by John Farrow
Here, the building appeared impenetrable—the steel doors had stout locks and no windows. Consequently, no cops guarded the alley. The tricky part now was to close the window behind himself, as he had to dig his nails into the exterior woodwork to gain sufficient purchase. He tamped down a little putty for the window to sink into, catch and hold shut.
He now sat crouched on a small ledge, the drop too great to jump. No handholds were available on the way down over the marble base, but right at his feet stood a design filigree in cement. A lopsided oval, the size of a large sink, was bound on both sides by a pair of curved forms that ended as curlicues. The upper pair fell down over the oval and vaguely represented eyes, while at the bottom they had the appearance of claws. The effect created a highly stylized owl. Roger looped his last rope around the oval and an ear and descended about ten feet, then dropped two more feet onto the pavement.
He was down, he was outside, he was safe.
He then manipulated the rope to free his loop from the owl’s ear, and it fell beside him. Quickly, he hauled it down the alley and tossed it in a corner.
As he stepped onto the sidewalk, Roger noticed a change in the weather. He smelled the smoke of fires, heard the uproar of men in the delirium of a rampage. Through the park on the next street over, a rowdy gang had climbed up Peel Street from the poorer neighbourhoods, dancing down the centre line with no vehicle or cop to oppose them. Small clusters of young people moved through the park, howling at the moon and headed for the tumult on Ste. Catherine.
Sirens resounded from all directions and echoed off the buildings. On Dorchester Boulevard emergency vehicles sped past going both ways. Stray cars blared their horns.
Bedlam.
Roger stepped off the curb, headed for the park and Robbie Burns’s boot.
His confederates were waiting there. They had spread out in a row like pallbearers marshalled for a funeral. On the left, wrists crossed, chin held high in an attitude of superiority or condemnation—a meaningless pose, as it was his default expression—stood the count. Not since the Asbestos miners’ strike had Roger seen him, but instantly he recognized the posture and overall set of the man. He’d put on weight in Brazil, living amidst his Nazi cronies. What Roger had heard, through Michel Vimont—who’d heard it from Harry S. Montford, who’d heard it from Premier Duplessis himself—was that the French count had been treated like a lapdog by his German cohorts. He had no money and constantly begged at their heels. Skeptical of the rumour, Roger figured the count was too proud to ever admit to such a thing. He suspected that the idea probably originated with le Chef. The story went that de Bernonville wanted out of South America and would prefer the comfort of Quebec friends again, to stumble through his last days speaking French again rather than Portuguese. The idea of stealing the artifact originated with him. Since Asbestos, when he’d talked about the Cartier Dagger to the elite journalists there, he’d not forgotten about the knife, and remained intrigued by its worth and mythic authority. A man in his situation could benefit by owning a share in an object of such value, given its potential for lucre, or influence, or both.
So he contacted Duplessis, to entice him.
Le Chef knew that the relic held no sway, except symbolically, and yet he believed in symbols. He counted himself as a symbol of the Quebec people, of their destiny. In that sense, the artifact was competitive to his own glory. But if those two suns were conjoined as one, the emblematic, metaphoric power of that union could enshrine him politically throughout his lifetime and continue to buff his legacy after he was gone. He might never be able to admit to being a holder of the dagger, but rumours could travel the countryside, and why would a man of his esteem stoop to refute them?
In daydreaming about the count’s enterprise, Duplessis knew with whom to discuss putting a plan into action. He dialled Roger Clément’s number.
The stakes were high. Duplessis did not speak only to Roger. He reasoned that the dagger’s value was too tempting for one thug on his own. Anyway, Roger would need help. So, the premier met covertly with Montford, a gangster not unaccustomed to elaborate, lucrative gambits.
On such an excursion, Montford would never be out waiting in a park—too risky for his style. He made sure that he had his own man there, choosing his driver, Michel Mendelssohn Vimont, who stood next to the count.
Roger knew Vimont’s weakness. The one thing he wanted out of all this was something he did not want—to go to jail. Whatever else occurred mattered little to Michel, as long as he did not wind up in the slammer. To that end, he had made a phone call, for advice, to his old friend and counsellor, Father Joe. The former archbishop, now living in British Columbia, contacted Father François in Montreal, putting him in touch with Michel Vimont. And for their end of the caper, to support the interest of the Church, Father François contacted Roger.
Roger was connected to nearly everyone and no one knew it. So he anticipated schemes within the larger scheme, and understood to be careful. He plotted a scheme of his own.
Next to de Bernonville and Vimont stood a third man Roger did not know, but presumed him to be Dr. Camille Laurin. He was not Roger’s insider at Sun Life, but he suspected that the doctor represented him. He represented somebody, that’s all he was allowed to know. Roger had no clue how the fourth man in the row fit into all this. Even in the ambient dark, under the canopy of noise and confusion and smoke, no one who knew him could mistake the robust, egg-shaped bulk of Camillien Houde. The four men stood waiting.
Although he could not see him, Roger presumed that, around the front of the Robbie Burns statue, out of sight for now, Father François was waiting. As arranged. The outside player in his own scheme.
A fateful entourage.
“What news?” the count enquired as he drew close. “Mission accomplished,” he told them. “It’s nice to have a rooting section over here.”
“Let’s see the dagger,” Laurin said. “Not so fast,” Roger warned him.
The count took him up on that. “What’s the problem? Don’t you have it? Show us.”
“First, tell me what he’s doing here.” Roger nodded to his friend and former boss, Houde.
“Roger!” The old mayor put his head back and unleashed that big guffaw of his. He was convincing, for this was their ruse. Roger was not supposed to have known that Houde was part of all this, except that Houde had told him. “This is my town. Do you think I’d be left out on such an occasion? Come on, now. Show us the dagger.”
“Who brought you into this? I have a right to know.” For the sake of keeping the others in the dark about their alliance, he demonstrated petulance.
Houde raised an eyebrow and touched a finger to his big nose. “Le Chef,” he declared, which was the truth. “Who else? For my loyalty at the end of my career, and also, to keep an eye on these guys. Nobody trusts anyone here, but I am the old mayor, and if there is to be deceit on this evening, I will speak of it, and be believed. Now, show us the knife.”
Duplessis would never come on his own, nor could he trust the Nazi, who might abscond with the dagger worth unknown millions. Fencing ancient relics and paintings kept Nazis well heeled down south. The relic would be right up their alley. As far as Roger could tell, Duplessis now had at least three representatives on site, four if he counted himself, and five, possibly, because—who knows?—he probably had a hand up Laurin’s spine as well.
He removed the Cartier Dagger from his inner coat pocket. He unwrapped it from the kerchief.
Perhaps because he knew him best, Roger first handed the knife to Houde. The light that caught the old mayor’s face came from a travelling ambulance, yet he seemed to glow, his smile emerging at the corners of his mouth to become the expansive grin he’d made so famous. The least likely to be at a loss for words, he said only, “Yes. Yes.”
He passed the knife to Laurin.
Who said nothing. His evaluation seemed scientific, as though discerning authenticity. He passed the knife to Michel Vimont, who immediately pr
esented it to de Bernonville. But the count refused to receive it, saying, “I can see we’ve got it.”
Roger took the dagger back from Vimont.
More sirens. Fire trucks eastbound on Dorchester, chased by an ambulance. The men awaited the uproar’s end, as it was a nuisance to speak above the wail. Roger saw Father François emerge from beyond the Burns statue behind the conspirators.
Suddenly, just as the trucks sped by, a bellow from a crowd on Ste. Catherine echoed off the face of buildings and resonated in the smoky air. “What was that?” Roger asked.
The others had grown accustomed to such outbursts on this night, and did not react. Vimont shrugged. Out of the dark, Father François chose to answer him. “A mob,” he declared, “engaged in its idea of fun. Roger, might I not also view the dagger?”
“Who’re you?” de Bernonville demanded.
Vimont told him, “He’s a priest. You’ve met before.”
“When? What priest?”
“Asbestos,” Vimont said, and de Bernonville nodded. “Father François Legault, sir. Not exactly at your service. But I am here in service of the Cartier Dagger, and in the service of the Holy Mother Church.”
“This is no place for a priest, Father,” Houde scolded him. “Anyway, you’re more communist than cleric.”
“This is no place for the former mayor of Montreal,” Father François shot back. “Nor is this any place for the eminent Dr. Laurin, or a Nazi already barred from this country.”
The last thing anyone wanted here was to be identified.
“What do you want, Father?” Laurin asked him.
“Why,” the priest said, as though the news should come as no shock, “the knife. The Cartier Dagger. For the greater glory of the Holy Church. Would you like to show it to me, Roger?”
“Father, I’ve already promised it to these men.”
The priest smiled then. He was standing a little higher than the others, on the monument’s base. “Roger, Roger, Roger,” he said, and shook his head. “From the time of Maisonneuve, who with Jeanne Mance held this knife in trust, through Étienne Brulé, Dollard des Ormeaux and Radisson, the knife has honoured those blessed with its possession. Such men and women achieved the impossible. Initially, their cause was spiritual. Our duty must be to return the dagger to its true vocation. The greater Church, the one that we have yet to create, ought to be the next recipient, to protect the welfare of the souls of this land.”
“Fine words for a priest,” Houde remarked. “I say the Church is rich enough, Father. But I’ll come to you next time for my confession. I’ll sing you an opera.”
“You can begin right now, if you like. What are you doing here, Mr.
Mayor?”
Houde chortled again. “Father, I was out on a walk to discover what was happening to my beloved city. As so many are doing this evening. From a distance, I spotted Roger here—a man I’d recognize at a thousand paces. We spent years together in an interment camp, did you know? Seeing him, of course, I came up to greet him. Shall I say a rosary, Father, for the impudence of talking to a friend? What kind of priest are you to war against civility and friendship in this way?”
“The picket line boss,” de Bernonville said, remembering him from Asbestos. “He’s a rioter. Out tonight to smash store windows.”
“A Nazi would know,” Father François retorted.
“If you want to turn the dagger over to his church, Roger,” de Bernonville kept up, “you might as well give it to the Communist Party.”
“So you suggest that he give it to the old regimes of Houde and Duplessis instead?” the priest parried. “The has-beens? Duplessis’s darkness pervades the land. Houde, you’ve had your day. You’re not coming back.”
“A has-been? You must be talking about the Church, Father,” Houde retaliated in a swift fury. “Roger! Give us the knife! Your compensation is assured!”
“The Church is also capable of compensation—”
“For a stolen object?” Laurin spoke up. “What church is this, Father?”
Father François shrugged. “Whoever owns the object will do so in secrecy. Whoever pays compensation will be cautious doing so. If the relic is to be tied to the spiritual destiny of its people, the Church of Rome will intercede to protect it from being pilfered by fanatics.”
“Rome!” de Bernonville burst out. “Now, Rome?”
The portly priest vaguely nodded. “As always, jurisdictions overlap. Yes, you are not dealing with a lowly priest in his cassock. As you can see, I’m not wearing mine. There’s a more formidable front than you can imagine that stands against you. The unions, too. It’s an alliance, shall we say.”
“More commies.”
“With cash. Roger, take note. You, de Bernonville, take note: with cash.”
De Bernonville took a stride forward and, for the first time that evening, smiled. “You lack imagination, priest. Not only you, but these others.”
“How so?” The priest was also smiling, willing to debate.
“Roger, let me see the knife to prove my point. I didn’t have a chance to touch it before.”
Confident that he could recover it easily, Roger allowed the count to receive the dagger onto the leather gloves of his opened palms. The former torturer handled it delicately.
“Priest,” de Bernonville stated, “see this.” The count walked over to the monument and passed the knife to Father François, who removed one mitt and stuck it under his arm, to better feel the blade and handle. “You see, Father? Stone and bone. Animal hair. There’s no magic. You have not been transformed. You’re still a lowly priest and a pitiful communist.” “And you’re still a Nazi.”
De Bernonville took the knife back in his gloved hand. “Gestapo, let’s not forget. Proud of it, too. By the way, Father,” the count mentioned as he walked away from him, returning the knife to Roger, “thanks for gracing the dagger with your fingerprints.” He swiftly spun. As he completed the turn, his grip on the knife changed. He reared back and, whirling like a dervish, thrust the blade deep into the chest and heart of Roger Clément, up to the hilt. Roger remained standing, his mouth agape, his hands upraised as if in supplication, one upholding the kerchief as a flag of mercy, and as he staggered forward a few clumsy steps the others, in their shock, fell away. Father François pushed forward and grabbed him. Roger died while still on his feet, and the priest could not hold him up, although, illogically, he tried to do so, as though keeping him on his feet would dispute his death. In falling, the body twisted slightly, a last gesture towards redemption, and Roger collapsed into the arms of his bewildered friend, Michel Vimont, who eased his form to the ground.
He lay below the back of the Scottish poet.
The count’s smile slowly broadened. “Pull the knife out of him,” he directed Vimont.
As though in a trance, the driver also put his bare hands on the knife, but he could not extract it. The blade seemed stuck, or perhaps he lacked the gumption to do it. “I can’t,” he declared.
The count cried out, “Squeamish, weak bastards!” and shoved him aside.
“Hey!” bellowed a voice in the park, from towards the Sun Life Building. “What’s going on?”
They all glanced up just as the count bent down to extract the blade. The man who’d shouted was running away towards a cluster of cops on the steps of the Sun Life.
“Shit,” Houde whispered, his voice sounding distant and hollow, but at least he was emerging from paralysis.
Father François commenced mumbling last rites. “It’s stuck!” the count lamented.
“Why did you do that? You didn’t have to kill him,” Vimont complained. He implored the count with his hands, pumping them up and down, palms up. “You could’ve had the knife without doing that.”
“He’s a fucking communist.”
“So what?” Houde argued. “Anyway, he’s not. He’s just a thug—a friend of mine.”
“I saw your friend operate at Asbestos. He would’ve betrayed us, I have no
doubt.”
Laurin cried out, “Here comes a cop. Run!” He tucked his political career between his legs and heeded his own advice. Vimont, scarcely involved and terrified of prison, lit out as well.
As though drawn by the vacuum the speed of their flight created, Houde hobbled after them. He had not run in twenty years, but he was still the occasional skater, and his legs gathered momentum, beginning to churn under him. His arms commenced pumping.
Finally, de Bernonville, fearing extradition to France and charges of war crimes if captured, quit trying to extract the knife. He ran, and when the priest looked up from his chore, he saw the policeman approaching fast and realized that he alone remained the object of the cop’s charge. He remembered his fingerprints on the weapon and the count’s words on the subject, and ran himself. He did not know what else to do. He had been here to procure a stolen object, and the man who was in league with him to foil the others now lay dead. He ran. They all headed for Peel, and the policeman kept pursuing them even after he had passed Roger Clément’s body, but each man was soon lost in the rampant, shouting riot, escaping into the frenzy of raring men and boys reducing the city to litter and flames as best as they were able.
The nearest to being captured, Father François threw in his lot with a wildly hooting ragamuffin crew, whose miscreants appeared to have an appetite for flesh. The policemen did not want to chase anyone into that cop-hating mob, so he chose to retreat, not unwisely, to care for the man who lay in a lonely, crumpled heap upon a statue’s base.
