River City (99 page)

Trudeau gazed at the images. He picked up a photo. “Cross is in this house?”

“Probably not. But if we can follow this man …”

The two men sustained a period of thoughtful silence.

“She wants the knife,” Trudeau said quietly. He held something in his hands, a hope to properly deliver the country from its deepest crisis in modern times.

“If the negotiation with the terrorists does not go well,” Cinq-Mars stipulated, “and if that’s the government’s fault, then she will tell the media how she acquired the knife. She’ll have it in her possession. Which will make her story highly credible. I’m merely stating her position, sir.”

“Do you understand that she’s asking a lot, this radical contact of yours? A thousand organizations and a million individuals crave ownership of this knife. If I possessed such a thing, how could I possibly give it up on a mere gambit?”

“Because the country’s at stake.”

“Which is why the matter must be turned over to the police, Cinq-Mars. Oh, I know, you’re a policeman. But I’m asking the commissioner to take it from here.”

“That won’t work, sir.”

“Cinq-Mars, you’re asking me to trust you, a policeman I do not know, a member of a department that has performed abysmally.” “Except with the Cubans.” “The Cubans don’t exist.”

“Yes they do, sir. You know they do. I saw what was in that room, sir, and the blood, the deaths, the destruction, the chaos that would have resulted had that material been delivered into the wrong hands—”

“I know what you’re saying, but we cannot speak of that action. Do
you
understand, Cinq-Mars?”

“My colleagues and I would have died in that room, sir. If necessary. Just between us, don’t say the Cubans don’t exist. We have to stop this, before we find more Cubans, or Algerians, or who knows who. The idea of a revolution on North American soil right now is very attractive to a lot of people.”

“I know that. But you’re asking me to trust a friend of yours, not of mine. What else am I to do but ask the
proper
authorities to pursue the matter? No
Cartier Dagger. Even if I possessed such a thing, the situation mirrors that of any kidnapping or blackmail. How do I know that a bargain struck will be kept?”

Cinq-Mars knew he was losing this debate, but he recalled his boss’s words. This was his Dieppe. Around him, lives succumbed in a tapestry of horror—had it been him on that beach, would he have valiantly warred on? In this circumstance, he had to forge ahead, with no thought for himself, and see at the end of the day whether he bled on a beach or stitched up his wounds on higher ground.

“You owe it to her.”

Trudeau stared back a moment, then exhibited his familiar elegant shrug.

“The man who was killed with the knife—her father—you knew him.”

“News to me,” Trudeau maintained, stretching his back. “I remember hearing of his death, during the Richard riot. With all that was going on it was almost a footnote. Would have been, too, if not for the fact that an antique dagger had been stolen from the National Hockey League. But I do not recall recognizing the man’s name back then. What was the year? Fifty-five?”

The two men were both standing, as though their verbal joust had taken on the manifestation of a physical sparring.

“The town of Asbestos, sir. The strike. Your fight with Reggie Chartrand.”

Trudeau rocked his head from side to side a little. “That story’s gone around. So what?”

“The real story has never gone around.”

“What real story?” the prime minister inquired.

“Of how you defeated Chartrand. The man who slipped a set of brass knuckles over your right hand, that man, he died with the dagger embedded in his chest. His name was Roger Clément. He kept the story to himself, except that he told it to his daughter.”

The prime minister spoke quietly, “The same man? I never realized.”

“That man’s daughter wanted me to remind you that if her father had not helped you out back then, a fight would have occurred between the police and the miners that would have had a fearful effect on our society—at least back then. Lives would have been lost, which might have been the least of it. She asked me to relate the same point to you. Our current straits can
be repaired also, by slipping us information on the hiding spot for James Cross. But now, as then, a sleight-of-hand must first occur. Back then, her father was working for the Church, among others, and was determined to secure the peace. He succeeded in Asbestos, but he failed on the night of the Richard riot. She wants the Cartier Dagger in exchange for her father’s life, to commemorate his life in some way. What she will do with the knife remains to be seen. Or, it may remain unseen. That’s her business. Isn’t delivering the country from the abyss in which we find ourselves … won’t that be worth the price?”

Trudeau pondered his choices. “I admired that man. I’m ashamed that I never came away with his name. Roger, yes, that part I remember. He died during the riot? Did he steal the knife then?”

Cinq-Mars nodded, but only slightly. “That’s broadly assumed. I assume it myself. I’m involved in that ongoing investigation. We have not acquired complete knowledge of that night’s events, not as yet.”

The prime minister first placed one hand, then both, behind his neck, and stretched in that position. Cinq-Mars recognized the gesture as a technique to release stress. It’s how he felt also, although, as a guest here, he did not feel sufficiently at ease to put himself through any similar gyration.

“Roger Clément’s daughter is someone who wrestles with her beliefs and convictions. I actually arrested her on the night that she threw rocks at you. But she does not condone kidnapping or murder. She’s in a fight here, as we all are. In a sense, she’s overmatched, as you were against Chartrand. In asking for the knife, in my opinion, she’s asking you to slip a set of knuckle dusters onto her right hand, just as her dad did for you.” Cinq-Mars looked down and tapped the desk briefly with the ring finger of his right hand. “In a sense, to do what she has to do here requires that she attain the high moral ground. Some will say that she’s in the mire. To do that, to get herself up on a higher plane, she needs to make the knife a part of this arrangement, perhaps because the knife represents, not magic, but history. She needs to understand that what she does will have a particular—and, I would say, beneficial—effect, not only with respect to her father’s legacy, but on the history that is being made. The history we make. For Quebec.”

“History is subject to interpretation, and bias,” Trudeau pointed out to him.

“She has her ideals, sir. We have to work with her assumptions.”

After a prolonged and deep sigh, the prime minister crossed the room and opened a cabinet drawer to reveal a safe, dialled a combination and opened it fully. He handed the rustic artifact, ensconced in its case, over to Émile Cinq-Mars.

“Sir?”

“Study it. Hold it in your hand. By showing it to you I’m taking a great risk. It is a murder weapon, after all. With knowledge that the knife is here you can probably try to get a court order to retrieve it, but you will fail. Or, you can give me time to check you out, and you can give your trusted friend time to produce the kidnappers. If she does, and if she meets my other criteria, which is an exceptional demand, then you have my word, Cinq-Mars, as she has, that I will surrender the knife to you. My word is my bond, but by placing this object into your hands, if only for a few moments, I am demonstrating that I will honour my word, as I have made myself vulnerable. Politically, if not legally. The terrorists first, you understand. Plus one more—no, two more demands. This is my only offer and it is non-negotiable.”

Cinq-Mars held the knife in his hands, finding it heavier than he had imagined, and not so well balanced as a modern instrument might be. The diamonds seemed scuffed and tawdry, the gold a dull yellow. He returned the knife to its case, and the case to Trudeau.

“Your other demands, sir?”

The prime minister took a moment to consider his words, put the case down, and placed his hands on his hips.

“Detective,” he said, then looked at him, “are you Catholic?”

“I am.”

“Practising? You’re under no obligation to answer.” “I consider myself to be a man of faith.” “I detected that in you. Or thought I did.” They both took a moment to consider their odd exchange. Then Trudeau said, “What Houde revealed on his deathbed interests me. I have often wondered how I was able to acquire this knife—from my enemies,
in fact. If she knows something that sheds light on that mystery, then I’d like to hear it. I’m making that part of this arrangement.”

Cinq-Mars nodded. “And your last demand?”

“Maintain the knife’s security.”

He glanced up. “Excuse me?”

“This knife is being entrusted from my care to this young woman’s. Don’t let me hear about it next after a robbery. I don’t want it stolen from her. You’re a cop. Help her to keep the knife safe. It means too much, its history is too diverse, to allow it to be hocked in some shabby way among international collectors.”

Cinq-Mars continued to observe the prime minister a moment, then looked away at the Inuit wall hanging. “I’ll communicate your terms to her.”

Pierre Trudeau put the case back into the safe, and closed the doors.

“You keep it close at hand,” Cinq-Mars mentioned.

“For its magic powers,” Trudeau said, and the policeman could not decide from the man’s tone whether or not he was being serious.

“I suppose, if it ends this crisis, it will have done a great magic.”

The prime minister nodded again, assessing that statement. “That’s actually my own sentiment. It makes the purchase, in another time, a good one. The return on investment was not what I had anticipated, but all in all, it’s not bad. You have an unusual name, Mr. Cinq-Mars. Where are you from?”

“Saint-Jacques-le-Majeur-de-Wolfestown. Do you know it?”

Trudeau nodded, as though to say that he did, but he did not reply immediately, and was gazing out the window again. Then he turned back, his face seemingly quite bright, as though he’d been freed from solemn obligations. “You’re a small-town boy, Cinq-Mars, and now you’re a big-city detective. It’s astonishing, is it not? How our lives turn, then turn again.”

Cinq-Mars wanted to agree, but stood waiting.

The prime minister looked at the young detective. “You and I never had this conversation.”

“Yes, sir,” Émile Cinq-Mars assured him, and departed.

CHAPTER 26

H
IS MIDDLE NAME WAS MENDELSSOHN.
He lived with it.

Few knew of the appellation. At one time he wanted it expunged from his records, but found the lawyer’s fees exorbitant. As a shyster related, “You can pretend it doesn’t exist—that’ll cost you nothing—or you can pay me four grand and I’ll take care of it.”

He rarely made that much in a year.

“By the way, for my advice today, the fee is thirty bucks.”

He’d taken less than a minute of the man’s time.

What had his mother been thinking to call him that? What had she expected of him? It’s not as though she went out and bought him a piano. She was a bit batty, she lived in her own world, and her second-born son was called Michel Mendelssohn Vimont. His father had made sure that his first name was Michel, having learned from the experience with Brahms, their first-born.

Michel Vimont had no music in him. If someone were to put a pistol to his kneecap, he couldn’t beat a drum to any rhythm. Yet, on his only spell in prison, he felt differently about the tag.

“Last name?” the admitting guard asked him. He had a birthmark under his right eye the shape of Greenland.

“Vimont.” “Spell that.”

Six measly letters. He wondered why it was necessary.

“First name?”

“Michel.”

“Spell that.”

How did this man keep his job? “You can’t spell Michel?”

The guard stared back at him coldly until he spelled his name for him.

“Middle name?”

“Mendelssohn.” For once, he spoke it proudly. What the hell. He was unlikely to encounter the pencil pusher again. He declared his name as though it was a title, a designation that marked him as different, and for the first time he was proud that his mother had distinguished him from being merely Michel or Jean-Guy or Marc, and had segregated him as well from young thugs named Louis and Pierre and Serge. He was Michel, but he was also Mendelssohn.

The guard waited, but Michel Vimont declined to anticipate his next command. “Spell that.”

Very slowly, he spelled his name, forcing the guard to look up after each letter to await the next one. Halfway through, Vimont said, “Tell me what you’ve got so far.”

The guard glared back at him, pulling the skin taut around his eyes, and Vimont looked at the map of Greenland and continued spelling his name. Then he did his time.

He met Father Joe Charbonneau in prison. The priest had been visiting with a contingent of clergy to evaluate conditions in federal prisons, and they hit it off and enjoyed an affable chat. After Vimont was released, he read in the papers that Father Joe had been brought in from Ontario to be the next archbishop of Montreal. He wrote a letter, reminding Father Joe of their jail-cell chat and asking if he knew of any jobs. He couldn’t believe that the man promptly took him on as his personal driver. Then, after the Asbestos strike, Father Joe got into hot water with the pope and was shipped to British Columbia, to an obscure parish there. Michel was not surprised when he was the first person fired after the change of guard.

“You have a criminal record,” the new bishop had stated, spreading his hands apart and smiling broadly. Apparently, that explained everything.
In time,
those eyes, those hands, were saying,
you’ll steal candlesticks.

Vimont merely nodded and bugged out.

After three days in a funk, he called Roger Clément.

“You’re a big man,” Roger observed. “Have you done much bouncing?”

“I held my own in prison.”

“I know somebody. We’ll start you out. Then, when a big shot needs a driver, we’ll get you doing that again. It shouldn’t be so hard. You were the bishop’s chauffeur. That’s practically like being a priest yourself.”