by John Farrow
Émile had to believe that his new boss was not putting him on this time.
“Not only did he check you out, Cinq-Mars, he put his faith in you. I would say his hope, too. He started with his faith in you, then checked you out. So far, you’ve passed muster.”
“Sounds contradictory,” Cinq-Mars noted. “Having faith in me, then checking me out.”
“Fuck you. Do you hear me, smart-ass? Fuck you. I saw you in there, the look in your eyes when he pulled out that bottle—”
Cinq-Mars pulled the identical expression a second time, barely disguising his judgmental condemnation, his head and eyes rolling back.
“Hey. If he needs a shot to pull him through—hey!”
Cinq-Mars had begun to turn away completely. He rotated to face Fleury again. “Look, you’re my superior officer, but you don’t need to apologize for him and I don’t need to listen to this.”
“Maybe you do. That man in there, in the Second World War—”
“Everybody has an excuse.” He tried to walk away again, but Fleury caught his arm and came close, under his chin, speaking in a harsh, whispery voice.
“Wounded. Captured. Seventeen days with minimal medical attention. Force-marched. Operated on with no anaesthetic by a French doctor employed by the Germans. After the operation, during which Armand did not cry out—maybe he moaned a little, but he did not cry out—the doctor told him he was the bravest, strongest man he’d ever met, and shook his hand. Years later, he was force-marched back to Germany in the winter … in the snow … in frigid temperatures—with no shoes. Now, if he needs a shot today to handle the pain after being cut up by that doctor in butcher-like conditions, then you’d better hurry up and respect him for what he’s going through. You would’ve cried out, Cinq-Mars. You would’ve bawled like a baby. Any man would’ve. Every other man did. On that march, you would’ve curled up by the roadside, gone to sleep and died. Like so many did. That man in there did not. So if you want to pull a face because he’s having a drink, be prepared to fight me outside, because that’ll happen sooner rather than later.”
Cinq-Mars was looking at a man who had to be sixty to seventy pounds lighter than him and eight to ten inches shorter. A man with a desk job who had never done a day’s work on a farm in his life, and if he’d tried, he would not have survived. Any skirmish outside would be brief and one-sided, the younger man knew. Yet, graciously, he backed down.
“That won’t be necessary,” he told him. He was thinking he might have made it through that long winter’s march, although he was grateful for never having been tested that way. Fleury, he imagined, would never have seen the first dawn, but of these things, who really knew?
The older detective from Policy continued to glare at him. Then he issued a fractional smile, an admission, as if to say, “Thank God for that,” and walked off.
He was nearing the end of the corridor, about to turn the corner towards his office, when Cinq-Mars called after him. “Sir? What should I do now?” Without looking back, the smaller man commanded, “Follow me.” So he did.
Travelling up and over the eastern flank of Mount Royal on Park Avenue, Touton was driving through a light rain into breaking sunlight.
Parkland graced the rising slope to his left. Lower to his right, fields for baseball and football occupied a flat plateau, then yielded to congested communities that eventually, way in the distance, gave way to industrial territory dominated by oil refineries and rolling stock.
To be driving in daylight, to be able to see a distance, felt good to the captain of the Night Patrol. He had an appointment. This time, Dr. Camille Laurin had declined to meet him in a public setting. Touton would sit in his waiting room like a manic-depressive hoping for entry, a kind word and a prescription. He’d have to loaf around before hearing his name called.
“Captain,” Laurin spoke from the doorway to his office, a privilege he did not extend to other clients who would normally be admitted by an assistant.
Touton endured a painful push up to his feet and limped into the man’s untidy chamber.
“Good to see you, sir.” Laurin shook his hand, then seated himself and indicated that Touton should do the same. Between them, files in folders of various pastel hues were stacked in squat, leaning towers on his desk. “How’ve you been these days?” the doctor inquired.
“Like the rest of us, a little older.”
“How do you live, sir, seeing the sun only on weekends?”
“Weekends I work. Mondays, Tuesdays, those are my days off to catch a glimpse of light. But I’m not someone who feels any need for a tan.”
Cigarette in one hand, eyeglasses dangling in the other, Laurin indicated by the ensuing silence that the time had come to conclude their pleasantries, bear whatever point the cop had journeyed here to make. The day was a Tuesday, so he had now been informed that he was seeing the officer on the man’s day off, which troubled him. The doctor flicked his cigarette over a heavy glass ashtray filled with butts, then brought the smoke to his lips. Inhaled deeply. He squinted at his guest.
“Cancer sticks,” Touton pointed out. “Nails in the coffin.”
Laurin shrugged.
“I’ll come to the point.”
Laurin stared back, waiting.
“The case continues.”
“Case?” Laurin asked.
“The death of Roger Clément. The killing of a coroner. The murder of Michel Vimont, on occasion a driver for the old mayor, Houde. The rest of the time, he drove for a racketeer named Harry Montford. Did you know him?”
He inhaled. “Why would I know a racketeer?”
“You knew Mayor Houde.”
“Of course.”
“Did you know Harry Montford?” And exhaled. “I just said—”
“You answered my question with one of your own. I don’t know why you’d know Montford, sir. You didn’t move in the same circles. He was a mobster. You’re a psychiatrist. He was English—we could draw the conclusion that the two of you never met. But I must ask the question. Humour me. Did you know him?”
Laurin shrugged, reluctantly acceding to the protocol. “Was he famous? The name rings a bell. But did I know him? Not to my knowledge, although I meet so many people, including English people.”
“Including racketeers?”
That query provoked an honest grin from the doctor. “Not to my knowledge.”
“You see, after Mayor Houde was ousted he didn’t have a chauffeur—he didn’t have a car. Sometimes Vimont would chauffeur him around in Montford’s car. I guess Montford owed him a favour or two, from the old days, the heyday of city corruption.”
The doctor flicked his cigarette again. “As you say, Captain, we’re a little older. Your case cannot be going well. Time’s passed by. Mayor Houde is dead, and what about this Montford? Him, too?” He smiled ever so slightly.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Touton concurred. “We’re older. Some from the old days are dead. In the near future, sir, you’ll be receiving a visit from a young officer. A strapping young man. Educated. Smart. A good cop. He’s being integrated into the investigative team and is presently becoming an expert on the crimes in question. I wanted to notify you, Dr. Laurin, about his presence. Your cooperation is much appreciated, and this new officer—he’s younger than us—will inherit the file and carry it through to conclusion.”
The spiel provoked a wry grin from Laurin. Without apology, he lit a fresh cigarette off the embers of the old, then crushed the butt in the ashtray.
“Why would he want to speak to me? My so-called youthful indiscretion? In a moment of poor judgment, I signed a petition I failed to fully comprehend. Or are you again going to ask me how many people I killed? Quick answer, none.”
“These days, you’re involved in politics—”
“It’s a responsibility for citizens to be engaged in Quebec independence.”
Touton smiled, twirled his hat in both hands. He hadn’t been offered the option to hang it up,
or his coat either. “Our new religion. I was never fully converted to the old one, Doctor. I suspect I won’t easily convert to the new one either.”
“The movement will sweep everyone along. Those who won’t join us will be left behind.”
Touton chuckled aloud. “More threats. If you don’t get on the train to heaven you’ll be shipped in a handcart to hell. If you don’t obey the law, you’ll go to jail. We know that’s not always true.”
Behind the shroud of smoke spewed by the wee furnace of his cigarette, Laurin matched Touton’s chuckle with a grin on one side of his mouth. “You paint me as a mindless dupe. That’s your prerogative, but I have analyzed the situation from my perspective as a psychiatrist. In my professional opinion, Quebec independence is a necessary collective,” he paused on the word, “psychotherapy, you understand, a collective psychotherapy, to treat the inferiority complex of the Québécois people.”
“I don’t feel inferior.”
“Captain, that’s not the point—”
“Sure it is. You believe that Quebecers suffer from an inferiority complex. I’m a Quebecer. I’m telling you that I don’t feel inferior.”
“The collective does. Not that anyone wishes to admit to it—”
“I’m not in denial, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Although I’ve never understood how anyone can deny being in denial and still be taken seriously.” “It’s a problem, yes.” Laurin nodded behind his veil of smoke. “Surely it ought to be voluntary,” Touton threw in. “Excuse me?”
“This treatment of yours. You feel the people are ailing with a condition, this inferiority. Surely the treatment, such as independence, ought to be voluntary and not imposed.”
“We’re democratic, sir. No one’s imposing anything. Our aims are peaceful.”
“Ah, but now you’re asking the people to treat themselves. Do you ask your patients to treat themselves? If so, then how do you render a bill for your services?”
“I often ask my patients to treat themselves, albeit under guidance.”
“Ah, guidance. So you know best, is what you’re saying. But you’re asking all of us, everyone, to undergo this treatment for our so-called psychological wounds. That strikes me as unfair. I would not want to be committed to an insane asylum, for instance, because my neighbour’s nuts.”
Delicately, Laurin flicked ash off his shirt. “You don’t want to be included in our enterprise. Yet you include the rest of us in yours.”
“Mine?”
“Duplessis. Drapeau. The federal government.” He inhaled down to his ankles. “We’re a conquered people, Captain Touton—” “Conquered!” “We behave accordingly.”
“Speak for yourself. Nobody’s conquered me. I fought—” “Yes, Captain,” the doctor interrupted. “Frankly, I don’t believe you should have fought, but since you did, I commend your bravery.”
“Don’t mock my war record, sir.” Touton glared at the man. “I’m not, sir.”
“Men died beside me. I will not have their memory mocked.”
“Captain, are you delirious? I’m not mocking your comrades. I commend their bravery. But it does not alter the articles of history. We are a conquered people and we behave accordingly.”
Touton collected himself. This was no time to fight the war all over again. He knew that Laurin had been one of those allied against him, a supporter of the Vichy regime, but that time had passed. He bunched his trousers up higher on his thighs, then briefly rubbed his jaw.
“Perhaps that’s what we have in common, Dr. Laurin.”
The physician squinted through his smoke at him, curious now.
“I keep fighting the battle at Dieppe,” Touton continued. “It never leaves me, while the battle that never leaves you took place on the Plains of Abraham.”
Laurin nodded, as he might when counselling a patient. “We French fell to the English, Captain. That’s a tragic fact of history, an aspect of our mutual collective psychotherapy. Perhaps you dispelled your personal psychosis on the battlefield, or altered it, but the rest of us did not.”
“Are you saying that Quebec should have gone to war, too?”
“I’m saying that Quebec ought to become independent, to shake off our inferiority complex once and for all. Only then can we be truly free.”
“If Quebecers are stuck in some complex, let’s shake it off, and once we’ve shaken it off, choose our fate then. If you’re going to treat the province as a patient, Doctor, we’ll have to disagree. I don’t think the patient should be doing the surgery. Also, if you want to win independence, you’ll be forced to appeal to that sense of inferiority. I don’t see how that’s healthy.”
Laurin smiled, perhaps content that the subject of conversation had run its course, but surprised also that the cop possessed any political awareness. But this was a land where people revelled in their politics as much as they revelled in hockey, or sunshine. “Captain Touton, please tell me what has brought you here on your day off. Not to discuss the war or independence. You could have let your new detective introduce himself. So tell me, how may I help you?”
Touton pursed his lips, returning to a more profound seriousness. The moment he had been hoping to broach had arrived. “Sir, your old cronies were fascists. In your new political life, your cohorts have arrived from the left. A minute ago, you said that the movement sweeps people into its embrace. You’re now hugging people you once wanted to bash over the head—”
“Captain Touton, your naïveté is charming to a point—” He was speaking with the cigarette still bobbing up and down in his mouth with each syllable.
“—if I may finish. You find yourself forced to occupy the same space as the left wingers you once ridiculed. In the new group, won’t some of the members be dismayed, sir, to discover that you once sought freedom for a Nazi war criminal?”
“The naïveté of my youth—”
“Does that excuse hold water?”
Laurin smiled grimly, looking down at his desk. “I so enjoy our discussions, Captain. To a point. Regrettably, I find myself requesting that we conclude our chat.”
“Perhaps your new friends,” Touton pressed on, as though the notion had only occurred to him at that moment, “might be more impressed if they discovered that you helped recover the Cartier Dagger for the people of Quebec, that you guided the authorities through the maze of Quebec Nazi sympathizers.”
Laurin sucked smoke, and stared at him. “I do not believe that that would be a fruitful exercise.”
“Camillien Houde was involved. He helped sell the knife. He’s dead, others are dead also. Why won’t you help us, sir? Assist the police. The people of Quebec, Dr. Laurin—help them.”
Fashioning his skills for a new life in politics, Dr. Laurin let him know that he would take the matter under advisement even while he showed the captain out.
“Émile Cinq-Mars is coming,” Touton called back from the doorway. “Remember the name. He’s reviewing the entire case, top to bottom, making his own assessment. Before long, he’ll drop by to conduct an inquiry. He’ll have questions.”
Waiting patients assumed he was cracked.
“Good day, Captain Touton.”
“So long, Doc.”
Reflecting on the quandary into which he had tried to steer the eminent psychiatrist, Touton was generally pleased as he drove home. He did not really expect Dr. Laurin to betray his old friends, although stranger things had happened, and certainly, more ruthless betrayals among thieves had taken place during his tenure as a policeman. If the doctor provided information and proffered identities, he’d be admitting to his own culpability at the same moment that he compromised his right-wing pals. Yet, by betraying the old guard, he’d be ingratiating himself with the left-wing trend within the independence movement, although by doing so he would also be inviting himself to come more deeply under the influence of Touton, subject to his investigation and wily schemes. Spirals revolved within circles.
Touton had left the man little room t
o manoeuvre.
If Laurin withheld information, he’d be announcing himself as uncooperative, someone requiring Touton’s focus. If the doctor failed to be friendly with his enquiry, the policeman would surely sic his new dog on him, the mongrel pup up from the countryside, Émile Cinq-Mars. At the very least, the doctor would deduce that he’d know no peace in his lifetime, that Touton’s impending retirement from the force, bound to come early for medical reasons, would not spare him ongoing scrutiny at exactly the time when his political ambitions had begun to foment.
Touton had let something slip. He had told Laurin that Houde had been involved in the sale of the dagger—which Anik had confirmed. In doing so, he was letting Laurin know that the police were closer to a judgment than he might have guessed. That tidbit should settle in the psychiatrist’s craw and nettle him.
As he drove, Touton smiled. Between them, he believed, he and Cinq-Mars should be able to smudge the doctor’s bright glow.
Like a long, lit fuse leading to a dynamite stack, excitement snapped through the bar scene. Then came the usual denials, bringing people low once more. Partisans grew depressed as the cause seemed lost, when suddenly the key moment was taking place on TV, live. Dishevelled, windblown, smoking while he spoke and looking like a man just down from a mountaintop, René Lévesque announced that he had quit his provincial cabinet post. He was forming a new political party dedicated to the only option he believed to be viable—independence.
The great project of their lives had commenced.
“Finally,” Jean-Luc sighed, “we have our leader.” Anik sniffed. The others gave her a look.
