Perish the Day

by John Farrow

  “Tragic for the family,” Ben Havilland-Clegg tacks on. He wants out of this quickly, as he’s clearly uninterested. “Nevertheless, the school must consider its PR. We must move on, pave the way for others to enjoy an exemplary education at Dowbiggin.”

  “Rapes and now a murder. Yeah, I’d call that a PR challenge.”

  The sardonic note in Émile’s voice is intentional, which finally prompts a reaction in the gray-haired man. He respects attitude. He tilts his brow back, the gaze narrows, and the pursued takes an interest in his pursuer.

  Palmerich has his own reaction. “I cannot speak to the murder of a student on campus, Mr. Cinq-Mars. That’s an unfathomable tragedy. Perhaps, in due course, we can look back on these events as representing a turnaround. Don’t single us out, sir. Rape is epidemic on university campuses across America. I know. I’ve been studying the situation. Perhaps Dowbiggin can now lead the way toward a culture that repudiates rape. Not to be cynical about it, such a movement may be the backbone of our PR, going forward.”

  Despite the president’s insistence on how they treat his initiative, both Cinq-Mars and Havilland-Clegg choose to regard it cynically.

  “What do you do, sir?” the benefactor inquires. “In life? If I may ask?”

  The former cop has noted the man’s attraction to jewelry. Three rings, two bracelets—one medical, the other an adornment—cuff links with diamond studs, a lapel pin with a setting of minute gemstones amid gold. A bias toward topaz. The man’s question is one that Cinq-Mars considers quintessentially American. Canadians tend to judge the query as rude, an intrusion, an invasion of privacy; Americans find it an ideal icebreaker.

  “I was in wire,” Émile tells him. “Now retired.” A standard he’s used before. By virtue of being dull, the nature of the business provokes no curiosity or corollary question. The formula works in this instance.

  “Wire,” Havilland-Clegg repeats. “Fascinating.” Satisfied that he’s spoken a virtual benediction, he makes a slight bow, and departs their company.

  The look Cinq-Mars grants the university president has the man both uneasy and inquisitive. “What now?” Palmerich presses.

  “He’s involved.”

  “Excuse me? Ben? No, he’s not involved.”

  “Yes. Ben. Your wonderful third-generation alumnus and donor. He’s involved.”

  “Impossible. I knew this was a bad idea, you being here. Why would you entertain such an absurd line of thinking?”

  “I can feel it. In my bones.”

  “That’s balderdash. Or arthritis. Or a change in the weather. You cannot go around making outrageous accusations,” he hisses. “Not in this room. Nor on this campus. May I remind you that you have no standing in this country. You’re putting a strain on my confidence in your project, Mr. Cinq-Mars.”

  “As demoralizing as this may be, sir, why don’t we discover the truth? Find a side room. Ask him to join us. We’ll have a talk. If I’m wrong, feel free to demonize me, hoist me on my own petard. If I’m right, you can immediately start work on your PR.”

  “This is outrageous.”

  “No, sir. What’s outrageous is a student of yours being slaughtered on campus. Then raped, not for the first time, after she’s already dead. Now what’s it going to be?”

  Palmerich studies Cinq-Mars’s gaze awhile, taking note of his conviction, then looks across at Havilland-Clegg, and back again. “If you’re wrong, it’s not a matter of taking out my revenge on you. The consequences to this institution can be significant. Please appreciate my position and my responsibilities.”

  “Again, your constituency will praise you when the criminals are caught.”

  “Don’t count on that. That might be true only if my constituency approves of the criminals who are caught.”

  So that was it. Arresting one of their own garners no reward.

  “Okay, sir. I get you. I can be circumspect. Do it in such a way that an innocent man won’t be too put out. He won’t know enough to put up a stink. I’ll assure him that you have no choice in the matter, that it’s all common procedure. I’ll bring in a couple of other men as well; he won’t feel singled out. And then, if he’s guilty, you’ll have a different sort of PR job on your shoulders.”

  “I recall that you are university educated yourself.”

  “I am.”

  “You sound like it. In animal husbandry? What is that?”

  “I’m not sure that it exists anymore.”

  “How did it ever?”

  “I believe it has a fancier name these days. After I swore off the priesthood, I wanted to be a veterinarian. A long time ago now.”

  “You became a cop instead.”

  “Another form of herding cattle.”

  Palmerich releases a sigh. “I respect you, Cinq-Mars. Nonetheless, what you are wishing for is not going to happen. We won’t bother with any part of it.” He keeps his voice low and urgent. “Let us endeavor to contain the damage, shall we? Bring me hard, virtually irrefutable evidence, then we’ll talk. Until then, what’s in your bones, stays in your bones. Period. Should you or the real police override my authority on this, you shall be persona non grata on campus. You may not care—why should you?—except that your investigation will be impaired. Check with Chief Till to see if he wants to override me in this town, or Trooper Hammond in this state. Both gentlemen will come to blows with their political bosses should you overstep your bounds. They don’t doubt it, why should you? I sincerely wish you well in this difficult undertaking, make no mistake, we are on the same side. And yet, you must stay within the lines. Stay there! Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I have important people waiting with whom I must touch base.”

  The retired detective wonders how well the criminals know this president, if they were able in advance to predict his reactions and depend on them. Another speculation that he feels in his bones, as well as taking the university president at his word, is that Palmerich is not his foe, and covertly looks upon his involvement with favor. Still, the man simply cannot tolerate offending a contributor. The thought has probably occurred to him that citing even one member of this entourage as a rapist and a killer undermines the group. Many, for no logical reason, might then lose their taste for funding the institution. One sick puppy, let alone three amid the throng, might leave a score of others feeling ill. Historically, and for the time being, the members are buoyed by the prestige of their private club. Tarnish that image, and important associates might choose to disperse. He comprehends the president’s dilemma—perhaps more than the man believes.

  When these folks learn that one of their number rapes, kills, then abuses the corpse, how will they view their privileged retinue then? They’ll want out. To disavow themselves of any connection.

  Émile mulls it over as he wanders around.

  He observes Chief Till, who continues to impart a favorable impression. Working the room, he’s located himself in a circle with the youngest of their suspects, Hanson Parker, the forty-something financial services adviser and former member of the diplomatic corps. Cinq-Mars puts him at about five foot five, probably no more than a hundred and fifteen pounds. Many of the female students in the room are both taller and carry more weight. He sports a mustache that he maintains with vigilance. This attention to grooming is evidenced as well in his haircut, the trim of his eyebrows, the perfect knot to his mauve tie. Given his distance, it’s impossible for Cinq-Mars to declare that the scent on his nostrils derives from the man’s cologne, but if asked, he’d take that bet.

  Till and Parker stand with seven patrons, men and women, while Till holds court. He has let them know that he’s an officer of the law working the campus murders, and successfully he recites the company line, that the crimes are as sophisticated as they are heinous, as puzzling as they are diabolical. “We’ve imported the best minds in our business,” he elaborates, perhaps to pull the Montreal cop’s leg, “yet they’ve been stumped. The FBI is at a loss. I’m sure they expected to show us country bump
kins a thing or two. This is not simply a violent crime. A mastermind lies behind it.”

  Responses converge on the notion that Dowbiggin is not to blame, that the murder of the young woman is a symptom of the modern world visited upon a community where it receives neither welcome nor nurture. A list of towns where mass shootings and other horrors have occurred gives credence to the veracity of the claim. Soon Till is offered encouragement, including from Hanson Parker, to be neither deterred nor disheartened in his relentless pursuit of the killer.

  “Leave no stone unturned,” Parker instructs him.

  Till assures him that he will not, and thanks him for his moral support. “God knows, at this stage, we need it.”

  “Thank you for coming to our wee party,” a handsome lady proffers from her elaborate, amply cushioned wheelchair. “You have restored our confidence in a single bound. We place our faith in you.”

  Cinq-Mars has not planned his next move, and has no time to think it through. In a trice he seizes an opportunity. “Well put, ma’am. I was speaking earlier to Chief Till when he made an interesting observation. He mentioned that the police do possess one significant clue.”

  The circle of the rich look to Till to reveal it to them as well.

  Blindsided this way, the chief is stymied. “Clue, sir? There are a few. I don’t recall—which one are you referring to in particular?”

  “The one about the elbow, and the killer leaving his DNA behind. What Chief Till said to me was—I’ll paraphrase. Please, correct me if I’m mistaken. He mentioned what a shame it is that he can’t require everyone in town to show him their elbows. I don’t see why not. I’m willing to show Chief Till my elbows.”

  The lady in the chair, who’s wearing short sleeves, has no problem revealing hers immediately. She points both of them upward, and rotates her torso for everyone to see. “The only people who ask to see a body part of mine these days are doctors, and they have instruments. Yes, please, Chief Till, examine my elbows if you will. Clear my name of this terrible crime! I can’t imagine that anyone, other than the killer, wouldn’t want to put his or her elbows on display.”

  Cinq-Mars is delighted. Those in the circle take up the task, the men removing their jackets and rolling up their sleeves, which causes a bit of a stir in neighboring cliques. No scrapes. No dried blood. Not even on Hanson Parker’s elbows, although he does seem a bit more put out than the others to be showing his off.

  Cinq-Mars is hoping for a miracle that’s not forthcoming. Their sport fails to catch fire through the room and remains limited to the original select circle.

  Trooper Hammond, Cinq-Mars sees as he checks on what he’s up to, has inched closer to Bennington Havilland-Clegg. He’s not confident that he wants him there. Leaving Till in the company of Hanson Parker, he moves across the room to intervene, yet before he manages to get there Hammond is distracted by Anastasia. The student is sprinting quickly between clients. Spotting the necklace, the trooper fails to conceal his sudden interest. Cinq-Mars worries that Havilland-Clegg will take note of the man’s reaction, too. He’s wearing a conceited grin. Diverted in his pursuit of Anastasia now, Hammond changes direction, and Cinq-Mars lets him go.

  Within his range is the tire mogul, Al McBride, forty steps away. Should he invade his vicinity, it will mean that he has found himself in talks with the three suspects in short succession. Any keen observer, and Cinq-Mars suspects that Havilland-Clegg qualifies, could identify him as a person who has linked the three men together and not deem that a coincidence. Rather than revealing the suspects, he’d be further revealed himself, and he’d be surrendering a key aspect of his knowledge: that he’s aware that a trio may be up to the dirty work. Émile moves away from all three, searching for an innocuous huddle where he might be embraced and from where he can maintain a close eye without arousing suspicion. He chooses a destination, and on his way there taps Caro’s shoulder and whispers for another scotch.

  And delivers a message.

  “Pass by Trooper Hammond. Tell him I know about the necklace. Ask him not to let on. Then ask Kali to tell Chief Till about Anastasia’s necklace. Have her ask him not to let on, either. The key thing is, I don’t want you to talk to both officers yourself, understand? One each. Then catch Anastasia’s eye. Ask her to return the necklace to its box. After that, when no one’s watching, give it to President Palmerich yourself. Tell him to keep it safe for the police. He’s free to look at it if he wants to.”

  “Not for me to question why, I suppose.”

  His facial expression confirms that. He adds, “This is important, Caro.”

  “I know,” she says, and dashes off.

  Now that he’s set matters in motion, Cinq-Mars retreats to what seems to be the most mundane of groups and infiltrates their number. That’s not difficult where one matron, into her cups, thinks that everyone is somebody else. She mistakes Cinq-Mars for her old friend Wesley, who also has an accent apparently, albeit from Cornwall.

  “I’ll call you Wesley, too,” a gentleman with a bright red face offers. “Makes things simpler in the long run. My name’s Harold. How do you do? Mrs. Shimon has taken to calling me Ron, for reasons no one can quite discern. At this point I answer to either appellation.”

  Included in their group is an academic representing the college, who remarks that two years ago she called him Fido. “Consider yourselves fortunate. I was mistaken for a Pekingese.”

  Mrs. Shimon seems not the least put out by their remarks.

  It’s an interchangeable group of eight to fourteen people who are enjoying themselves, and Cinq-Mars happily shelters himself within their midst. No one questions his identity and at least five people now refer to him as Wesley.

  Attention is drawn to the dais in a corner of the room where a lectern with a microphone has been erected. President Palmerich is about to be introduced, and while it does not seem to be the best time, Caro successfully places a hand lightly on his wrist and draws his attention to the wee box, which he covertly drops into a jacket pocket. During the introductory remarks, Cinq-Mars sees the man’s hand slip into the pocket and remove the contents. He makes a quick study of the necklace inside, and it’s easy to tell that he cottons on to its significance. He might now believe that the murderer is in the room.

  Discombobulated, he’s called upon to speak.

  Palmerich issues a warm welcome to his distinguished guests. He follows with a few sly jokes about the necessity of asking for money and receives a few chuckles of appreciation. Everyone accepts that they are here to drink, laugh, and have their bank accounts pilfered. He then delivers solemn remarks that acknowledge the tragedies of recent days and the loss of a beloved student, a brilliant professor, and a hardworking custodian. He emphasizes that the three events are disconnected from one another and merely incidental to Dowbiggin, although the investigation is ongoing and “who knows what might turn up.” He parlays that shocking report into a talk that portrays the challenges of the present time as an incentive for generous donations, as the events will have consequences to be combatted and overcome. He envisions a Dowbiggin that will emerge from these tragedies as a beacon of peacefulness and respect. Palmerich concludes by offering his thanks, introduces a few key colleagues around the room, including Professor Edith Shedden and the man who once accepted to be called Fido, and with a flourish urges everyone to enjoy themselves this afternoon and through the following days amid a plethora of commencement activity.

  Although skeptical of the man’s ambitions for peacefulness, Cinq-Mars evaluates that he would hire him at his university if he was on the board of directors.

  He wonders how Havilland-Clegg is doing and finds him either miffed or confused. His demeanor suggests a slow burn. Cinq-Mars casts his eye around the proceedings and draws the assumption that his suspect has spotted Anastasia—now without her identifying necklace. Havilland-Clegg has been in control of the game until this moment—and a small voice whispers that he has to keep in mind that he may not be part of
this game or any other. Cinq-Mars ignores the minority opinion in his head and sticks with his stronger judgment—the man has been defied and feels the effects. Anastasia has removed the necklace and he has no clue where it’s gone.

  Cinq-Mars moves close to him again.

  “Ah,” the philanthropist pipes up, “here he is, our man of steel.” His supercilious grin can as easily undermine the former policeman’s agenda as would another man’s confession to the crime. Émile’s being goaded and he’s not inclined to accept such treatment from this fellow. For now, he must. “Sorry, sir. Not steel. My mistake. Wire. Same difference, no? The man of wire. The wiry man. Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Are you?”

  “Immensely. Then again, I always do. Oh, good—my drink.”

  Caro is delivering it.

  “A Manhattan,” the man exults, to Cinq-Mars and to others in his fledgling niche. “Was a time when good rye became less available. Quality rye is back, the comeback booze, and with it, the classic Manhattan. Yummy. Friends! May I introduce Mr. Cinq-Mars. He’s from Canada way. A maker of wire. Isn’t that grand and exciting?”

  Many agree.

  A man unknown to Cinq-Mars has a question. “What kind of wire do you manufacture, Mr. Cinq-Mars?” The man’s eyeglasses appear to be made from sea glass, a mauve hue, as thick as a windshield on an armored car. He has wide, rather unattractive lips. The detective would rather not wade through a pedestrian conversation with him to engage Ben Havilland-Clegg.

  “Barbed,” he replies.

  The man adjusts his glasses a notch higher on his bulbous nose. He’s an unfortunate-looking fellow. “Barbed,” he repeats.

  “Barbed,” Havilland-Clegg says also.

  Cinq-Mars shrugs. “I do prisons.”

  “Except that you’re retired,” Havilland-Clegg reminds him.

  “Except that I still work as a consultant.”

  “For prisons?”

  “One way of putting it. I also used to sell to ranchers and the military. It seems that people always want to hear about my visits to prisons.”