I look away. It comes to me that Madeleine’s dying knows even less intimacies than her living.
Despite the cold, Sherbrooke Street is busy with lunchtime pedestrians. They walk as quickly as we do. No one pauses to glance at the antique shops or galleries which crowd this golden mile of the city.
In the autumn, Madeleine and I walked here. Despite the glorious clarity of the sky, she wanted to go to the Musée des Beaux Arts. We trudged up the grand staircase of the old neo-classical building and up more stairs into cool, slightly gloomy rooms. Madeleine seemed to have a destination. She didn’t stop at the Canadian art, nor the furniture, but made straight for one particular image. There she stopped for a long time.
It was a Mantegna, all earth and stone colours with glints of gold. It showed a dispassionate Judith in a robe of sandy hues. Her eyes cast down, she gazes at the severed head of Holofernes. This she clasps by hair which is thick and savagely alive. A servant woman stands by her side and holds open a hemp sack into which the head is being lowered.
‘C’est très beau,’ Madeleine murmured.
Yes, it was very beautiful, but I wondered whether she was trying to tell me something more.
‘Heh, you’re dreaming. It’s through here.’ Contini’s hand is firm on my shoulder. He leads me down a narrow lane by the side of an antique shop where greystone gives way to a new internal structure, a small hidden mall, with a restaurant encased in its glass frontage.
He greets everyone in effusive Italian and discusses the menu at length with a white-shirted waiter. He is in his element and relishes it. His eyes flash. He lifts his fingers to his lips and mimes a kiss and orders for both of us with a gourmet’s precision. Only then does he lean back in his chair.
‘So tell me. What did you find?’
‘Not much. A heap of material on the university assassin. Some fan mail. A diary which you’ll see. Not much there.’ I fill him in best as I can. Even when the taglierini in clams arrive, he listens intently.
‘And the journals?’
‘I fell asleep before I got very far,’ I manage to say honestly.
‘Hmmm.’ He stares at me and lets it go.
We talk for a while about the trajectory of Madeleine’s career. I give him the names of her agents in Paris and Hollywood, the names of some friends. I even dig out numbers from my address book.
‘Lovers?’ he prods me.
‘We didn’t talk about that.’
‘No, no. Of course not.’
Over the stewed figs, he shakes his head. ‘You know, part of me really thinks the grandmother is barking up the wrong tree. Getting us all to bark. It’s just a simple suicide. Not that they’re ever simple, I’ll give you that. But from the police point of view… We’re just going to waste a lot of time and taxpayers’ money. You think that too, don’t you?’
I shrug. I no longer trust my voice. Beneath the casual conviviality, Contini follows my every word and gesture with an acute attention I only want to escape.
By the time we finish our far too leisurely lunch and get back to Madeleine’s apartment, Mme Tremblay has arrived.
She hasn’t taken her coat off yet. She hovers against the expanse of window and sky like a wounded bird, too stricken to take flight. Ginette Lavigne’s vivid colouring bleaches her into frailty.
‘You must sit down, Mme Tremblay,’ I gesture her towards the sofa. ‘Please.’
‘No Pierre, thank you. I have sat for too long.’ She looks at me but I notice she isn’t looking at anything else. She holds herself tautly rigid, as if she is afraid her eyes will stray. I understand. These objects, this space of Madeleine’s are filled with too much emotion. If she allows herself to take them in, to relax for even a second, her hard-won poise will disintegrate.
‘Detective,’ she greets Contini. ‘How long will you need me for?’
‘We should be through by five. A little later, perhaps.’
‘It’s just that I need to tell Michel.’
A figure emerges from the bathroom, his face half-hidden by a sooty beard. Michel Dubois was once one of two hired hands on Mme Tremblay’s farm. These days he helps out with odd jobs, occasionally chauffeurs her. He is a taciturn man, at times even surly, who prefers being outdoors. I have rarely heard him utter a full sentence.
Now, he hangs back from us, his inky eyes darting round the room, only to settle on the floor.
‘I can take you back to Ste-Anne, Mme Tremblay. It’ll be simpler, since I have to come along to HQ as well.’
‘Could you, Pierre? That’s fine then.’ She reaches into her purse, takes out a few notes and folds them into Michel’s hand. ‘Eat something before you start back, Michel. And if you’ve got time, put something out for the dogs when you get back.’
‘Ya, you do that Dubois, and while you’re at it keep an extra special eye on the place. You never know who might turn up.’ Contini winks at the man with surprising familiarity. He must already have interrogated Michel, who now nods without meeting Contini’s eyes.
‘Can I just get your opinion on a few things before we head off, Mme Tremblay?’ Contini is all politeness. ‘Do take off your coat.’ He helps her with it, then urges her towards the study.
Curious, I trail behind her. Michel comes too. Maybe he feels he needs to protect Mme Tremblay.
The study shrinks with our numbers, becomes too close. Mme Tremblay must feel it, for she waves us away. Or perhaps it is just Michel. We linger by the door.
Ginette Lavigne digs into one of her plastic sacks and pulls out Madeleine’s diary. I am glad it is not the pistol.
‘Do you know anything about these initials?’
Mme Tremblay looks at the pages he holds open for her. Her lips tremble a little as she mumbles a series of ‘no’s’ in response to his pointing finger. And then she exclaims, ‘You see! Pick up shawl from T for M. That’s Tanya for mémère, me. My Christmas present. Hand-woven. Beautiful. I opened it last night.’ Tears fill her eyes. ‘And there’s something for Pierre, too. Under the tree. Though it’s not noted here. But there are other things. A whole list of presents. Look.’
I hurry to her side and read over her shoulder. In my fraught state I missed the list on the final blank page of the diary. What else have I missed?’
‘She never intended to die.’ Mme Tremblay stares at Contini.
‘So you keep telling us. Telling everyone.’ His voice suddenly takes on an edge of menace. ‘What is it in your granddaughter’s journals that you didn’t want us to see, Mme Tremblay?’
‘What do you mean, Detective?’
He shrugs. ‘Perhaps there are things in there about you. Maybe your relations with Mlle Blais were not quite so cosy as you make out? You discovered her body, isn’t that right?’
Mme Tremblay exhales a long ragged breath. ‘Really Detective! What are you suggesting?’
‘You’re so certain it was murder. Perhaps you know more than you’re telling us.’
The coolness in his voice sends a chill through me. Simultaneously I have the feeling I could easily punch that smug face.
‘You’re being dumb, Contini!’ I find myself exclaiming.
He doesn’t respond. His eyes bear down on Mme Tremblay.
‘What do you know about Mlle Blais’ will?’ he asks her.
‘Her will? This is poppycock, detective. Are you trying to tell me I murdered my granddaughter for her money?’
‘It’s not an unusual motive.’ A smile scuttles across his face and disappears as quickly. ‘You will show us Mlle Blais’ will.’
‘If I had such a thing, I would gladly do so. I said the same thing to Monique and her son last night when they suddenly appeared.’ The face she turns towards me is taut with distaste. She brushes a stray hair from her neck. ‘Did Madeleine lodge a will with you, Pierre?’
I shake my head.
‘You see, Detective. There would be a will if Madeleine had intended to die. She was a practical woman.’
But Contini has already ch
anged tack. ‘Monique… I take it you mean your daughter, Monique Blais - Madeleine’s mother. And the son would be…?’
Mme Tremblay is staring mutely at the floor.
‘Madeleine’s step-brother?’ Contini prods her.
‘Marcel Blais,’ she replies in a flat tone. ‘Apparently he lives in one of those south shore suburbs now. He alerted Monique to…’ Her words peter out into breathlessness. ‘In any case, Monique came hurtling up to see me.’
‘And they’re both staying with you in Ste-Anne?’
She looks at him askance, but her voice when it comes is steely. ‘No, Detective. I told them I wasn’t ready to play hostess.’
Contini whispers something I can’t hear to Ginette Lavigne who edges out of the room while Contini, casually polite now, asks, ‘Can you help us by naming any of these voices, Mme Tremblay?’ He pushes the button on the answering machine.
We listen to Madeleine’s voice in a silence so hushed it could already be a memorial service.
In the pause before the beep, a clatter of keys dropping to the floor ruptures the stillness. We all turn to look at Michel Dubois. He picks them up with a whispered apology and stands there solemnly, at a loss, his large frame filling the doorway, his eyes focussed on his offending fingers.
‘Pauvre Michel, I know how you cared for her,’ Mme Tremblay murmurs. ‘Since she was a child. I know.’ She squeezes his hand. ‘Go now. It will be better.’
Contini flicks on the answering machine again. ‘Please listen, Mme Tremblay.’
This time, amongst the voices, I hear a series of clicks I hadn’t registered before. People who hadn’t bothered with messages.
Mme Tremblay seems confused. ‘I don’t know. I think one of the women is Marthe Ducharme. The actress.’
‘And the men?’
She shrugs, shakes her head. ‘Please, can we leave now.’ Her lips are clenched, her face too white. I take her arm and lead her from the room.
She slips into the sofa and hides her face in her hands. After a moment, she looks round her with a dazed expression. ‘Has Michel gone then?’ she asks.
I survey the room. ‘I guess so. I didn’t notice.’
‘He’s taking it very hard. I worry about him. You know he’s been with us since he was fifteen. I rescued him when he was expelled.’
Her attention strays and then she says, ‘Pierre, I think… I think…’ She stops herself and in a louder voice, calls out, ‘Detective Contini!’
Contini emerges from the study. ‘Yes. We’re going now.’
‘It’s not that.’ She is wringing her hands. ‘I think… That last message, it could just be the man with the pony-tail.’
‘Oh?’ Contini’s eyes light up.
‘Yes. I’m not sure. But the accent… Maybe.’ Her gaze is on her skirt. She smooths one of its pleats, then looks up at us in visible bewilderment. ‘That means he wasn’t a hitch-hiker. Madeleine knew him.’
Contini’s sits down and takes Mme Tremblay’s hand. He holds it between his own. His tone is warm with concern. ‘And you’ll agree that message contains bad news. About a part, perhaps?’
Mme Tremblay doesn’t answer immediately. Her thoughts flit across her brow and leave their traces in new furrows.
‘I know what you’re suggesting,’ she says at last. ‘You think Madeleine got this bad news, decided to take this man down to Ste-Anne with her in order to win him over. Thought she had failed. And took her own life.’ She exhales with a moan. ‘But she seemed so happy.’
‘She was an actress,’ Contini says softly. His glance at me is rueful as he echoes my response to him. ‘A great actress.’
Mme Tremblay doesn’t move.
‘We’ll find him. I promise you. In a day or two. As soon as we get this photo-fit done. My men will take it round to all Mlle Blais’ theatre friends. Then we’ll know. One way or another. The name hasn’t by any chance come back to you.’
She shakes her head.
‘I think it may begin with an F or a T,’ I mutter.
Contini stares at me.
‘From the diary,’ I explain.
‘Right. Let’s get over to HQ. Your car’s here, I presume?’
I nod.
‘You take Lavigne then. She’ll direct you. Mme Tremblay, you come with me.
In the lobby, Contini pauses. ‘We should check Mlle Blais’ mail. There might be something there.’ He strides towards the rows of boxes and after a moment comes back with a small sheaf of envelopes.
The writing on the top one gives me a jolt. I stare at it. I want to tear the envelope from his hands.
‘We’ll look at these later.’ Contini winks at me with something like relish and stuffs the letters in his pocket. ‘By the way, Rousseau, did you note those names for me?’
‘I’ll do it at headquarters.’
Outside the afternoon is already growing dim, but the lights haven’t come on yet to brighten the city. Everything looks dirty from the grit beneath our feet to the sooty grey of the sky.
Mme Tremblay’s hand is on my arm. ‘I’ll drive with you, Pierre,’ she says with sudden decision.
‘Is that all right, Detective? We’ll follow you. Hold on here while I get my car.’
Contini shrugs, throws me a meaningful look. ‘Okay, but don’t get lost.’
Mme Tremblay is silent as we make our way up the steep hill. Beside us, as a car beeps from behind, I notice a lumbering Chevvy, so grey with grit and dirt, it’s colour has been wiped out. It crawls up the slope at our pace. Only as we turn into the street where I have parked, does it shift gear and speed away. Mme Tremblay waves and from the back I recognize Michel Dubois’ bulk.
‘He worries about me too,’ Mme Tremblay murmurs.
We drive east along Sherbrooke, keeping Contini and Lavigne in view. They move slowly, pull over any time they make a light before we do, as if they suspect I might deliberately lose them and slip away.
Mme Tremblay still hasn’t spoken. I don’t prod her but I wish she would ask what I know she must ask, so that I can report my failure. At last as we turn south, she says, ‘Did you get a chance to look at the journals, Pierre?’
I nod. ‘But I didn’t get very far. I fell asleep. Stupid of me. Contini promises the press won’t get hold of them.’
‘I’ve stopped worrying about that,’ she snaps.
‘He’ll give them straight back to you.’
‘What if I’ve been wrong, Pierre?’ Her voice fades into baffled misery. ‘What if Madeleine did it? To herself. Did I really know her so little?’ She buries her face in her hands.
No words which might dislodge her pain come to me.
‘She wasn’t hiding a terrible illness, was she? That’s the only thing which might make sense of it. She was terrified of illness. If there were that on top of disappointments with work, perhaps…’ She shifts in her seat, waits for me to confirm her speculations.
‘Madeleine wore so many different faces,’ I say at last.’
‘Yes,’ Mme Tremblay tone is blunt. ‘But I thought I knew a great many of them.’
She is silent again. Only when we approach our destination does she speak, in English, now, her voice straining over the words. It takes me a moment to realise she is quoting, though I don’t know the source.
So proud she was to die
It made us all ashamed
That what we cherished, so unknown
To her desire seemed -
So satisfied to go
Where none of us should be
Immediately - that Anguish stooped
Almost to jealousy.
Is that how it is, Pierre?’
I taste her anguish. It is acrid. She envies Madeleine her defiant death.
I cast her an anxious glance. The blue of her veins has grown dark in her taut, mottled hands. I cover them.
‘You mustn’t even consider it,’ I murmur.
The Provincial Police headquarters is big and squat and imposing. It dwarfs us as we swing t
hrough its doors. Contini, though, swells with its authority. Like some Roman emperor, he waves us along with an imperious hand. Perhaps he would like the lions to finish with us quickly so that he can retire to the sumptuous peace of private quarters.
I am suddenly acutely aware of the resources he has at his disposal. The thought should please me. Instead it fills me with a bewildering anxiety. I watch the elevator swish shut behind Mme Tremblay and wish I could wrench it back open again.
Ginette Lavigne is left in charge of me. Without Contini there, whether to shield her or to cow her, she is coldly officious. She leads me to a windowless room where a uniformed man unceremoniously grasps my hand, tips my fingers into an inkpad, then presses them onto prepared squares on a sheet of paper. First right, then left. Lavigne lurks, watching my every gesture. Maybe this is what causes me inadvertently to move my left hand and smudge the thumb print. Lavigne tsks. My hand is gripped with steely firmness and we start again. When we are finished, Lavigne briskly orders me to wait for Mme Tremblay in the lobby.
The wait is long, but the momentary anonymity as welcome as an evening breeze after an overheated day.
Uniforms slip in and out of the doors. Voices argue and disappear. A woman in a lab coat taps her foot impatiently then glides into the elevator. A harried-looking man in a frayed jacket asks me for directions and I point him towards a reception desk. Sirens wail.
I decide to shorten the wait by making up the list Contini has asked of me. It shouldn’t take long. The younger men I know in Ste-Anne aren’t numerous. But I pause over each one, trying to imagine him with Madeleine, pause over each of the priests, too, their features shadowy. I have only managed to jot down a few names when Mme Tremblay reappears.
She is accompanied by a woman with a doughy, humourless face who hands her over to me with lightly-veiled relief. It is past five o’clock. She is dreaming of home and a hot bath, but I delay her departure by handing her my list for Contini.
As we climb into the car, Mme Tremblay’s words take me by surprise. ‘I want to go back to the apartment, Pierre. Drop me there, please.’ Her shoulders are rigid, her woollen hat slightly askew.
The Dead of Winter Page 14