River City

by John Farrow

  “You mean I failed.”

  “We all have. It’s part of being a cop.”

  “Who do you think was the insider?”

  “Can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t.”

  “I don’t get this.”

  “You will.”

  Now Cinq-Mars wanted another cigarette. Touton declined.

  They walked away from the water, and crossing the tracks they saw a man strolling beneath a rising moon with a collie on a leash. Cinq-Mars felt watched, followed, examined from the inside out. “Do you know him?” Cinq-Mars asked.

  “Do you?”

  “I feel like I should. My hair is standing up on the back of my neck.”

  “Easy, laddie. You’ve got a long way to go until retirement.”

  They squeezed back through the hole in the chain-link fence, then leaned back against it, as it was comfortable enough. Touton rocked against the wire, hands thrust deep in his pockets. His protégé put his shoulder against the chain and waited.

  “Laurin was the key,” the captain said.

  “Why him?”

  “Why was he there? Except for de Bernonville, everybody represented someone else. Vimont was there for Montford, who was involved in exchange for favours from Duplessis. Houde was also there for Duplessis, as well as for himself. He expected to be remembered as one of the wild men of that night. The priest was there for the Church and for Father Joe. But why Laurin? He was there for Roger’s insider.”

  “Who was?” “Can’t tell you.”

  “And you know this, or suspect it, through what information?” “Can’t tell you that either. Think about it.”

  The young cop looked back towards the water. Then, suddenly, it hit him.

  “Father François knows. That’s why you wanted me to start questioning him, after I told you about Anik being in the closet.”

  The old cop shrugged. “Look, I knew about the closet. Carole found out about some of it from her daughter, but she instructed Anik to stay mute. She taught her that it was sacred, what a dying man said to his priest. She wouldn’t let Anik tell her what she heard. We’re all old Catholics here, and some traditions never die, even among the radicals. But yeah, I never thought the priest would divulge anything, so I never went after him. Then again, he never seemed like a real priest to me. More socialist than spiritual. But I was wrong. He wouldn’t tell me, but he found a way to pitch in, as much as he could.”

  “Now I get it,” Cinq-Mars said.

  “Get what?”

  “Why you brought me onto your team.” “Why? I ask myself that question every day.” “You met me with Anik.” “That was a night. You arresting her.”

  “You noticed that we liked each other.” Cinq-Mars crushed his smoke under his shoe.

  “If you got close to Anik, she might give you a name. Laurin represented the old fraternal sect—now extinct, one hopes—the Order of Jacques Cartier. He wasn’t a criminal, he was a psychiatrist and a politician. Someone of power sent him there, the same powerful interests who put Roger inside the Sun Life.”

  “He worked inside the building, then, a CEO?”

  “I checked them all. They’re mostly English. But a man of great power can get almost anything he wants. Including a set of keys, and help from others.” “So it could be anyone.”

  “Or someone so well known that the mention of his name caused a child in a closet to weep.”

  Instinctively, they both began walking towards the street. “You think so?” Cinq-Mars asked him.

  “I think not. I did once. But you see, that’s why Roger was working for me. Sort of. He wanted to participate in a share of that knife. I wanted to find a way to get it into the hands of a soldier.”

  “Not you?”

  “Not me. That would be a criminal act I couldn’t duck. There were other heroes. Plenty of them. Together, I thought we might be able to do something. I didn’t count on so many other people thinking exactly the same way. I figured Roger could handle himself. And he could. But only to a point.”

  They listened to their steps on the pavement.

  “I might’ve come close once,” Touton revealed. “An old friend of mine, a restaurateur, Lu Lee, gave me a call one night. Someone had been whispering about the Cartier Dagger at his place. The guy had nasty things to say, too, about certain minorities. I got up there as fast as I could, but he was gone before I arrived. The bastard paid cash. No paper trail. When I talked to Lu Lee, he made the customer sound like somebody high up inside the Order. Just the things he said. I hoped the man would go eat there again, but he never did. Lu Lee is no longer with us.”

  Cinq-Mars cleared his throat before he made his admission. “I almost had the name. I could have had it.”

  “Why didn’t you get it?”

  “The priest in me. I chose to respect the last words of a dying man to his priest, so I let them go unspoken. Anik was going to tell me. But I stopped her.”

  “So we just missed twice. We’re just Catholics. Maybe third time lucky.” They walked a bit, crossed after a car passed, and stepped onto the opposite sidewalk.

  “You’re still more priest than cop,” Touton noted. He put a hand on the younger man’s near shoulder again, as he did when they left the bar. “That’s all right. We can use some of those.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t be. You made a decision. As a young man, I was a soldier. I went to hell, but that’s a part of me I won’t trade. You’re part priest. Never work against yourself, Émile.” He removed his hand. “I’m going to walk back to the station alone. I could use a little time on my own right now.”

  They remained standing where they were.

  Cinq-Mars didn’t know why, but he didn’t move and neither did his boss. “Unless you were planning to bust me,” Touton said. “No, sir.” He tried to smile, but failed somehow.

  “If I was you, I’d bust my ass. I turned my face away to let that crime happen.” “I’m not you.”

  “You’re too soft. You have to be hard in this life. Sometimes.”

  “Since we’re on the subject, I’ll be hard. I wrote a report.”

  He noticed the man’s shoulders rotate back. “To whom?”

  “Nobody. As long as you give up your interest in acquiring the knife. Don’t ask me how I know, but I know. You’ve found out who has it now, but nobody can ever hear that information from you. Take it to your grave.” The young man was not so soft after all. In a terse tone, Touton said, “Apologize, laddie, because that’s the first time you’ve insulted me tonight and I won’t have it.”

  Cinq-Mars determined what was meant by those words, and what his answer ought to be. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “All right, then,” Armand Touton said, and he turned away, facing the direction that would return him to his office. He reconsidered, and asked for a smoke for the walk back. “I’ve fixed it for Carole Clément to get a pension. Just so you know. If you do bust me ever, wait for that to go through first.”

  “Don’t go insulting me now. You’ve done so well all night.”

  “So we’re even.”

  “For my part, I just want you to understand the situation,” Cinq-Mars said.

  “I heard you the first time. Listen, laddie, you think we lost this one? We let the leader of the Order slip free? Don’t be so sure. One thing I know, there’s always some dark figure walking his dog down the railway tracks, some man who makes your hair stand on end. Like when we close down the whorehouse and the pimps rise up instead. If we kept the whorehouses, I bet my daughter never would’ve found her way into one, and never would have come in contact with a pimp, and so never would’ve run away back to him.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Cinq-Mars said.

  “So am I. But this is the thing, Émile. There’s always some dark figure. Doesn’t matter who we bust or what we do. There’s always a dark figure on a track.”

  “Wit
h a dog.”

  “Who makes your hair stand on end. The best we can do is keep him in the dark, don’t let him stand out in the light of day. That’s why I work the Night Patrol. To keep the day bright and sunny on these streets.” Touton extended his hand. “Good night, Émile.”

  Cinq-Mars was surprised by the abrupt departure.

  “Good night, boss.”

  The two men parted company, one going back to work, the other heading home, even though initially he had to walk in the opposite direction to get there. That stroll took him over and through the grounds where the city had begun, and in the quiet night he could sense that old wooden fort—stout still, its devout inhabitants dwelling under the dread of attack one moment, wrapped up in the ecstasy of their wild adventure the next. Fort Perilous had become a cosmopolitan enterprise. Recently, distant travellers had dropped by for a World’s Fair. Since then, after that grand party, the people had made it through the throbbing fever of rebellion. Yet they were still standing. The first of their people had prevailed against every onslaught, and taken the measure of every challenge. Some things did not change.

  Cinq-Mars was happy to take a long way home, content to walk the streets of his city at night, through the old quartier that was feeling like a ghost town, the aged buildings as quiet as tombs. Then up the hill to the vibrancy of downtown, the sidewalks animated with lovers and wanderers, the scent of spring in the air, the bars spilling customers from their doors, drawing others in. He thought he’d head for a bar himself, but his legs kept moving, and he ambled all the way home.

  There he sat in his living room, on the sofa, then on the floor, where he thought about things. He pondered the future and dwelled upon the past. He had rationalized losing Anik when that sad moment had occurred, and had poured himself into work and the dark case of her father’s murder. Which had meant pouring himself into the history of the Cartier Dagger and of his adopted city. In a way, solving it all had been meant to prove his love for Anik. To show her his love. Having done so, he found himself alone anyway. His heart had been broken once, but he administered the antidote—work, obsession, forging on. Now he could wholly feel the loss, and he grieved for a love that might have been, that in the overall scheme of things could never be revived.

  Dawn would find him on the floor, slumped, doubled up, asleep. Rousing himself at first light, he stumbled through to his bed and peeled back the covers. He curled up in bed, clothes and all. He didn’t possess the energy to undress, as though a great weariness had overtaken him and needed to be served through a long sleep. His eyes snapped open once. He wondered if he was wearing his uniform. Then, remembering that this was supposed to be his day off until nightfall came around again, he managed to work his trousers off, then his shirt. Then he resorted to a substantial rest.

  CHAPTER 30

  1971

  EACH HAD A SHOVEL. THE LIGHT OF A HALF-MOON GLOWED UPON the few remaining patches of snow and the shelf of tombstones. Black, grey and white marble emerged from a winter hibernation to breathe cool mountain air again. In its devotion to all seasons, the earth had sufficiently thawed to admit their trespass, yet the pair of women were vigilant not to disturb the ground in any grievous way, or to awaken ghosts who might prowl that realm.

  Slurping noises accompanied their travail, as the mucky clay was lifted from the hole their diligence had created.

  Anik Clément bent down and with a stick measured the depth.

  “One more,” her mother said.

  “One or two,” the daughter agreed.

  Anik’s terrier, Ranger, examining the cavity, seemed to approve. Anik pulled him away.

  Carole Clément wedged her shovel down their neat, square hole to pry free a section of mud. Scraping it up the side walls to the surface, she deposited the clump upon their small pile.

  “There,” she said.

  Anik tested the depth again.

  “That does it,” she said.

  She rose to her feet again.

  Her eyes scanned the vast sky.

  “It’ll rain,” she said, “right?”

  “The forecast says so. I can feel a change in the air.”

  Upon the ridge where they stood, they could see across the city to the west and north. Moonlight illuminated the distant Laurentian hills, with a scud of clouds brightening and darkening as they sailed the higher winds directly above.

  “Now’s the time,” Carole said quietly.

  Beyond their small pile of muck, Anik’s backpack lay waiting. She unzipped the inner pocket, having to shove Ranger’s nose out of her way several times, and extracted the protective box for the Cartier Dagger. She placed it on the ground. Crouching over it, she opened the case and gently removed the relic. Still bent low to the ground, she kissed the handle lightly, then stood up.

  She passed the knife to her mother, who kissed the handle also.

  Anik held the handle to her lips again, then the blade to her cheek, then moved over the hole dug thirty-six inches deep into the soil above her father’s grave.

  “Do I say something first or after?” she asked her mom. Carole Clément’s lips were trembling, her eyes moistened in the light of the moon.

  “Now,” she managed to suggest. As if to confirm that choice, Ranger sat squarely on his haunches, waiting to hear what words might be spoken.

  Anik had to catch her breath first. Her lips quavered. Her small frame began to shake. Carole stepped across to stand more closely beside her, slipping an arm around her waist. Sudden stray tears from both women slid from their cheeks to drip upon the wet earth.

  “Daddy,” the young woman said to the air, to the ground. “We got the knife back for you. You can look after it from now on. You deserve to have it with you.”

  Anik held the dagger, and Carole covered her daughter’s hands with her own, then spoke the words she had spent days preparing. “We’re burying the knife in the soil of this place we call Quebec, of this city, once known as Hochelaga, once known as Fort Perilous, once known as Ville-Marie, now called Montreal, to help make this a good ground, a sacred earth, for everyone who lives here, for everyone who arrives, in our time, and for all time. We entrust it to your care, Roger, my love.” She paused to wipe away her tears. Then, more quietly, as though only between herself and her dead husband, she said, “You were my war hero, Roger. You are my love.”

  Anik squeezed her mom’s fingers, to let her know she heard her words. “Daddy, in a time of war, you went to prison for love. That makes you my war hero, too.”

  Kneeling, Carole added, “You deserve the Cartier Dagger as much as anyone.”

  At the time of her father’s funeral, Anik was too young to fully comprehend the loss. In her own way, then, this became her solemn commemoration of his life, and of her love for him.

  “Hold Ranger,” she said, and her mother did, hugging him in her arms. Bending low, Anik introduced the knife into the cavity, planting it upright there, in the soil of the mountain on the river city. She shoved the blade down to the hilt. Then she stood again, gazing upon it.

  Composure, briefly surrendered, returned. Anik stepped over to the case, and from it retrieved the broken tip, which she showed to her mother. “I’m keeping this,” she said. “As if it’s my daddy’s heart.”

  Her good friend, Émile, had asked her out again. She had to tell him that what was done was done. He understood, although they were both saddened. He gave Anik the tip of the knife then, without her asking, and without saying a further word.

  She placed it now in her jacket pocket, which she zipped closed.

  Mother and daughter hugged each other. They held on tight.

  Then they attended to their noses, and eyes, and laughed a little.

  Anik and Carole began to backfill the cavity, easing the earth around the knife until it was completely covered. Anik tamped the ground around where the knife stood, then backfilled the rest of the soil. Carefully, they returned the square patch of grass they’d removed to its original location, and di
d their best to eliminate any evidence of their trespass there.

  “It’ll rain by morning,” Carole assured her daughter. “That’ll wash away our footprints, and the bits of dirt.”

  “I’ll come back once the sun’s out again. Pay a proper visit. Bring a bouquet and some grass seed. Just to make sure everything’s tidy.” “Good. It’ll be all right, sweetie.” “It will. Daddy’s watching, you know.” She knew.

  The mother waited for her daughter to come away first. This was the young woman’s time. Her moment, when a murmur nurtured in the heart flew above this sacred soil, across time and sky, forward and back, imbuing the earth and the history of the world with her regard, her terrible trepidation, her immense love. She remained still, and finally her mother tugged her arm, gently whispering her name. They gathered up the empty case, the backpack and their tools, and haltingly made their way down the mountainside in the ambient dark, led by an aging, still spry terrier. They did not take a route common to pedestrians, but chose a difficult path scouted on previous trips. They moved through the trees and over boulders.

  They did not wish to be seen.

  Two women with shovels and a dog. Departing a cemetery in the dark. On a mount called Royal. They drove down the mountainside into the thrum of their city on the frozen river, although the ice was breaking up now, and the water flowed freely once again.

  A NOTE ON THE TYPE

  This book is set in Minion, the first version of which was designed for Adobe Systems in 1989 by Robert Slimbach. The name comes from the traditional naming system for type sizes, in which minion is between nonpareil and brevier. Inspired by the classical, old-style typefaces of the late Renaissance, Minion is also, in a typographical sense, quite economical to set, offering a few more characters per line than most other faces without appearing crowded or compressed—a useful attribute in a text as lengthy as River City.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Novels that draw a substantial portion of their narrative from history cull their information from many sources, while permitting fact and fiction to commingle. Stories recounted by Captain (retired) Jacques Cinq-Mars, the former captain of the Night Patrol with the Montreal Police Department, were crucial and inspiring to this writer. I hope that the accounts were put to good use here. I am greatly indebted also to a broad range of published material. Listed alphabetically by author and indicating publication dates for the editions at my disposal, I especially credit: Duplessis, by Conrad Black, published by McClelland & Stewart, 1977; Montreal: The Days That Are No More, by Edgar A. Collard, published by Doubleday Canada, 1976; Storied Streets: Montreal in the Literary Imagination, by Bryan Demchinsky and Elaine Kalman Naves, published by McFarlane, Walter & Ross, 2000; The Revolution Script, by Brian Moore, published by Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1971; Montreal: From Mission Colony to World City, by Leslie Roberts, published by Macmillan of Canada, 1969; Memoirs, by Pierre Elliott Trudeau, published by McClelland & Stewart, 1993; City Unique: Montreal Days and Nights in the 1940s and ‘50s, by William Weintraub, published by McClelland & Stewart, 1996. Of assistance were websites operated by the government of Canada on early French-Canadian history. To editors and readers Shea Lowry, Anne McDermid, Lina Roessler, Andrew Hood, Lloyd Davis and Iris Tupholme, great thanks.