by John Farrow
Cinq-Mars nodded. “You’ve given this some thought.”
Trudeau considered that, and shrugged. “The knife did my thinking for me,” he said. “I don’t mean to be enigmatic. Any objet d’art is worthy of our meditation. In dwelling on the knife, on its history, these matters came through, as did my resolve to not ask questions of the dead. I’ll leave Houde’s final words alone, then, and fetch the knife.”
“Sir?” Before the prime minister stood, Cinq-Mars stalled his rise. He held up a hand, as though to physically restrain him. “I apologize, but I have also come with a request.”
“Certainly.” Trudeau sat back down. “As your mayor owes me, I owe you.
What is it?”
“There’s no debt, sir. I was doing my job. I don’t mean to take up your time, but as you’ve observed, I’m in uniform tonight. To drive here, I borrowed a squad car from the department.”
“I see.”
“I told Captain Touton I’d be talking to you, but I also informed him I’d conduct official business. He doesn’t know about the dagger changing hands tonight. Nor should he. Nor should anyone.” He smiled, amused by his own subterfuge, and regarded his host closely. He noticed Trudeau’s eyes dart to the right and down, then return to meet his. “If I may attend to other business then, sir, I’ll not be negligent in my duties, or fraudulent in borrowing the car. Also, this other matter gives me a reason to be here, to explain my presence should I need to, without having to mention the old knife.”
His host nodded and shared in the subterfuge with a smile. “By all means, Émile, proceed. I’m at your service. What’s this about?”
“Thank you, sir. I don’t know whether you’ve been informed, but you have been cited as another’s man’s alibi. If I may, I’d like to follow that up. I’m still on the case, you see, to solve the original theft of the dagger. More particularly, to solve the murders that occurred that night.”
Crossing his legs, and clearly intrigued, Trudeau invited him to proceed.
“On the night of the Richard riot—needless to say, you remember it …”
“I was there. Only one man might suggest me as his alibi for that evening.”
“Who might that be, sir?”
“Father François Legault. But you’re not inquiring after him?” Cinq-Mars dismissed the concern with a grimace and a shake of his head. “To unravel an old crime, where the trail’s gone cold, it’s necessary to start from scratch. That means talking to a lot of people and rechecking what they say.”
“I see.” He crooked his head a little, smacked his lips slightly, then declared, “I did meet up with Father François that night, if that’s what you want to know.”
“And how was that?”
Trudeau moved his hands apart in a gesture of openness, then brought them together again. “Like me, he was away from the riot, as I recall. I just arrived and assumed that the action would come towards me, to Phillips Square, so I waited for it to present itself. Father François was also in the square that night, apparently to recuperate. He’d had a bit too much excitement already.”
“What sort of excitement?”
Animated whenever he spoke, Trudeau waved his hands and flipped through an impressive repertoire of facial expressions. He possessed a mercurial mind and a core moral foundation, but his principal asset as a politician had become his ability to communicate effectively, and to do so wonderfully on television. His wit, which he sprinkled with derisive remarks, snapped into a microphone while faultlessly avoiding the clichés that so riddled the speech of his rivals. He also utilized a plethora of gestures, his mouth, eyes, eyebrows, cheekbones, chin and the tilt of his head active in his cause. In the comfort of the official residence at 24 Sussex Drive, with views from the high escarpment down through the trees and over the Ottawa River partially lit by lamps, he gave Cinq-Mars a brief sampling of those tics, and said, “A weak heart. Which we know about, right? I remember having a terrible thought that evening. Perhaps I shouldn’t admit it. But his jacket was undone, you see, and I thought, It’s because he’s fat. A skinny man, such as myself, would have buttoned up. After we sat around for a while, chatting, he buttoned up. Yet—not at first. We were together quite some time—I presume that you want to know all this?”
Excited, Cinq-Mars leaned in. “So the riot was in progress before you met?”
“I didn’t go downtown until after things had heated up. Émile. You don’t think he was involved in the theft of the knife and the murders, do you?”
“Did he initiate your interest in acquiring the knife?”
“I’d say yes, however—” The prime minister suddenly stopped.
“Curious,” Cinq-Mars said.
The young man extracted a notepad from his inner jacket pocket to jot down a few lines. Looking up, he wore his grin somewhat sheepishly.
“Forgive me, sir, but were the two of you, or either of you, rioting?”
Trudeau broke from his spell and had a good laugh. “Father François may have wanted to, that’s my opinion, but he was restricted by his health. He verbally harried a police officer, I remember that. Come to think of it, I may have pitched in. But no, we were not rioting. We were there as interested observers. I’m afraid I can’t help you very much, except to verify that, if called upon, I can honestly present myself as the good friar’s alibi—and he mine, come to think of it, should either of us require one.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that you may?”
The prime minister eyed him curiously. “Your interest, Émile, is in discovering who committed the murders on that fateful night, is it not?” “That’s correct, sir.”
Trudeau crossed an arm over his torso, offering his wrist to support the opposite elbow, and placed two fingers, meditatively, along his left cheek. Cinq-Mars presumed that the man had something to say, but the words did not appear to be forthcoming. Instead, the prime minister posed a question. “How did you know that Father François initiated my purchase of the knife?”
“I didn’t, until you just told me.”
“You appeared to have known that.”
“I guessed, sir. But it was a reasoned guess.”
“How?”
Cinq-Mars hesitated, sorting through the detritus that had delivered him to that conclusion. “My friend, the young woman, told me that you possessed the knife. I examined everyone who was potentially involved, of course, and the only one from that night with a connection to you was Father François. He named you as his alibi. He didn’t know it, but in doing so, he tipped me off that he might be involved. Father François associated you with that night. When it came time to find a buyer, your name popped to mind—his mind. As well, of course, he’s incriminated as being a part of Houde’s deathbed confession. Though what was said on that specific matter is not known to me.”
Browsing through the policeman’s thinking, Trudeau lightly drew his right hand up and down his opposite forearm. “All right, then. But how did you come to consider Father François, of all people, ‘potentially involved,’ as you put it? I find this quite alarming, I must say.”
Cinq-Mars rocked his head from side to side, as though sifting theories. “I search for connections. Another man murdered around that incident was Michel Vimont, a friend of Roger Clément, who was driving a limo for a mid-rank gangster at the time named Harry Montford. Tracing the tracks of Vimont’s life, I discovered that he used to be the chauffeur for Monsignor Charbonneau.”
“There’s a blast from the past.”
“The much-maligned, much-reviled, Monsignor Charbonneau.” “And much-revered,” countered Trudeau.
“Yet he had many enemies. I decided to discover if he had any friends. The one name that shone through on that list—”
“Father François Legault. Makes sense. Those two, I mean.”
“Father François was Houde’s priest, he was Roger Clément’s friend—he’s maintained close contact with the family—he was Charbonneau’s confrere—”
�
�And he also knew me.”
“From your Cité Libre days. If the dagger had been heisted by the right, how could any of those right-wing clowns go to you to help them out by buying the dagger? The idea is ludicrous. So there had to be an intermediary. Another. Someone who both thought of you and could approach you. Among all the names I’ve dealt with, which one was leading me back to you?”
“Father François.”
“Although I did not know it for a fact until you just told me.”
“Émile, I hate to think what kind of detective you’ll make after you develop the powers of deduction you seem so willing to disparage in yourself.”
Cinq-Mars smiled briefly and realized in that instance that he had managed to forget himself and his frets for quite a few minutes. He was feeling good. This conversation had become an excellent dress rehearsal for what still lay ahead. He asked a few questions to draw out what Trudeau was willing to impart about how he acquired the knife, and the prime minister seemed to enjoy the retelling.
“The thug’s name was Harry, or Larry, or—Barry!” Trudeau said at one point. “It’s probably of no importance now, but he told me the name of his boss, too.”
“He did?”
“De Bernonville.”
“Whom you met in Asbestos, sir. Maybe that’s why he was willing to sell to you. Not that he had scruples.”
Trudeau rose to fetch the knife, took a few steps, then retraced them. “Émile,” he asked, “do you know why I admitted you into my office that day? You arrived to see me without an appointment, carrying just the tip of the dagger.”
Surprised by this turn, the cop put his notebook away. “No, sir. I presumed that presenting the knife’s tip to you snagged your attention. Perhaps, are you saying—? Did it have to do with what we previously discussed?”
“Which was?” the prime minister quizzed him.
“You said that the commissioner thought I looked intelligent. That you were only talking to reporters in those days—”
The prime minister, while smiling, was now waving him quiet. “I was only having a bit of fun with you. But before that, before I asked the commissioner to check you out—why did I even go that far, rather than have you turfed out on your backside?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Cinq-Mars acknowledged.
“The knife kept you in the building.”
“Sir?” Their eyes locked momentarily, until the prime minister broke that connection.
He returned to his chair, and stood behind it, resting his weight upon his forearms interwoven across the top of the chair’s high back. “The previous night, I solicited the knife’s help. Hearing that from me, you may want to reconsider your vote, if it happens that you voted for me. But it’s true. I’ve done it before, even though I’m really not inclined towards magic. We all remember the debacle with Mackenzie King, all the spirit-talk he was engaged in—brother. I wouldn’t want that on my record. If you tell the press, Émile, I’ll deny it, of course.”
“Sir, I wouldn’t—” He didn’t finish, realizing that the prime minister expected no response and was even having some fun with him.
“I asked the knife to help me. Call it a prayer, if you will. The next day, I heard that a police officer was trying to barge into my office. I was having you dismissed, when—out of the meditation from the previous evening, or out of some intuitive power that the knife itself possessed, I felt that I should admit you. A swift hunch.”
Cinq-Mars nodded, not knowing how to respond further.
“I still did not act completely on that intuition. First, I asked for your evidence. Then, when the commissioner attested to your intelligence, and mentioned that you were representing Armand Touton—who once tried to recruit me, did you know?”
“Really?” A surprise, but he wouldn’t put anything past his boss.
“I passed on that opportunity, but not without giving him a bit of a head’s up. The episode gave me respect for him. After you had evoked his name, I felt strongly that I should see you. The tip of the knife clinched it. So I did.”
Trudeau kept glancing down at him, then looking away, as though evaluating how his words were being received, as though to determine how much he might dare reveal to this young man.
“But the primary reason—” He stopped. This time, his gaze travelled through the window, to the falling snow. They both heard a dog bark three times. When he spoke again, his voice had gone sombre. Cinq-Mars could hear him, clear as a bell, but he guessed that if he moved five feet away the man would seem mute to him. “I felt the work of the knife in this … in your presence … but earlier than that, in the reports I was hearing of a half-mad Montreal police officer making a scene in the outer office. That was sufficiently bizarre to warrant my attention. So you see, Émile—and I trust that you appreciate the irony—only now that I am about to surrender the dagger to you have I come to believe in it. To trust it, in a way. In the past, I’ve had my suspicions that the rumours about the relic might have some faint validity. Those suspicions have grown. That’s one more reason why I want you to do your level best to protect it.”
The policeman did not feel he could mislead the prime minister in any way. “I will exert my influence, sir, on behalf of the knife’s security. Once out of my hands, it will be beyond my control.”
Trudeau nodded, conceding to that reality. “Do your best, Émile. That’s all I ask. I’ve come to believe that that might be significant.” He looked to the window again, as the barking had resumed, sounding closer now. “Lassie,” he noted, smiling, “seems chagrined.”
On the drive home that night, Émile Cinq-Mars had a little over two hours on his own to stew over a dilemma. He wondered if he was capable of exercising a similar restraint to that shown by the prime minister of Canada. Anik Clément was willing to tell him what she had gleaned in the closet as Houde lay dying, expecting that he would then submit the information to Pierre Trudeau. Would he have the willpower to let her know that that information was no longer required? Or would he listen to her story anyway, for his own edification?
After all, was he not a policeman, an aspiring detective? Did he not traffic in secrets? Did he not still have a crime to solve?
Along the highway, he pulled over. He put on his flashing cherries so that passing trucks and cars would be less likely to ram him from behind.
Snow fell lightly, enough to thwart visibility.
He snapped on the interior overhead light and picked up the modest wooden box that housed the Cartier Dagger.
There, by the side of the road, he took it out.
If the prime minister believed in it, and had asked the knife to help him with a national crisis, then why should he not request help to solve his own critical case? What possible harm could that cause? Besides, was the knife not intricately involved in his investigation, given that it had been the murder weapon? Given that it already knew the answers he sought?
He held it in his grip awhile.
Then, carefully, he put the knife back in its cradle and turned off the interior light. He had to wait for a car to pass before pulling out onto the road. The driver slowed, then braked again, not atypical of a speeding motorist passing a police cruiser, but perhaps overdone. As the car passed him, Cinq-Mars spotted a collie in the rear seat turning to look at his vehicle. Cinq-Mars remained still—frozen. Lassie! The car carried on, and vanished over a low crest down the road. Slowly, he pulled away from the shoulder and drove on. He kept his speed down awhile. His blood ran cold. After a mile or so, he remembered to turn off his flashing overheads. Then he sped up, but never encountered that car again.
Émile Cinq-Mars met with Anik when she was alone at her mother’s house. He carried the treasure, within its wooden case, inside a shoebox.
“You look like a terrorist,” she said, “toting a homemade bomb.”
“I feel like a thief. Toting a bomb.”
He opened the box on the kitchen table, but suddenly Anik did not want to look at it. Not yet. This w
as the foul weapon that had killed her father, which remained her governing interest. Her curiosity about the knife, its appearance, its effect on her, still resided across an emotional and turbulent divide.
“I’ll check it out,” she promised, “when I get my courage up. On my own.”
Anik had recently rented an apartment, but her old bed remained available to her in her mother’s house. She hid the knife under the box spring, then the two of them ventured outside for a walk in the winter air.
“Nobody followed you, right?”
“Already you’re paranoid. Owning that knife won’t be easy.”
Anik smiled, while willing to take his point seriously. She told him, “I don’t really own it. Nobody does. Or can. Don’t worry, it won’t be under the bed for long.”
“I took precautions getting here. Every trick in the book. Nobody followed me.”
For a while, they strolled along in silence.
“What about the other guys?” she asked. “Laporte’s killers, Paul Rose and them? Any news?”
“Do you know where they are? Can you help?”
She appeared a bit cross, knitting her brow. “I don’t know where they are, and I’m not going to help. I’ve meddled too much already. But you’ll find them. I have a really strong impression that they have a lot of friends who aren’t feeling quite so friendly anymore.”
“That’s been my impression also. They got away with hiding behind a false wall once. That won’t happen again. They shouldn’t have shown up the cops the way they did. Smearing their fingerprints around, that sort of thing. Now every cop takes it personally. Next time, we’ll do better.”
“I can imagine.” She seemed far away from him, adrift.
“Next time, cops will blow up a building before they risk leaving someone inside undetected.”
He didn’t receive the smile he was hoping for, and they resumed their quiet time together.
