by John Farrow
“Every night,” the thug told her, “is free for you.”
Julia smirked, to let him know that she felt less than flattered.
She was the only woman in the place wearing clothes.
She sat in the dark club and ordered a beer from a bare-breasted teenager who looked at her a little coyly. Julia was either a customer or a job applicant, and either way the waitress was curious. Two women danced seminude onstage, slowly removing each other’s clothes, while others stood on plastic milk crates and displayed themselves inches from the eyes of patrons. Close enough to be licked. When the waitress returned Julia asked if Max Gitteridge was around and the girl pointed him out.
Gaining liquid courage, she walked across to the lawyer’s table. Selwyn had told her not to delay. She had to arrive early so the place wouldn’t be busy, and she had to act quickly before a patron got up the nerve to hit on her. Gitteridge had a phone pressed to one ear, and in the other he’d inserted a finger to block out the music. He was a small man with black, slicked hair and a narrow, pinched face. The features were generally weak, the nose narrow, the chin pointy. He was wearing a double-breasted suit over a black turtleneck, and Julia thought the shoulders had been bulked up. She put him in his late forties. She sat down opposite him in the booth. She didn’t know what to make of a man who still greased his hair. Hard to believe. He regarded her without courtesy, and that made her squirm. His pupils were large and dark. When he hung up, he took the finger out of his ear, and said, “Say what, sugar?” as if he was trying hard to be a cool dude.
She had to lean in, on account of the music. With her jacket open, the tops of her full breasts were revealed at the neckline to her sweater. He was noticing.
First she slid a newspaper article written about Max Gitteridge across the table. He took a quick glance, enough to recognize the headline in a revolving light from the stage. “Lies,” he told her, raising his voice to be heard. “I intend to sue.”
“So you don’t represent the Hell’s Angels and the Mafia?” she asked him.
He signaled for her to lean forward again, and he moved toward her. He stared at her breasts while speaking near her ear. “I don’t ask clients to list their memberships in social clubs. Who are you and what do you want?” He leaned back to wait for her answer, forcing Julia to shout.
“My name is Heather Bantry. I want to propose a business deal.”
“You don’t want to dance?”
She thought she’d love to take a tube of his hair grease and smear it across that leering smile. Instead, she slid a newspaper column on the Banker across to him. “Have you read this?”
“What is it?”
“It’s about my father. He’s looking for a job.”
Gitteridge gave the clipping a glance, holding it up to catch a bit of light. “This is about some guy who lives in a tunnel.”
“Yeah,” Julia agreed, shouting to be heard. “Some guy. Who just happens to be a former vice president for international commerce at a major bank.”
Gitteridge read a little further. “Says here he’s nuts.”
“That’s where I come in. I know how to take care of him. I can keep him level. I have that effect.” Julia caught sight of a woman removing her bikini bottoms inches from the glare of a customer. She was momentarily shocked that the woman was shaved, and when she glanced up at her face, the woman was smiling right at her. She jerked her eyes away, facing Gitteridge.
The man separated his hands and brought them together again. “Do I look like an employment office to you?”
“Read the piece. That’s all. My phone number is at the bottom of the page if you want to get in touch.”
She stood up, but Gitteridge quickly waved her back. He motioned her to sit down beside him. “What did you say your name was, sweetheart?”
“Heather.”
“Why’d you come to see me, doll?” He ran his fingers up the inside of her thigh.
She resisted clamping her legs together and instead leaned closer to Gitteridge. Julia tucked her hands in her leather jacket. “My father’s had a mental breakdown. He’s been on welfare, he’s living in a tunnel. He’s broke. Ruined. He’s destitute. He can act funny sometimes. The goddamn Royal Bank isn’t going to hire him, now is it?”
With that, she wriggled free of his grip, jumped up, and walked through the gloom of the nightclub, doing her best to keep her eyes off the tempest of dancers and the avid, entranced faces of their admirers. Selwyn Norris would not be waiting outside to give her a lift home this evening. She’d have to make her own way back. He had warned her that she might be followed.
Buried in his cubicle through the dinner hour, Émile Cinq-Mars was disturbed by a call from downstairs. A reporter was asking to speak to him. “What about?”
He waited while the officer addressed the visitor again. Then she said, “Santa Claus.”
Minutes later, arriving at his desk under escort, the reporter introduced himself as Okinder Boyle. After nodding thanks to the uniform, Cinq-Mars stood to shake the young man’s hand and assumed that he would be blowing this off quickly enough.
“I have nothing to say about the Santa Claus case,” he advised him. “The investigation is ongoing, the responsibility of Homicide. Perhaps you’d like to speak to Sergeant-Detective André LaPierre?”
Boyle sat down, folding his coat across his lap. “I’d rather talk to you.”
“It’s not my case,” Cinq-Mars said in a switch to English. “I appreciate your interest, sir, but I have nothing to say. The investigation is ongoing, the responsibility of another department.”
“I spoke with Vassil Artinian today.”
Cinq-Mars gave him a closer look. “Did you now?”
“He told me his brother was working for you.”
Émile Cinq-Mars finally sat down. The beginning of the night shift had brought boisterous officers into their vicinity, but even in the rising bedlam he feared prying ears. “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Boyle?” he asked quietly.
“Thanks. I would.”
“The coffee here tastes like sewer water. Let’s go out.”
Cinq-Mars led him outside Police Headquarters and up the hill on rue Bonsecours into Old Montreal. At this time of year the sun set a little after four, and at six-thirty darkness had settled in as deeply as the cold. They faced a bitter wind along rue St. Jacques past City Hall, where late rush-hour traffic still managed to work itself into a snarl, and at Place Cartier they walked downhill a short stretch past the old stone buildings that now housed restaurants and bars to cobbled rue St. Paul. From here, the early settlers of the city had believed, they’d convert the savages. Cinq-Mars guided the younger man into a coffee shop. They were both mute, conversation stifled by their cold lips and stiff cheeks. “Are you a Montrealer, Mr. Boyle?”
“I’m from Grand Manan,” the journalist told him, and explained that he’d been raised on an island off the coast of northern Maine that belonged to New Brunswick. “I’m descended from a long line of fishermen.”
“Now you catch different fish in different nets.”
“No, sir. That’s what you do. I just write about those fish.”
“Ah.” Cinq-Mars took a table in the rear, sitting with his back to the wall. He ordered coffee and Danishes for them both and was contemplating a way into the conversation when Boyle seized the initiative.
“So far you haven’t denied Vassil’s claim. Hagop worked for you.”
“He did not.”
“Vassil lied?”
“He misconstrued the facts.”
“How so?”
“Mr. Boyle, I’m not about to surrender confidential information. You must have known that coming in.”
“Then I’ll print the facts as they’ve been construed.”
“I was afraid you might think that way,” Cinq-Mars admitted. “I’m advising against it.”
Their pastry and coffee arrived. Boyle observed Cinq-Mars stir in his Sweet’n Low. “Why’s that, Detective
?”
“This is all part of an ongoing investigation. You could jeopardize the case, put other people in danger.”
“So you concede that Hagop Artinian worked for you?”
“How could he have worked for me? I never knew his name until the day he died. Did I ever direct him, or ask him for information, or give him money or favors in exchange for information? Categorically, no.”
“Detective, I’m a journalist.” He struggled to chew and swallow quickly. “I write about events that interest me. The death of a student a few doors down from where I live, while wearing a Santa Claus suit, that interests me. This is not a story I walk away from. That dead boy was wearing a sign, Merry Xmas, M-Five, which apparently refers to the city’s most famous policeman, the legendary Cinq-Mars—now that’s a story. I’m itching to break it. If you want to convince me otherwise, you’ll have to do a better job.”
Cinq-Mars took his point. He quickly gathered his thoughts, for he was learning not to underestimate this man. “Sorry to have to put it this way, Mr. Boyle, but I may be obliged to speak to your editor.”
“Detective, before you go any further—”
“Allow me to finish—”
“No, allow me. My editor is Garo Boghossian. Do you know him?”
“I’m sure he’s a man of some influence—”
“He is. He’s also Hagop Artinian’s uncle. Do you really think he’ll ask me to back off?”
From the moment that Okinder Boyle had arrived, Émile Cinq-Mars had been losing one minor debate after another to him. What he had counted as insignificant setbacks were beginning to multiply.
“I think we can help each other out,” Boyle continued. “Provided that you’re willing to answer a few simple questions. Are you working on this case?”
“It’s not my case.” He was willing to play along with him for a bit.
“Cinq-Mars—”
“Have I taken an interest? Yes. After all, I found the boy’s body.”
“Did Hagop Artinian, at any time, work for you—or failing a definition of what that means, supply you with information?”
“It’s my understanding that, on rare occasion, Hagop Artinian lent a hand with law enforcement. Perhaps more often than rarely.”
“Do you know why he died?” Boyle asked bluntly.
“No. Do you?”
“No. Do you know why he was dressed in a Santa Claus outfit?”
Cinq-Mars hesitated longer than he would have liked. That alone required an explanation. “I have a theory. Perhaps—we shall see—perhaps I can offer it up as trade.”
“One more query first. How do you respond to the theory that Hagop Artinian was working for the CIA?”
In an instant, Émile Cinq-Mars knew that there would be no camouflaging his surprise. “Who’s been floating that cockamamie tale?”
Boyle did not respond, regarding the detective with a steady gaze.
“Vassil said that? His brother told him that?”
Again, the young man did not respond.
“It makes no sense. If Hagop helped us, his work had to do with relatively minor crimes. Crimes within my jurisdiction. The CIA? What possible link could there be? Either Hagop was fabricating a story for his brother, or—”
“Or?”
“—or somebody strung him a line.”
“The theory doesn’t interest you?”
“I have to dismiss it. I consider myself an openminded person, Mr. Boyle, but until there’s a link—”
“But it does interest you, Detective. I can tell.” Boyle scratched the side of his throat where his scarf irritated the skin.
“Why are you telling me this?” Cinq-Mars asked.
“To gauge your reaction. I can’t print the story without verification. I can’t go on the word of an eleven-year-old even if I do think he’s credible. Like you, I’m not sure what motive Hagop would’ve had to tell his brother. A silly boast? An idle fantasy? It’s possible, but it doesn’t jibe with what we know about the guy. Was he speaking the truth? I can’t say that either.”
Cinq-Mars regarded the young journalist with intensity. “I still wonder why you told me.”
Boyle nodded, conceding that he had avoided the question. “I’m not entirely neutral in this tale. I told you on the chance that it was something you needed to know. I’m hoping that you might consider telling me a few things sometime. Maybe not now, but someday you might choose to say something to me first. You were moving toward proposing a trade. That’s too mercenary, Detective. What I want is the real dope on Hagop. I’m interested in how he’ll be remembered. I’m interested in how he died. Not official versions, the real stuff. You might be the only person who finds that out. I’m not looking to establish an adversarial relationship. I’m hoping we can help each other out.”
“What will you publish, Mr. Boyle?”
The journalist shook his head. “I’m probably as far from publishing as you are from solving the case.”
Cinq-Mars drank his coffee. “I take it that I won’t be reading in The Gazette tomorrow that Hagop Artinian worked for me.”
“You got it. Now. May I test our new friendship? Is there any possibility—however remote, no matter how unlikely or illogical or far-fetched—is there any possibility that Hagop Artinian was working for the CIA? Can you, with what you know, imagine such a thing?”
Émile Cinq-Mars sipped his coffee. “Let’s put it this way,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Now that you have raised the issue, I’ll keep it in mind. That’s all I’ll say.”
“That’s all you need to say, Detective. But if anything breaks along those lines, remember who you owe.”
Cinq-Mars tapped behind his ear. “I’m not sure about that. On the other hand, if there comes a time when I can make a contribution to the memory of Hagop Artinian, for the sake of his family, I shall do so.”
“Fair enough. Now. What about the Santa Claus suit?”
Cinq-Mars smiled, quite warmly for him. “We are beginning a friendship, Mr. Boyle. Nevertheless, we work in competitive fields. We both gather information. If we trade, it should be equitable. You’ve given me a thread. A loose thread that may have no significant value. In exchange, you’re expecting a considered and plausible theory from me. Is that a fair exchange?”
“Then give me a thread, if that’s all you’re up for,” Boyle pressed him.
“I have a better idea. I’ll give you a story. You print it. Every tangent cannot be confirmed, but the facts can be verified. I have the documentation. You don’t have to diverge from the facts. I was going to give this to my friends in the francophone media, maybe to Allô Police! But since you’re here, I’ll tell you a story if you’ll print it.”
Boyle tried to laugh him off. “Come on. If I came to you and asked that you make an arrest in exchange for information, what would you say?”
Cinq-Mars preferred not to answer. “Show me the evidence first.”
“Same here.”
The detective thought a moment. “You have an odd name. Odd for me anyway. What did you say your first name was?”
“Okinder.”
“Yes.” Excited by a connection, Cinq-Mars shook his right forefinger in the air a moment. “My partner—he’s English—reads your paper. It’s part of his job, in a way, to tell me what’s in the English media. It helps pass the time, and I don’t like to be blind to what’s going on in half the city. He mentioned your name, Okinder. I remember because it sounded strange to me.”
“You should talk. Your name’s a date. I’ve never heard of Johnny the Fourth of July. Or Wanda August Ninth.”
“I’m from either corrupt or sturdy stock.” Cinq-Mars shrugged. “My surname could be a corruption of Saint Marc, or else the name derives from the fifth son of a family out of a village called Mars. The legacy of the first four sons didn’t survive.” A memory dawned and Cinq-Mars waved a finger. “Okinder—so you’re the one who walked into the Mount Royal tunnel on Christmas Eve and talked to the
banker who had lost his mind. Okay, I’ve got you pegged now. All right, you can have the story. I’ll tell you why Hagop Artinian was dressed as Santa Claus. Get out your notepad.”
“May I use my tape recorder?”
“Absolutely not. Nor can you attribute anything I say to me.”
Okinder Boyle complied, and sat waiting with pad and pencil poised.
Cinq-Mars told him about the Russian freighter, and about the gatekeeper’s log that put Hagop Artinian on the premises, and probably on the ship, at the same time as his estimated moment of death. He told him why he thought the Santa Claus uniforms were deployed, that that was how the killers had smuggled a dead body off the premises in full view. He told about his discovery that afternoon, that Walter Kaplonski had rented two Santa uniforms a day before the murder, and had not returned them, but had gone back to the store and reimbursed the merchant for the loss, explaining that the suits had accidentally been damaged beyond repair. Clearly, he had not wanted the store to call the cops about missing costumes. He told Okinder Boyle what Bill Mathers had uncovered through a study of the ship’s activity in port, that luxury cars had been loaded onto the vessel, and that luxury cars had been off-loaded, and that an inspection by the Mounties that very day had shown no vehicles onboard.
“I don’t get it.”
“A Mercedes, let’s say, is loaded onto the vessel for shipment to Russia. Days later it’s off-loaded with European registration for use in this country as a legitimately imported vehicle. Who’s buying we don’t know, but I have my guesses.”
“Such as?”
“The process is organized. The usual suspects.”
Boyle could not believe this golden platter of information. “Somehow Hagop Artinian got involved in this. Was he doing undercover work?”
“I’d appreciate it, Okinder, if you never raise that possibility. Hagop worked for Walter Kaplonski, as a part-time mechanic in his garage.”
“Garage Sampson, yes. That’s Kaplonski’s place?”
“We raided the garage.”
“And?”
“A document was found. I can fax you a copy sometime.”