Perish the Day

by John Farrow

  At home, one hand on his beer glass, Émile puts a call through to Chief Till.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Chief, we need a copy of the ME report on the girl.”

  “My hands are tied, Émile. You know that. I’m not privy.”

  “Get it,” Cinq-Mars tells him, pausing for emphasis, “anyway.”

  “How do you expect me to—” Till begins, then checks himself.

  Cinq-Mars fills in the blank space. “If Hammond won’t release it to you, talk to whoever wrote it. Or typed it. You’re bound to have a relationship with the ME or with a few people in his office. If necessary, do it unofficially, but we need a copy.”

  Chief Till agrees to undertake the attempt.

  An old, and crude, crime-fighting adage is not holding true here: follow the money or the honey. If anything, the killer was willing to dip into his funds to adorn the victim with mild extravagance—clothing and jewelry. If money is not the guiding motivation, then count on it to include sex, at least the criminal’s take on what constitutes sex. This is where the killer’s attitude is puzzling, and possibly revealing. He’s being unique, dressing and posing his victim, making an exceptional effort not to mark or wound her. The murderer wanted the killing to be as gentle as possible. Nothing about homicide is anything other than brutal, yet in this instance the killer seems repelled by his own deed, going to great lengths to cloak his true nature to suit an ideal of a superior aesthetic. A kind of whitewash of the murder even as it’s taking place, as though he wants the act to be noticed as a work of art.

  He wants others to declare it so.

  As though he desires to be considered worthy.

  Be mindful of that, Cinq-Mars instructs himself. Be on the lookout for a perpetrator with an inflated, pompous sense of his own artistic nature. Keep an eye out for a well-heeled gentleman who sees himself through rose-colored lenses.

  While Addie’s killer might suit that profile, he can’t say the same for Malory’s.

  Perplexed, Émile guzzles beer as though to ease the pang of his frustration.

  A call to Sandra puts him at ease with how she’s getting on. She and her sister have taken lunch in town, moving on from coffee at the restaurant to cosmopolitans in a bar. “A few cute gents around,” she intimates. He knows she’s doing okay. The funeral arrangements are done and weren’t complicated—she’s predicting her arrival back home for later in the afternoon.

  He’s stuck with choosing either a nap or another beer. The nap idea holds sway momentarily, until, alone in the bedroom, strangely, the fear that overtook him in the clock tower insinuates itself again, rising through his bloodstream. He nixes sleep as a bad idea. Émile decides that another beer suits the hour. He’ll down it slowly, not to be mired in his cups this early in the day. Given his wife’s inclinations for the afternoon, it might be wise to remain the semi-sober one.

  Mulling things over on the front porch, lazily swatting flies, Émile concludes that his problem may be both simple and large: between his current cocktail hour and the cocktail party a couple of days on, he lacks a next move. After his beer he’ll drive back to the campus and pick up his official invitation to the gathering, then call it a day. He starts with that plan, but a third of the way through the beer he takes out his mobile phone and makes another call. He and a pal in Washington, a high-ranking special agent with the FBI, rely on voice recognition. They never repeat each other’s names over the phone, in case a friend or foe nearby—such as an agent at the next desk over—can hear them. He had called him the other night from Till’s squad car to do a background check on Professor Toomey.

  “I’m upping the ante,” Cinq-Mars stipulates. Not even a hello.

  “How so?”

  “Browsed the dead guy’s papers. He had knowledge. Probably position. He’s stepped away, but like me his switch never fully tripped. I suspect he’s a closed circuit, plugged in.”

  “He was live when he was still alive, you’re saying.”

  “In some respects. Maybe. I’m wondering what the connection was.”

  “Will get back to you.”

  “Say hi,” Émile adds on. He isn’t going to speak the man’s wife’s name, either.

  “You, too.” He’ll say hi to Sandra from him.

  He’s left alone with his beer once more. A lonely old soldier of a bottle. Horses across the yard graze under a clear sky. Perhaps it’s the alcohol in the middle of the afternoon but he finds himself in a particularly chatty mood. He calls his former partner, Bill Mathers, a younger man who remains on the force back home in Montreal.

  “Don’t recognize the area code, Émile. Where the hell are you?”

  At least New Hampshire doesn’t sound far away.

  “Doing what?” Bill wants to know. If he’s strictly on vacation he wouldn’t be calling.

  “Sandra’s mom passed.”

  That changes the mood. “Sorry, Émile. My condolences to you both.”

  “Thanks.” Émile heads back inside, where it’s cooler. Fewer flies.

  “That’s not why you’re calling,” Bill points out to him.

  Émile admits, “I’m investigating three murders. Don’t ask how I got involved.”

  Mathers skips only a single beat before replying, “Of course you are. Do you need me down there?”

  “That won’t work. I’ve got an ally on-site, but there’s a state trooper who’d consider it a provocation and send us both to Gitmo if another Canadian cop shows up.”

  “What then? What can I do to help?” Obviously, there must be something.

  Émile is drawn back to the cozy kitchen and a comfortable stool there. “A heads-up, Bill. I have a bad feeling about this one. I’ll try to acquire a list of charitable donors, rich men and women kind enough to give their money away. If you can use your powers to run down that list, see if any red lights go off, I’d appreciate it. Can’t tell you what to look for because I don’t know.”

  Bill Mathers understands as well as Émile does that he can call the FBI and have greater resources at his fingertips. At times, he chooses to do things more quietly, without the Americans knowing, and that’s where Bill comes in. Or, he merely desires to revisit the association with an old friend and colleague for the ease and comfort that that provides. Bill wonders which one it is this time. Given that Émile is down in the States, he’s guessing it’s the former, although his tone suggests that he ought to keep an open mind about that. The death in the family might have instigated the call. Either way, he agrees. “Send it. I assume I’m not actually doing this?”

  “Always the best option,” Émile concurs. They exchange pleasantries and Bill repeats his condolences before signing off. Thoughtful, Émile Cinq-Mars quaffs the dregs of his beer. Now he’s considering making a third phone call, a fourth if he counts buzzing his wife, and suspects that he’s lost the will to resist the impulse today.

  He’s saved by the bell. In this instance, the doorbell.

  A man steps back as Émile pushes the screen door outward. It’s accomplished awkwardly. His eyes are slow to adjust from the dim light of the house to the brighter light of the porch and the still brighter glare of the yard beyond the visitor. He blinks several times before the new arrival comes into focus. That he’s below average in height is accentuated by being a step down on the porch which puts him at a greater disadvantage to the tall Cinq-Mars. He’s wearing a jacket and tie which comes across as a tad suspicious out in the countryside, as though he has stuff to sell that no one wants to buy. His spiky nose complements a tuft of beard that sharpens to a point. The facial hair changes from white at the sideburns, to salt-and-peppery across the cheeks and jawline, to mainly black under the chin. The man’s eyes look frightened. He holds his hands in an attitude suggestive of either fear or prayer, one wrist raised high on his chest in the grip of the opposite hand as though he’s wounded.

  “Bollocks!” the man remarks. “I’m gobsmacked. Pardon me?”

  Which not only sounds fore
ign it makes no sense at all.

  “May I help you?” Cinq-Mars asks. The attitude inherent in his voice strikes a compromise between a welcome and a challenge.

  “No way to do that. May I help you? That is the crux, I’m told, the genuine crux of the question at this moment. That’s what she tells me.”

  Émile’s confused. “What were you told? By whom? Who is she?”

  “Me,” another voice pipes up.

  “Her,” the man confirms. “I’m gobsmacked.”

  At that moment, his niece peeks out from behind the gentleman where she’d been crouching at his back, big grin on her face, mouth wide open in an attitude of clownish surprise, her eyes expressing tomfoolery. “My bad!” she exclaims, then marches right on past the visitor and Émile Cinq-Mars into the house. The door bangs shut behind her. Turning, she’s surprised that the visitor is still outside. He seems to be turning around as though to leave. “Oh for heaven’s sake,” she mutters and repeats her entrance, this time holding the door open for her guest to come in as well.

  “Who’s this?” Cinq-Mars asks once everyone has filed indoors.

  “This,” Caro announces, “is Chuck Carpel.”

  “Mr. Carpel,” Émile says.

  “Charles,” the man corrects. “Or CC, my friends say. My friends call me CC.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Carpel. I’m Émile Cinq-Mars.”

  “The detective.”

  “Retired,” he adds.

  “Really?” Carpel asks, and shoots a glance at the willowy Caroline. The look on his face expresses disappointment. “What? Why?”

  “Not from this case,” she assures him, and takes one of his arms in both her hands. “Charles,” she says, deploying the French pronunciation, rolling the r in an exaggerated way, “can help us. Can’t you, Chucky?”

  “Probably not,” he tells her. “Not likely.”

  Émile has had enough. “Okay. What’s going on?”

  “Charlie’s a gemologist,” Caroline explains.

  “Charles,” Carpel insists again.

  Caro doesn’t release her grip, as though she believes that she has hold of someone who’s slippery. “Okay, I’ll CC you later, but for now, Chucky’s the man of the hour. Not only a seller of jewels, but a gemologist of considerable renown.”

  “They say that,” Carpel qualifies. “I say that, too.”

  “He can tell us stuff about the necklaces.”

  “Please,” Émile says, still unsure of this meeting, “have a seat.”

  They move into the living room and sit. Carpel adjusts his position to be more forward in his soft chair than seems natural. The stance suggests that he might bolt.

  “I suppose,” Émile remarks, “I can describe the necklaces to you. Better yet, I have a small photograph on my phone.”

  “He’s seen one already.”

  “I can describe the necklace to you,” Carpel says, and Cinq-Mars puts his finger on what’s odd about the man. He talks as though no one else is in the room, as if to the walls, and it’s never obvious that he’s listening. As though he perpetually inhabits his own mental shell.

  Perhaps that’s why Émile addresses his next question to the college student as if Carpel is absent. “Did he make the necklace?”

  “Inferior, no,” Carpel answers. “Too inferior for me.”

  “It’s not a valuable item, given its inferiority, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Stones have value, of course, always. The design. Over the top. Inferior.”

  “He’s a bit odd,” Caroline states, also as though the man is actually not in the room. She says more loudly to Carpel, as if he’s hard of hearing, “You agree with that, right? You’re a bit odd?”

  “Odd duck, yes. My mother says. Odd duck, she says.”

  “See? His mother runs the store for him, but apparently,” Caroline explains, “Charles is an extraordinary expert in his field.”

  Émile puts up both his palms. “Okay. Let’s slow down. What do you mean when you say that you’ve seen the necklace? Where and when?”

  “Uncle Émile,” Caroline explains, “sorry to barge in on you like this. But look. I saw the police—state troopers—go into Charlie’s store. Didn’t think anything about it, right? A thief shoplifted a brooch, what’s the big deal? But it’s right across the street from this sandwich shop where I was having a bite, and I noticed that the trooper who came back out of the shop was the same guy who interviewed me yesterday and, you know, who chewed you out this morning. The big green cheese.”

  “Hammond?”

  “Him,” Caroline confirms.

  “That’s his name,” Carpel says. He’s scanning the mantel.

  “He’s got three murders on his hands and he’s spending time in a jewelry store over a stolen brooch? How does that make sense?”

  “Nothing’s stolen,” Carpel says. “Inventory intact.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. Nothing’s stolen. If Hammond is going around town, it has to be about the murders, right? After he leaves, I finish my lunch, go into the store, and that’s where I find our leading expert on precious stones in the north country—”

  “World expert,” Carpel corrects her.

  “Our world expert, Mr. Charles Carpel.”

  “That’s me. Charles. CC.”

  “That’s him.” Caroline confirms. “What was Hammond talking to Mr. Carpel about, do you ask?”

  “The necklaces,” Cinq-Mars catches on.

  “One necklace,” she trumpets. “Which he showed to him. In the flesh.”

  “I see.” Émile looks the man over again. “Good of you to come by to see me, Mr. Carpel.”

  “CC,” the man says.

  Émile gathers that he wants to be friends.

  “There’s a reason he came,” Caroline points out.

  “What’s that?”

  “He didn’t listen to me,” Carpel maintains.

  Émile immediately comprehends what that means. He offers his niece a sly wink, a quick thanks for her initiative. “Charles,” Émile invites, and sits back. He has a hunch that this might take a while. If Hammond didn’t listen to what he had to say, he can guess why, and doesn’t want to make the same mistake. The man’s peculiar speech patterns require patience. “What can you tell us about the necklace?”

  “Purposeful,” the man postulates.

  “Ah, purposeful?” Émile inquires.

  “With purpose. Not a proper combination of gems.”

  “Amateur work, then, would you say?”

  “I would not say that. A professional job. Quality workmanship. The secret to jewelry is to have no purpose, except for beauty and mystical projections.”

  “Does the piece have mystical projections?”

  “No. It has a purpose. Not the jeweler’s vision. A client’s requirement. Guaranteed, I say. A client should never guide the artist’s hand. But he did. That’s who had a purpose for every stone. Not the jeweler. The client.”

  Cinq-Mars appreciates what he’s getting at. “You’ve concluded this through your observations. You are clever. In a sense, the gems were put together to say something, to signify a message at the cost of the aesthetic virtue of the piece?”

  Not only does the man appear not to listen, he hasn’t made proper eye contact since his arrival. Until now. He seems to be appraising Cinq-Mars as he might a diamond.

  And takes his time with that.

  Cinq-Mars undertakes an evaluation of his own. For a man whose life revolves around gemstones, Carpel is not extravagantly adorned, although he’s chosen a ring of choice with care. Suddenly inspired, Cinq-Mars asks, “May I see your ring, sir?”

  The man continues to eye him, then looks away, then offers his hand as a giddy bride-to-be might show off her engagement diamond, her head turned away in shyness. Cinq-Mars stands up to view it properly, and holds the man’s hand over his own. The band is hammered gold. He compliments him on the stone. “That’s a fine star sapphire, CC.”


  He smiles. He beams. He blushes.

  “I have looked at stones all the world over,” Carpel tells him. “Many very fine, but I cannot afford them. This one, though, is special. Didn’t know until I saw it, but this is the one I most desired. My life stone. Took me a while, hard bargaining, a lot of dealing. Wrangling favors, flattery, many dinners. The seller knew that he would sell to me. I believe that. But. A game to play. He wanted me to seduce him. To prove my fidelity to his star sapphire. I could not offer him only crass money. Not for such a luminous stone. If I was going to acquire his beautiful star sapphire, I had to find an equivalent stone for him to adore, one that impressed him and replaced the stone he’d be missing from his collection. That took years. But I found it. A ruby of such exquisite color that I bought it at a premium on the spot. I knew it would win over my man with the star sapphire. It did. We traded.”

  Carpel is beaming. Cinq-Mars asks, “Where was this?”

  “Istanbul. I earned a lot of air-miles points.”

  “An amazing story.”

  Cinq-Mars resumes his seat again, confident that he has gained what a man like Trooper Hammond never could: this fellow’s respect. All he’d done was listen to his story, and appreciate his ring, all that this man requires of anyone.

  Caroline has noticed. In life, she’s relied upon a high IQ and her innate fierce determination, and along the way she has not denigrated her good looks, either. In this instance, she used all three traits to lure a man out of his shop and down a highway to visit a foreign detective in a farmhouse. No mean accomplishment that. She knows how to make her skills work for her. Yet Cinq-Mars, she marvels, has won the guy over without an ounce of cajoling, merely by paying the stone that he loves best its due. She crosses her ankles and sits back in the corner of her sofa and waits to see what else he might accomplish here, taking mental notes as though she’s still in school.