by John Farrow
“I was promoted through a department decimated by war and corruption. Get that straight. Times have changed.”
“That’s not what I want to talk about anyway.”
“I walked out of Poland all the way to Germany in the dead of fucking winter.”
“Sorry I brought it up. Actually, no—you brought it up.” “I had no boots.”
“That was tough. A winter with no boots.”
“Tough? Tough? What do you know about tough?”
Cinq-Mars sighed. Perhaps he hadn’t chosen the best night for this.
“Out with it, laddie,” Touton commanded, chomping down on a fresh slice. After he chewed and swallowed, he snarled, “I have things to do. Some of us work for our salary, you know.”
“That’s not all you work for.”
The tone took the captain aback. He smiled, to have seen this burst of nettle from his young friend. He enjoyed getting under Cinq-Mars’s skin. The country boy was always so calm, so aloof. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Cinq-Mars stared back at him. He could feel his heart beginning to thump. He wondered if he’d still have a job by the end of this talk. Either he’d stake his ground as an investigative policeman, or fall—kerplunk—upon his face.
“It means,” he said, then hesitated. The lights were bright. “Let’s take a walk.”
“More with the walking,” Touton complained as he hauled himself out of the booth. At least the young guy was paying for dinner. They were released to the mild evening and this particular March night was the first three weeks in which the temperature was forecast to ride above freezing through to dawn. Spring, finally, while not causing much of a disturbance, was at last making an entrance.
They strolled down Rue St. Jacques, past the great stone banks with vaulted ceilings and gold-leaf trim and the stolid office buildings from another era. Every time Cinq-Mars glanced through a window and noticed high ceilings and vast open spaces, he thought to himself, a bugger to heat.
“So, what’s up?” Touton asked him, granting the benefit of the doubt by not being snide. He limped excessively these days, and while the exercise was not unwelcome, he kept to a measured pace.
“What do you think it costs to heat that bank in winter?”
“More than I got. Less than they got. Why are you wasting my time? I don’t care what it costs to heat a goddamn bank, as long as they keep my money warm.”
“I’ve solved it, you know,” Cinq-Mars told him.
Touton looked at him. “The cost of heating banks?”
“Not that,” he said.
Unaware of cases the young man might be working on—or if he had any, as he was only a patrolman—Touton drew one conclusion. He took his time answering, then said, “Roger’s murder?”
“Yes, sir.”
The older man walked on. Every few paces, he shook his head, as if to deflect a bad or a cumbersome thought. “All right,” he said. “Before we break out the champagne, run it down for me.”
Émile Cinq-Mars took a deep breath. Now he must perform, be meticulous and thorough, or his whole theory might unravel and leave him standing with a ball of delicate thread wrapped tightly around him in Gordian knots.
“Let me tell you who was in the park.”
“Good to cross-reference.”
“Why? Do you think you know?”
“I’ve got my guesses. Who was there?”
He started with an easy one. “Father François Legault.”
“Do you have a screw loose? Okay, Fifth of March, explain to me why you think that. I’ll explain to you why you’re still a monkey in a tree. This should be good for a laugh.”
“He’s admitted it.”
Touton stopped walking. Cinq-Mars went on for half a dozen strides before he stopped also, and looked back.
“Admitted what?”
“Being in the park.”
“But he didn’t kill Roger?”
“He’s a material witness.”
“He’s admitted that? He saw what happened?”
“Right before his eyes.”
“How far away was he?”
“Closer than me and you.”
“He said that? He told you so?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hobbled, as if stiffened further by the brief pause, Touton resumed walking. As they ambled along, Cinq-Mars told him who else had been in the park that night, who killed Roger Clément and why, or at least what various people thought might be the reasons why.
“Why do you think he did it?” Touton asked him.
“I like what Father François has to say on the matter. I’ll add that the count was a frightened man. He was on the run. He was afraid of Roger, a man that strong. Roger’s wife hated him—he remembered her from Asbestos, where she dressed him down in public once. But I’m never going to tell her that her tirade against the count might have cost her husband his life. Maybe the count remembered the incident too well, and was such a demented bastard that he wanted revenge. So he took it.”
“Father François told you all that?”
“Reggie Chartrand. I went to see him to get his account of the fight.” “What fight?”
“Never mind that now. It’s not the point.”
“That’s what I want to know. What is the point? Tell me what you fucking know, Cinq-Mars, or I’ll beat the crap out of you.”
Cinq-Mars took a breath. “Let me finish. It’s simple, really. De Bernonville killed Roger to make the Cartier Dagger worthless to his partners. That’s what I believe. After the killing, they needed to sell it for money. He was that mercenary. The others had discussed keeping it—Laurin for his politics, Houde for his good name, Duplessis for more power, the Church to revive itself. De Bernonville understood that he had to change their point of view in a hurry. He wanted cash.”
Touton liked this young cop, and appreciated that, for all his recalcitrant, small-town, priestly heritage, his mind comprehended the darker side of men’s souls.
“The point is,” Cinq-Mars went on, without any prodding this time, “anyone who studied the Sun Life Building, who took the time to gaze at those pale cement blocks and columns, who bothered to take in the view of the place, knew categorically that a man cannot expect to crawl down the face of such a building at the end of a rope without being spotted, without creating a major stir.”
Touton was expecting more, and when it appeared that Cinq-Mars had finished, asked, “How can a smart guy talk so dumb?”
Cinq-Mars crossed his arms, as though marshalling his defences before an onslaught. “Detective Sloan told me—sorry, it’s Captain Sloan—”
“That’s right. Respect a man’s rank.”
“Retired now, of course.”
“Lazy, lucky bastard. At least he made it out alive.”
Cinq-Mars fought harder to keep this on track. “He told me that on the night of the riot you gazed up for a long time at the Sun Life Building. He remembered it because nobody knew what to do with themselves, while you just stood there staring. In the end, the other cops stared up also. You had to have seen it, Captain.” He was looking directly at Touton now, who didn’t blink, staring back. “No man could crawl down the face of that building undetected—”
“I saw that it was possible. I remember thinking exactly that. It’s possible.”
“But unlikely. So unlikely that no crook would have planned it that way. No crook would ever have counted on sliding down unseen. Too risky, riot or no riot. Any cop would’ve rejected the possibility—”
“I’m not any cop. I saw that it was possible. It is possible.”
“—or at least categorized the effort as highly unlikely and gone on to other choices. A cop like yourself, a great cop, would have known to check out other possibilities with due diligence.”
“You and your use of big fucking words, Émile.”
They were quiet awhile, standing still. Cinq-Mars kept his head down, and moved his feet around, kicking a chunk of ice that had proba
bly fallen from a rooftop. He wondered if it had nearly killed anybody. Then he looked up and saw that his captain was gazing at him.
“So what are you saying?” Touton asked him.
“You failed to address the issue that it had been an inside job.”
“You’re saying I screwed up? I reject that point of view. I know how hard I worked this case.”
The young cop remained adamant, in tone and stance. “The guy who came out and identified the body, the security guard from Sun Life, he knew it was Roger right off the bat—supposedly, from his days as a hockey player, more than fifteen years earlier. But Roger had changed. He was older, and he was a corpse. He didn’t look like his old self. So how was he able to identify him so fast?”
Some signal passed between them, and both men began walking again. Traffic at this hour alternated between light and nonexistent. The older section of the city was losing its prestige as a business centre, with companies moving up the hill into new glass-and-steel skyscrapers downtown. Stone buildings were out of fashion. There’d been a lot of talk about finding a way to revive this part of the old town, but other than being an attraction for summer tourists, these blocks continued to sag. The two policemen left Champs de Mars behind them, the square abutted on one side by the massive Notre Dame Basilica. In its centre stood a statue of Maisonneuve, for here he fought Indians, killing an Iroquois chief while being wounded himself.
“I interviewed that guy. He knew Roger from a bar,” Touton said.
Cinq-Mars asked, “You believed him?”
“Why not? Nothing made him credible as an insider. You’re barking up the wrong tree.” “Woof woof.”
“Hey, kid, maybe I can’t walk, but I can still punch. I can take you on.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Touton nodded, as though satisfied.
They stopped at a red light. No traffic. Montreal culture demands that pedestrians walk when the path is clear, heedless of signals. Yet they stood on the curb in the near glow of the red, and, when the light turned green, walked on.
Cinq-Mars issued a sigh. “I don’t doubt that you can knock me out. I also don’t doubt that your guy was innocent. I know you were right, just as you knew you were right. The point is—”
“We’re back to the point. In your world, a man can’t climb down a building.”
Cinq-Mars smiled briefly, then returned to his argument. “I’d have interviewed him and everybody else in the Sun Life Building to death.”
“Even the innocent.”
“Especially the innocent. In order to eliminate them. From all future investigations, for instance.”
“So I reach obvious conclusions more quickly than you. It’s called experience. Get over it.”
Cinq-Mars looked petulant. “You had an advantage.”
“What advantage?”
“You knew he wasn’t involved, because you already knew the insider.” “Pardon me? What are you on about, laddie?”
“It’s the only explanation. Any cop working that case would have thoroughly run down every employee and eliminated any question of an inside job. You didn’t, Captain. Not because you were doing a poor job, but because you knew the insider.”
“Sometimes you confuse me, Fifth of March. So tell me. Go ahead. Who’s the insider?”
“You are,” Cinq-Mars revealed.
Cinq-Mars didn’t stop walking. He didn’t look at Touton. This time, the captain didn’t stop walking, either. He stayed alongside him, glancing over at his junior colleague, then looking ahead.
“Before I belly-laugh my way through the rest of my shift, fill me in on how you reached that conclusion.”
Cinq-Mars nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
“What are you thanking me for?”
The younger man bobbed his head, did a little feint. “You honour me by not denying anything.”
“Give me time. I want to hear you out first. I’m hoping to be entertained. By the way, just so we’re clear, are you suggesting that I killed Roger Clément?”
“Your alibi is airtight. Half the police department can vouch for your whereabouts.”
“So tell me what you got on me.”
“I’ll begin with a question,” Cinq-Mars told him.
“Am I a suspect now?” Touton finally laughed, and his amusement seemed sincere. “Forget the questions. Just tell me how I’m the insider.”
“You didn’t look for an insider with all due diligence. Why not? Because you knew it was you, not anyone else.”
“So you said. That’s nothing.”
Cinq-Mars pressed on, calmly, aware that this was the moment he had prepared for and dreamed about for months now. “You had the keys, Captain Touton. You emptied the building beforehand. You made sure everyone was out and you took away the usual security for the building.”
“It happened to be my job. Your Honour, may I point that out to the over-zealous district attorney here?”
“Then you did not discount an outside entry as being implausible. You went along with it. You helped everyone else involved to believe that that’s how it took place.”
At the next red light, they both glanced quickly in either direction and promptly stepped off the curb, crossing over. The way wasn’t entirely clear, as a cab slowed slightly for their transit.
“At least now I’m understanding how you got yourself muddled up. Don’t feel bad—it’s your first complex case. What you’re telling me is all good, but there’s not a lawyer in the land who won’t find it circumstantial, or a sober judge who’d disagree. But go on. I feel enlightened. There may be a sliver of hope for you yet, Cinq-Mars.”
“Your relationship with Captain Fleury, boss. That’s another thing.”
“What? Oh, come on. What does he have to do with the price of peas?”
Cinq-Mars raised his eyebrows and tilted his head away momentarily as though to deflect the derision. “You value courage, sir. After his car was bombed, Captain Fleury backed off his investigation of limousines. He wasn’t going to have anything to do with that, and returned to pushing a pencil. At the time, he was getting awfully close to Harry Montford. But he let that go. I can understand what happened to Fleury, how he got weak in the knees. He began to see that accounting wasn’t such a bad life. But for a long time it was hard for me to understand how you could go along with it. Until it hit me, of course.” “Okay,” Touton responded. “I’ll bite.”
“He wasn’t your friend because you had great respect for him. He was your friend because you needed him. Specifically, you needed someone in his position.”
“I didn’t know he had a position.”
“Neither did I, for a while. Until I asked myself what it might be.” His expression indicated that the answer was obvious. “To make sure he didn’t discover what he might have discovered, and to take care of your next move. That’s why you kept him close to you. I’ll talk about that later. Do you want a drink in here?”
They’d walked onto Rue de la Commune, where a bar had presented itself. Touton stooped slightly to peer into the place, saw that it was quiet and consented to drop in for a whiskey. The street had once been a small river, and somewhere nearby, it was rumoured, was the island’s first European settlement. Maisonneuve, then, and Jeanne Mance, had lived just down the block. Cinq-Mars felt aware of that passage of time as he entered the bar, perhaps because their discussion turned on the Cartier Dagger, which used to be housed near this place in a fort called Perilous.
A pretty girl served them in a corner booth. Her smile seemed to lift the spirits of both men, and they clinked glasses before enjoying the first nip.
“Okay, kid. What else you got?”
“You must visit all the bars around here.”
“This one’s new to me.”
“Back during the FLQ hunt, I put a tail on Father François. Guess where he led me? To a bar near here. Guess who he was talking to?”
Touton smiled. “I practically invented these techniques. I would never a
nswer a question where you’re pretending to already know the answer.”
“You two have a working relationship,” Cinq-Mars pointed out to him. Secretly, he was feeling pleased with himself. Even if his boss didn’t like what he was saying, he had to be impressed.
“I have a working relationship with God. So? We’re talking about your flimsy case against me.”
Cinq-Mars shrugged, the gesture of a man on top of the situation. “You get into places, boss, that’s my—” He decided to change his word. “—observation. You get in everywhere in this town, any club—it’s your city—and especially, you can get into the Sun Life Building when you’re the one holding the keys.”
Touton took a longer slug than usual, and before bringing his glass down to the table, signalled the pretty waitress for a refill. “I figure you’re paying.” “Dutch treat,” Cinq-Mars corrected him.
“I don’t know what that means,” his boss told him. “I’m not Dutch.”
“This is what it means. You put Detective Sloan in charge of the Sun Life Building and surrounding area. I know he had his good points as a cop, but being meticulous, or energetic, or hard-working, those attributes were never painted across his brow. So you split the work and gave the Sun Life, which required the most attention, to your weakest officer. Suspicious, no?”
“Coincidental, no? Circumstantial, no? I put my officers where I put my officers. Someday, you may have a command of your own. See if you make all your decisions based on who has the most energy. For crying out loud, laddie.”
The bar was dark, narrow and long, with soothing piano jazz playing over the sound system that made conversation both easy and private. Eight others were in the room, and no one was having a particularly good time, sombreness being the dominant mood.
To their right, against the wall, a lonely candle flickered.
“All right, I’ll concede that point. But it’s all part of the grand design. You cleared the building. You didn’t catch the man who was—may I point out, your friend—who was alone on the roof. I’m saying that only one person could have helped him stay hidden until the coast was clear, and then take a safe way out, and that person was Captain Armand Touton of the Night Patrol.”