River City

by John Farrow

  Without speaking, the pair decided upon a mutual destination—a scruffy, nearby park. Each year, the grass came up, and each year, it was worn back down to dirt by children at their summer games and by adults wandering through for a small dose of tranquility. Now it was well groomed with about an inch of fresh, powdery snow. The benches had been cleared, most likely by teenagers needing a place to neck in winter, or somewhere to sit and smoke, and by aging, saggy bachelors who’d arrive each morning with small sacks of cornmeal for the cooing pigeons. As the pair sat down, a flock flew into the park, appraising the possibilities.

  “I’m presuming that you understand the risk, Anik. No one can ever know that you possess the knife. That kind of information makes you a target.”

  “You know,” she said. She smiled.

  He shook his head. “I’ll keep it to myself. But I don’t want to know anything about the knife—what you do with it, its whereabouts, whatever. Not unless you donate it to a museum.”

  “I’m not giving it to a museum,” she revealed. “It’s stolen property. But why don’t you want to know? Can’t you trust yourself?”

  The question was valid—a good one, really. He knew he’d take knowledge of the knife to his grave, and never betray her, so that wasn’t the source of his anxiety. “I don’t want you to trust a soul. Beginning with me. Tell me what you tell everyone else—absolutely nothing. If you were to tell me about the knife, I’d be afraid that you’d speak to someone else someday. A future boyfriend, a husband, a child. That won’t be good, Anik. It’ll never be good.”

  She sat still on the bench, observing a pigeon. She thought it looked like a juvenile delinquent. Maybe the bird had been studying the attitude of kids in the neighbourhood. “Trudeau knows I have it,” she said.

  A valid concern. “I haven’t mentioned your name, but he knows it’s going to Roger Clément’s daughter. So, yeah, he knows you have it.”

  “So I’m at risk.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.” Cinq-Mars nodded. “Truth is, I want you to think that way. I believe Trudeau’s accepted the loss. He feels it’s been a good trade. He won’t seek you out. He won’t be inclined to blab about it, either, not as long as he’s a politician. How can he bray that he had once owned a murder weapon? Then again, there’s not much stopping him. Someday, he’ll be out of office. That’s why I want you to be wary of everyone.”

  If her friend was looking to scare her, or at least make her especially cautious, he was succeeding. “Armand knows I have it. That means you told him.”

  “He’ll keep your secret.” He placed his hand on her wrist. “But, Anik, you see, this is what I’m talking about. I didn’t tell him.”

  “You must’ve. Émile—he knows. He called me while he was negotiating with the kidnappers. By then, he already knew I bargained for the knife.”

  Cinq-Mars did not dispute her argument—rather, he nodded to confirm it. “He had a few things to go on, that’s true. But you see? I never told him. He just called you and made you admit to having the knife, or to say that you were expecting to get it soon, by pretending that he already knew. It’s an old technique. I didn’t tell him.”

  She crossed her ankles, just for the relief of getting one foot off the frozen ground, and squeezed herself more tightly against the chill. “It’s a nice lecture, Émile. Armand said similar things. He was worried that other people would come after me. I didn’t think he was only digging for knowledge. Look, I intend to keep quiet. I’m not telling anyone. Not even my mother.”

  “Good for you. That’s how it has to be. Whatever measures that go beyond your death—”

  “Oh, will you stop worrying. I’m not a child, Émile.” “Just don’t trust people.”

  “I heard you the first time. Honestly. Who are you, anyway? Émile Cinq-Mars, country boy. Comes to the big city and now distrusts everyone. He’s rational about all things. What’s happened to you, country boy?”

  He shrugged, and offered back a smile to her tease. “I’ve figured out a few things, I guess.”

  “Like what?”

  “I have my secrets, too,” he said, being cagey. “I’m sure you do.”

  “Anyway, I still have a job in front of me.” “Trudeau’s report?” she inquired.

  “What you heard in the closet. Yes. The report to our prime minister.” Cinq-Mars nodded, thinking, wondering. “I can set that up.”

  She shook her head no. He expected that she’d choose the method they had already agreed upon. “He might throw stones at me.” The remark broke them up a little. “I’ll tell you what I heard in the closet. Then you can tell him.”

  Cinq-Mars stared straight ahead then, at a few cars in their bright progress down the adjacent boulevard. He was waiting to hear himself say something of ready importance, waiting to hear himself stop her from speaking. From a distance, a dog’s bark distracted him.

  “Émile?” Anik inquired.

  As the priest admitted a friend into the church house from out of the snapping cold, Teilhard, the parish cat, poked its nose through the front door. Before its passage could be blocked, he scooted outside. The animal did not go far. This was a day for neither man nor domestic beast. The temperature had plummeted not long after Christmas, staying that way into mid-January. With its first full breath of icy air, the tabby appeared to freeze on the porch, then, stiffly, tried lifting all four paws off the mat at once, doing a dance. Bending down, laughing, the visiting policeman snatched the cat up to return it to the temperate climate of the rectory.

  “You have a way with animals.”

  “Poor thing’s in shock. He didn’t imagine it could be so cold out.”

  “Now he’ll be depressed. Teilhard is miffed to be cooped up inside with the likes of me. Émile, you wanted to be a vet. What would you prescribe for my disgruntled feline?”

  Cinq-Mars set the animal down on the hall runner, petting it a little more and receiving appreciative purrs in return. “A youthful playmate might do,” he suggested. “A female kitten.”

  “Ha! There’s a thought. Are you sure you’re not thinking of yourself?”

  “Father. Please.” He blushed, though.

  The priest laughed, his big belly jiggling in his merriment. Cinq-Mars peeled his boots off by prying the heels down with his toes, then allowed Father François to give him a hand in removing his overcoat. “You’ll have a cup of tea, to brace yourself from the cold?”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “Good!” He relayed the request to his housekeeper, and the two men made themselves comfortable in the living-room armchairs. “Now, to what do I owe the grand pleasure? I’m on to you. I know you’re not checking up on me without a good—probably a devious—reason.”

  The younger man chuckled lightly. “Don’t you visit parishioners, Father, to see how they’re doing? Why be suspicious of me?”

  “When I check on the welfare of my flock, I don’t do so equipped with the power to put them in jail. Perhaps I can ship them off to a lower inferno—although that’s arguable—but they still have the option of an audience with St. Peter—who’s tough, we’re told, but fair. The War Measures Act, on the other hand, or whatever it’s called now—the Public Order Act—is a powerful instrument without recourse to the courts or the saints. You could click your fingers and have me locked up, Émile. Is that just?”

  “I’m not sure, Father. But I’d like to try it sometime, just for fun.”

  The remark caught the priest by surprise, and he responded with another chuckle. Evidently, he was in a good mood, and smiled broadly as he watched the tabby leap onto the policeman’s lap. Cinq-Mars helped the animal settle in, petting its greyish, black-streaked head.

  “You’ve made a new pal.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Teilhard believes priests have private pipelines to God, to dial up the weather. I’ve tried to explain, my God lets the weather take care of itself. My God maintains the attitude of a parent, one who believes His children ought to
be seen but seldom heard. God will heed my prayers,” Father François continued in a whisper, “but only if He has nothing better to occupy His time, and never to effect a change of weather for a cat.” Then he returned to his usual voice levels. “But Teilhard—try telling him that. He’s not been persuaded. He blames the current cold snap on me.”

  The cat looked over at him as though to agree.

  “The workings of God—for that matter, of men—confuse us all, not just cats,” Cinq-Mars offered.

  “Touché. That’s a hint, though, isn’t it? You’re here on a serious errand.” While he was doing his best to flaunt a relaxed manner and keep things light, Father François gave the impression of a man trying hard to be at ease, coming across instead as worried.

  “As you can see, Father, I’m not in uniform.”

  “Plain clothes.”

  “Off-duty.”

  “Ah. I wished I realized. But it’s not too late. There’s still time to cancel the tea and break out the port.”

  “Or have our tea,” Émile suggested, striking a compromise, “and a brief, serious discussion, then move on to the port.”

  “Fine with me. A warning, though. Our electric kettle’s on the fritz. The water takes awhile to boil. But I’m eager, Émile. What’s on your mind? Now that Laporte’s killers are behind bars, you and your fellow officers must be feeling vindicated. What did my old friend call me—a bleeding-heart liberal? Well, Trudeau, not Teilhard, is the cat who’s swallowed the canary now. Insufferable, don’t you think? The luck of that man, although I’m also pleased with the final outcome.”

  The nod Cinq-Mars proffered, rocking his chin slightly, appeared noncommittal. He was playing his hand close to the vest. “My colleagues are relieved, sure. We pulled double shifts for months.”

  “You could probably use some time off yourself. Instead of interrogating me.”

  Cinq-Mars cocked his head. “A harsh word,” he pointed out. He tried to not let his tone go grave. “I want to check a few facts, Father, as I’ve been doing for months, with respect to the Richard riot.”

  Father François shook his head. “You’d think that man would give it up, once and for all.”

  “Captain Touton? No, Father,” Cinq-Mars corrected him. “I’m here on my own. I’m the one obsessed by those old events now.”

  “Then poor you. Too bad you can’t take a pill for such an ailment. So tell me, how may I help alleviate your wretched curse?”

  “Father,” Cinq-Mars spoke quietly, his fingers lightly caressing the ears of Teilhard, “if you don’t mind, I’d like our tea to arrive, then I’d appreciate closing the doors, to assure our privacy.”

  The priest clucked his tongue. “I have a wee problem with that scheme. My housekeeper. I tend to close the doors on her whenever I open the port. She’ll be arching an eyebrow for a fortnight.”

  Cinq-Mars lifted the cat onto the floor, weary of the weight. “Then we’ll have to break open the port, so your punishment won’t be in vain.”

  “A shrewd mind.” The priest nodded. “You’re unorthodox. I admire that.”

  Ensconced, finally, to his liking, with even Teilhard dispatched from the room after the tea’s arrival, Cinq-Mars asked the cleric if he had anything to say about the night of the Richard riot.

  “Say?” the priest asked. “You once aspired to the priesthood, but that old desire does not elevate you to be my Father Confessor.”

  “She was in the closet, Father,” Cinq-Mars told him.

  “Excuse me?” He hesitated before asking his next question. “Who was?” And hesitated again. “What closet?”

  Cinq-Mars nodded, as though to relay that his host had managed to figure out the question, even if he wasn’t willing to admit to it. “Anik, Father. She was in the closet when you took Camillien Houde’s last confession. As the English say, ‘The jig is up.’”

  The priest’s natural jocularity dissipated, and he sought momentary refuge in his tea. Cinq-Mars noted that his first concern, when next he spoke, was for his office. “Émile, a privileged conversation. I have never repeated what was said back then, but more importantly, no one should. Not even Anik.” “She’s no more bound by your oath than I am.”

  The padre’s head jerked back as if from an impact. “Both of you are bound by the moral issue here. The mayor’s confession was between himself and God—I was merely an intermediary.”

  “I understand that, Father. Nonetheless, information has been obtained.”

  The priest’s second concern, Cinq-Mars observed, was for Anik. “That poor child. We talked about the death of her father, Houde and me. And it was, in a word, grotesque.”

  “I know,” Cinq-Mars told him.

  They gazed at one another steadily.

  The priest revealed, then, a third concern—this one for himself. “What she must think of me.”

  The cop did not respond, but studied his hands.

  Father François declared, “I think we’re past due for the port.”

  “As you like,” Cinq-Mars concurred.

  The tea was set aside, the port poured, and Cinq-Mars was content with his first sips, warming bones that still felt a chill from his trek through the cold.

  “That’s better,” the priest surmised. “Now, what is it you’d like to know that you have not already gleaned from Anik’s wayward eavesdropping? Oh, that child.”

  Cinq-Mars carefully formed his question. “Her testimony gives me information, but not explanation. You were involved in the sale of the murder weapon, but why? How did that come about? Why would anyone ask you, of all people, to be an intermediary for that task?”

  The large man shrugged and resorted briefly to his port. “The sellers found themselves in desperate straits. Their precious knife had become a liability. De Bernonville wanted only money. Houde desired his legacy enhanced, so that he might be seen as a great Quebec hero. How could that happen with two men dead? One, a friend of his. The other, a public servant. The knife not only had the power to incarcerate him again, it now had the power to pummel his legacy. Potentially, he might be remembered only as an accomplice to murder.”

  The telephone rang, but Father François indicated that the housekeeper would answer.

  “And the other one?” Cinq-Mars dared to ask. “What other one?”

  He smiled. “Politics makes strange bedfellows, they say. That must be equally true of crime.”

  “More so, I expect,” Father François admitted, and offered an affirmative guttural grunt.

  A knock sounded against the door from the kitchen, and the housekeeper poked her head in. “Telephone, Father.”

  “I am not to be disturbed, Madame Caron.”

  “The port!” she called out, and almost stormed in. “At this time of day!”

  “We are discussing a matter of the utmost gravity, Madame Caron. The utmost—” Father François paused on the word—“gravity.” After she had vanished once again, he confided, “Our code for death. Please depart with sombre visage.”

  “Of course.”

  Impossible to fathom now, Cinq-Mars was thinking, but his life might have gone this way. Were it not for the upheavals in Church and state, slipping into a priest’s cassock might have become his most natural and available endeavour. He, too, might have brokered his days negotiating the terms of his existence with housekeepers and cats. As the lives of priests went, Father François had not settled for the common routine, having chosen instead to be politically active and involved, perhaps, in criminal conspiracy. Yet he, too, had failed to evade the curse of the cassock, and slowly, steadily, succumbed to a lonely bachelorhood. Cinq-Mars felt relieved, and thanked God on the spot, that he might hope to avoid that destiny.

  “Where were we?” Father François inquired.

  Cinq-Mars did not want him to feel that their discussion was anything less than friendly. He lifted his wee crystal glass and declared, “I was sipping my port, Father. You’ll forgive me, but that’s where my concentration lies at the m
oment.”

  The priest winked at him and raised his own. Finishing, he poured himself another, and held the bottle across for Cinq-Mars to stretch out and receive.

  “The other fellow,” Father François embarked. “Camille Laurin, you mean? As Houde was keen on his legacy, so was Laurin dedicated to his political future. He no more wanted to be associated with a murder weapon than he wanted to contract leprosy. Of course he wanted to sell—everyone was desperate to sell. The problem was how. No one had experience pawning stolen artifacts. What they did know was that two men besides themselves had been involved in the heist—you don’t mind if I use that word? A fun word. Heist.”

  “Go ahead. Now, when you say two other men, you’re referring to …?”

  “Duplessis. Because he initiated the idea of stealing the knife. Roger was commissioned, shall we say, by him to swipe the knife. But nobody, not even Roger, wanted Duplessis to have it. I’m sure Carole Clément would have had his scalp had that occurred. When it came time to sell the knife, the premier might have presented himself as a potential buyer, except that he was notoriously poor, a pauper in his personal life. While he was a man of many marvels, no one figured that he could tap our tax money to purchase stolen property. Even if he could, it would have rotted Houde’s socks, not to mention Laurin’s, to see Duplessis acquire the knife. So he was out of the picture in the blink of an eye.”

  “So that left the second man,” Cinq-Mars intimated.

  “Me. Who represented the Catholic Church. Never mind that I didn’t really, and that Monsignor Charbonneau, whom I did represent, was poorer than Duplessis, and poorer than me. Which is saying something. Like le Chef, we were willing to receive the knife from Roger for free, but we did not have the means to purchase it ourselves. But the sellers were not aware of our circumstances. They figured that, since I was a priest, I was probably representing the Church that dreadful night in Dominion Square as we stood below the heels of the Scottish poet. My resources, then, might conceivably be the resources of the Church. Perhaps, it’s true that I guided them into thinking that way. Also, their culpability was already known to me, so I was a safe person to contact. So, they called. Would I like to buy the Cartier Dagger?”