbooks for three levels of government showed discrepancies.”

  “I did.”

  “The discrepancies occurred because elected government officials and high-ranking civil servants used the cars in secret. For liaisons, we presume. To visit girlfriends.”

  “Except for men who visited boyfriends. Those, too.”

  Cinq-Mars nodded. His stomach remained tense. He loved asking questions, but interrogating a senior officer with whom he often worked felt odd. Risky. “The logbooks were commonly doctored. Actual trips didn’t match the records.”

  “Hundred-mile trips, but only twenty showed on the odometer. Or the opposite. Everyone assumed nobody would ever check, so they were careless.” Fleury had been excited when he first penetrated the deception. “It had become routine. Almost everybody who had the right to use a limo used it to conceal his comings and goings. Which made investigating the cars next to impossible.”

  “But knowing that logbooks, routinely, were improperly maintained …” Cinq-Mars let his voice fade away.

  In a fog, Fleury acted as though he could not guess the next question, although it had already been posed four times.

  “Sir, why did you not reinvestigate the entries for the night of the Richard riot, for the night of the murders, once you’d learned that the information was commonly doctored? At that point, why did you continue to take the entries at face value? Sir, it’s a simple question. There must be a simple answer. You must have made a decision not to pursue that particular line of inquiry.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “I wish you would. Or try harder. It’s important, I think.” They were back to the same impasse.

  Fleury bowed his head a little, and was rubbing his chin, for he still seemed perplexed by something. Then he said, “I didn’t think it mattered so much.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll tell you something, all right?”

  “I’m listening,” Cinq-Mars said. This, at least, felt akin to progress. “I got a phone call.”

  “All right.”

  “Back then.”

  “Who called?”

  “Anonymous.”

  “What was said?”

  Fleury breathed in deeply before continuing. “Next time, you’ll find your little boy in it.”

  Cinq-Mars awaited further explanation, but none was fort
hcoming. “What did that mean?” he asked. They were getting to the bare bones now, yet he remained mystified by the line.

  “My car had blown up.”

  Cinq-Mars waited.

  “I didn’t think it was all that important, what I was doing. I thought I was mostly being a nuisance. I was an accountant. I stopped investigating the limos but I didn’t know—I never knew—if that’s what had pissed people off. I didn’t think I was getting anywhere. But if I was, it wasn’t worth my only son.”

  Cinq-Mars nodded solemnly, grasping this. “So first they blew your car up, then they sent you a warning to go along with it.”

  “Pretty effective threat, if you ask me. I’m just an accountant, really. I’m not like a real detective.”

  Cinq-Mars stood and crossed to the door as if departing, but he had no intention of leaving yet. “Captain, I appreciate that we’re speaking in confidence, and that you’re a captain and I’m a uniform. But it makes me wonder. Why tell me this? Why me? Because I asked?”

  Fleury uttered a short little laugh, as if to dismiss the gravity of the confession. “You’re a priest, Cinq-Mars—at least, you wanted to be. You’ve got it in you, anyway. I’m a Catholic who just went to confession.”

  “You’re kidding me now? Why?”

  The new head of the Department of Research and Strategic Planning sighed and squirmed around in his chair. He loved his new leather swivel seat. “That’s not it. What I told you has been on my conscience. I did confess it to my priest, but I received no relief from my remorse. I had to confess it to a cop, don’t you think? Or it would be meaningless. So now I’ve done that, I got a load off.” He leaned back in his chair, a man teaching himself to relax. “Like you said, you asked the question. Time’s gone by. I don’t feel like escaping the answer anymore. You’re onto me anyway, right? I don’t want to make things hard for you, Cinq-Mars. You think it’s strange that I confessed to someone below my rank? Think about it. If I confess to anyone, it won’t be to a colleague with higher rank than me. You young Turks, you presume we’re corrupt anyway—you think we’re a bunch of fuck-ups and has-beens. So maybe I’m proving that point. But see, there’s nothing you can do to hurt me. You won’t be on a promotions committee with my name in front of you. By the time you get that high up in rank, I’ll either be planting roses in front of my retirement home or fertilizing them from six feet down.”