The CTR Anthology
Page 46
Him: I thought it was all written in his diary?
Inspector: No. He doesn’t say much about his love life. All we know is that it’s been at least a month.
Him: A month?
Inspector: Yeah. In the last month, he wrote about you on almost every page.
Him: Ah.
Inspector: Surprised?
Him: No.
Inspector: Holy Jesus! … Okay … Let’s start over again. And let’s make it fast, okay? Your name is Yves. His name was Claude. In the evening of the 1st of July, last Thursday, you left the Square, all alone, around six-thirty, seven o’clock and apparently no one knows why you left. There were lotsa prospects hangin’ around … Maybe you had an appointment or maybe you were off on a house call. Then nobody sees hide nor hair of you ’til around midnight. After midnight, people remember seeing you at the Lorelei, at Bud’s, at the Tropicana, the Taureau and then at the Rocambole. But you weren’t talkin’ to nobody. Some of the girls figured you just struck it rich, or maybe you dropped some acid or some five-star mescaline. Seems like you were so hyper, people were afraid you’d fall over if they blew on you too hard. Then you left for the Square. No one seems to know if you scored or not, cause they all left when it started to rain. You claim you scored twice … Then no news ’til Saturday night. Patrick, one of your regular lays – not a customer, another hustler – he says he tried to call you at least 20 times but there was never any answer. He went by your place Saturday morning, not a sound. He can’t figure out where you disappeared and he never heard of the other guy, Claude. Nobody ever heard of him.
Saturday night, at 11:30, someone calls police headquarters and says there’s a guy dead at 8544 Casgrain. We get there and there’s this guy, stretched out on his back, bareass, in the middle of the kitchen floor, with his throat slit wide open. There are two plates and two wine glasses on the table, with an unopened bottle of $15 wine. People who aren’t too crazy about you say you’re kinda cheap. The meat and vegetables in the plates are covered with blood. The guys at the lab say the meat was already cold when the blood hit it. Your fingerprints are everywhere. He was 22 years old and he came from Sainte-Foy. Came to Montreal two years ago to study literature at the University of Montreal. Lived alone. A card-carrying separatist … member of the R.I.N. His girlfriend …
Him: What?
Inspector: … works with them full-time. She almost fainted when we showed up.
Him: His what?
Inspector: His girlfriend.
Him: It’s not true. You’re just sayin’ that to get a rise outta me.
Inspector: We don’t all get off on telling stories and playing games, smart ass. You don’t want to talk. Tough shit. I’ll just finish my little run-through and we can pack it up and take care of the formalities at my office. I’ve had it.
Him: It’s not true. Admit it’s not true.
Inspector: Get a hold on yourself, for chrissakes. He’s not the first guy in town to have a girlfriend. When we took the fingerprints, there were his, and two other people’s – his girlfriend’s and yours. She let us take hers. She says the guy who did it is sick. I’m not about to contradict her. And I don’t recommend you try it either. We took your prints off the first cup of coffee your lordship ordered.
Him: What’s her name?
Inspector: Whose name?
Him: The girlfriend.
Inspector: On no you don’t, junior. You don’t get to ask any more questions. From now on in you can start answering. Otherwise, just shut your trap and listen to what the grownups have to say.
Him: How …
Inspector: Shut up! That means you didn’t know him well enough to know he had a girlfriend. Don’t tell me we’re making some progress here! Let’s keep it up. At 12:45 the same night, the same person who called to report the dead guy calls back. That’s you. You tell us you’re calling from Judge Delorme’s office at the Courthouse. You say you’re the one who killed the guy and you’re waiting here for us, but we shouldn’t try to force you outta here cause you’ve told the police reporter from Montreal Matin your story and he’s agreed to sit on it as long as no one tries to get you outta here by force. And if anything does happen to you, the Judge is up shit’s creek.
(Beat.)
So here we’are 36 hours later. We don’t know how you got your hands on the keys to let yourself in, but you did. If we try to clamp down on the reporter and his fuckin’ photographer, everyone’s gonna accuse us of police brutality. And we don’t want any of that, with all those tourists in town. Fuck! Did you work all that out by yourself? We got ’til 5 o’clock this afternoon to come up with a good explanation. With all the goings-on this weekend, they had their headlines for today. But now the party’s over and they’re lookin’ for something juicy to dress up tomorrow’s front page. A judge is damn tempting. I gotta hand it to you. You got a great sense of timing. (Sighs.) Okay. We been here since the wee small hours of the morning yesterday. And the only thing I managed to find out is that someone tore the doorbell and the phone off the wall at your place. You live in a slum on Saint-Dominique, between de Montigny and Ontario. You called us from your neighbour’s and before you left her place you managed to get her stoned outta her head. You left her with enough shit to keep her blind ’til Christmas. She could hardly remember her name. (Shouts.) What the hell are you after anyway?
Him: The judge knows. Ask him.
Inspector: If you tell me that once more, just once more, I’m gonna knock your head off. (Beat.) I don’t know why you wanted to wipe out your writer friend. I can’t figure out what you had against him. Or what he had against you. I don’t get it. I don’t see where you could’ve met, except maybe on the corner of Saint Catherine and Peel at rush hour. He was good-looking. Educated. I don’t know what he could’ve seen in an asshole like you. He didn’t take dope. Drank good wine. Didn’t hang out in the bars from what we can tell. His neighbours fuckin’ flipped when they saw us arrive with an ambulance and carry him out in a body bag. What the hell were you doing having supper on Confederation Day with a guy who used to take three hot meals a week to the old lady who lives downstairs?! Sonofabitch …
All we know is you’d been seeing each other for at least a month, but we can’t really tell why, cause his diary is written in code, with references to more goddam books and novels than you can name. We’d have to go through half the public library to decipher a quarter of a page. The only thing we’re sure of is that beginning the first …
(The side door opens. The Stenographer enters with a paper bag. He puts it down on the desk and takes out a little container of cream, sugar and a styro-foam cup. He’s about to take the lid off the coffee to add the cream for his boss when the Inspector motions to him to leave immediately. The Stenographer goes out, closing the door quietly behind him.)
Inspector: All we know is that your name never showed up in his diary before June 1st. Around that time, the name Yves starts appearing in every line, almost.
Him: A while ago you said “every page” …
(Beat.)
Inspector: What difference does it make? Who was that guy to you? Did he wanta write a book about you?
(Pause. Him remains silent.)
Inspector: The inspector who went to see the girlfriend asked her if she thought her friend had ever slept with another guy. She screamed so loud he thought her jaw was gonna come unhinged. He decided not to insist …
Your friend kept all the letters he received and copies of the ones he sent. He even kept a notebook with all his debts, and the names of everyone who owed him money. Even his girlfriend is in it. But not you …
(Pause.)
Inspector: (calls) Latreille!
(The side door opens. The Police officer enters and closes the door behind him.)
Inspector: (pointing to Him) He has to piss. Bring him back here after.
Him: Huh? I don’t …
Inspector: Get going.
(Him and the Police officer go to exit.)
Police officer: Yeah?
Inspector: (pointing to the phone) Do you havta dial 9?
Police officer: Yes.
(Him and the Police officer exit. The door closes behind them. The Inspector remains seated for a second. Then he gets up suddenly and goes over to the window and opens it wide. He leans on the windowsill. After a moment he comes back to the desk, picks up the phone and dials a number. At the beginning of his conversation he mixes his coffee, sitting on the corner of the desk. Then he starts looking at the room around him as if he was just beginning to realize where he was. Then he gets up from the desk and sits down on the chair.)
Inspector: (on the phone) Hullo. … Dead. How ’bout you? … Sure I am. … Sure. Who got in touch with you? Dupras? … Uh huh. … Oh, I dunno. … I guess I’ll know better around 5 how long it’s gonna take. … I know, I know. Why don’t you go by yourself. I’m too tired anyway, haven’t slept a wink. … I’ll tell you about it later. … No, no. No big problem. … Don’t worry. … Sure. … Sure. … No. … Yeah, but I just as soon forget it. If it’s not too late when we finish here, I’ll give you a call before I leave. … No. I can’t. … It’s not my usual number and you havta go through an operator. … Of course, I’m in Montreal, whaddaya think? … Okay, okay. … Well … Guess the best thing would be to call Dupras or his replacement. They’ll know how to get in touch with me. … ’Bye.
(The Inspector hangs up. During the call the Stenographer enters. He’s standing behind Him’s chair. The Inspector goes back over to the window, leans on the sill for a second and goes back over to his chair.)
Stenographer: So?
Inspector: So? So, nothing. It’s getting worse instead of better. I don’t understand fuck all. Anything new?
Stenographer: Janine has just about finished studyin’ the notebook with his accounts. He wrote down every penny he spent in the last year. Looks like he had started to have money troubles. He was keepin’ careful track. There’s a letter from his mother where she talks about some crisis. There’s no copy of his answer. It’s not clear what it’s all about, but it seems like the folks started tightening the purse-strings around that time. Anyway, since the end of last summer, his finances seem to balance real tight. There’s no way he could’ve paid our friend (Points towards the door.) for as many times as he shows up in the diary. He had about three thou in the bank. Plus some bonds his parents bought him. He had over 100 bucks cash in his pants pocket. And if I hocked the watch he was wearin’ I could pay six months rent. That’s about it.
(Beat.)
Inspector: What time is it?
Stenographer: Going on 10 to.
Inspector: What about his sister?
Stenographer: Nothing much. She’s been livin’ with some guy in Montreal North for the last three years. Four years older than him. The mother died in ’57. She was a fashion model. She died in an office at CBC in the middle of the night, a Friday night. Cleaning lady found her on Saturday morning. In one of the big bosses’ offices. No details. There were orders from Ottawa to keep it hush-hush. The newspapers said she died of a heart attack. Problem is, she was only 36 years old. With no history of heart trouble. But an alcoholic. Seems like she wasn’t alone in the office. They had been drinking and she fell and hit her head. Guy must’ve panicked and took off. Died of a hemorrhage
Inspector: The father?
Stenographer: Cancer. Two years ago.
Inspector: (sighs) That’s it?
Stenographer: Just about. He was an engineer. Some kinda consultant. A big spender. Lotsa connections. Friends in high places, in Quebec City, mostly with the Liberals. He had been sick for a long time.
Inspector: Did you reach the sister?
Stenographer: She’s away on vacation. No one knows where.
Inspector: Do you think he knows?
Stenographer: No idea. But her neighbours don’t know him. They knew she had a brother but they don’t remember ever seein’ him. They don’t recognize the picture.
Inspector: Anyone else? Friends? Other relatives?
Stenographer: A few, but they don’t know nothing. His father’s parents are still alive but he hasn’t spoken to them since his father died. Same goes for the uncles and aunts. Nobody’s seen him for over two years. His mother’s father died in ’56. She was in the middle of a family feud when she died. Some deal about the will. The last time the grandmother saw him was at her daughter’s funeral.
Inspector: No friends, no girlfriend?
Stenographer: Just the guy from the Square. Period. The only other possibility is the neighbour, but she claims she doesn’t know a thing.
Inspector: Who spoke to her?
Stenographer: Dupras.
Inspector: What does he think? Is it worth pushing?
Stenographer: He doesn’t know. But he’s got the feeling he’s the kinda guy who never makes the first move. You gotta call him, he won’t call you, type thing. Dupras doesn’t think we’re gonna find out much, unless he decides to talk.
Inspector: Okay. I get the picture. What about the other guy? Besides the dough?
Stenographer: His parents?
Inspector: Yeah.
Stenographer: We haven’t gotten back in touch with them. They’re in a state of shock. They don’t believe us. Real big wigs. He’s in the pulp and paper business. And trucking. Doubled his fortune with the dam at Mani-couagan. And she’s from an old Quebec City family, real blue-blood. Something tells me we better leave well enough alone.
Inspector: Go tell that to the guys from Montreal Matin. Or the judge. How’s he doin’?
Stenographer: No news. He’s not answerin’ his phone. His wife neither. His secretary tells us his plans are still the same, he’ll be here at 11:30, as scheduled.
Inspector: You weren’t able to reach him.
Stenographer: Impossible. Apparently he’s just gonna sit back and let the shit hit the fan. But …
Inspector: But what? What’s the matter?
Stenographer: The Minister called. He doesn’t want anything to get out. Nothin’. Dupras got a real earful. He was still shakin’ when I saw him. Apparently whatshisface lit into him the minute he picked up the phone. Didn’t even have time to say he wasn’t you. Seems like he rolled out every threat in the hook.
Inspector: Christ. Why didn’t you tell me before?
Stenographer: He called while I went to get the coffee.
(Beat.)
Inspector: And what about the vultures outside the door? Anything we can feed them in exchange?
Stenographer: No. I tried. I told the office to let us know if there’s anything we can pass on as a scoop. But so far, there’s fuck all. A few minor accidents. Some woman who got …
Inspector: Okay. Okay …
Stenographer: Anyway it would havta be one helluva story to take their minds off a murder, a judge and a male prostitute all rolled up in one. Don’t think they’d settle for much less than a bomb at Expo.
Inspector: …
Stenographer: Nobody at Montreal Matin has made a peep. They don’t wanta get their story stolen out from under them. We warned the others to keep the lid on it. La Presse and most of the radio stations are willing to co-operate as long as nobody gets hurt. Their attitude seems to be, if we can find a way to bury the whole thing, good for us. But if we get heavy with our friends from Montreal Matin, they’re gonna raise a stink.
Inspector: Happy birthday.
Stenographer: Pardon me?
Inspector: Forget it. Oh, by the way, the street with the fence … from what he says, it must be Lansdowne. Go send someone to check if there’s a green picket fence somewhere between Sherbrooke and the roundabout at Cote Saint-Antoine. It should be on the east side.
Stenographer: Right away.
(The Inspector gets up and goes over to the map on the wall.)
Inspector: Doesn’t make sense.
Stenographer: What?
Inspector: If you wanted to call someone in the middle of the night and you were on Lansdowne north of Sherbrooke, would you decide to run all the way to the Forum to find a phone booth?
Stenographer: Not in the middle of summer.
Inspector: Huh?
Stenographer: In the winter, if that was the closest place I knew … maybe. But not in the middle of summer. I’d take it easy and try to find one closer by, cause I know the Forum’s closed at that hour anyway.
Inspector: (turns away from the map) Right.
(Inspector goes back over to his chair, slowly. The Stenographer watches him.)
(Beat.)
Inspector: So you wanta know where things stand? We’re stuck between a rock and a hard place, that’s where. Between a judge who doesn’t give a shit and who’s fallin’ apart at the seams; a minister who doesn’t want a word of this to get out, in order to preserve the name of Justice; a mad dog who’s lookin’ for his bone; a separatist girlfriend who’s not gonna believe any story we come up with, who’s gonna make a scandal, who’s gonna rant and rave and claim it’s not true, her boyfriend wasn’t queer, and it’s all a frame-up; and the guy’s parents who don’t want a word to get out, in order to preserve the family name. Hot enough for you? (Beat.) Okay. Keep on top of the reporters. Make sure they’ve all been warned. And send someone out to check the fence. Then …
Stenographer: Yeah?
Inspector: Nothing. Forget it. I thought I had an idea but I lost it. Better get going.
(The Stenographer exits, closing the side door behind him. The Inspector remains still briefly then goes back over to lean on the windowsill. The side door opens. Him enters and goes back to his chair. The door closes. Brief pause. The Inspector straightens up, closes the window and turns back towards the room. Notices the kid. Returns to sit on the corner of the desk.)