The Hidden Keys

by André Alexis

  When Tancred had gone, Errol said

  – Freud, man, you should come with us.

  – Why? I don’t like cemeteries.

  – Yeah, but if we find something, like if we find money, we’ll just take it. We won’t need Palmieri anymore. And if we don’t find anything, I think it’s time you got some payback. Know what I mean? I’ll make sure he doesn’t sucker-punch you. Either way, you won’t be wasting your time, okay?

  Freud was pleased at the thought of punching Tancred’s face in.

  – You want another doughnut, Nigs? he asked.

  – Nah, maybe more coffee, answered Colby.

  3 An Even Number of Endings

  The Azarian business ended exactly as Baruch might have predicted. The wealthy had got their way as usual, wasting resources as they went. Daniel, a detective, had been sent to investigate a petty theft. A few more thefts had occurred and then, as things were getting interesting, he was dismissed – that is, the Azarians had magnanimously informed the police that their services were no longer needed. The family had recovered the stolen mementos on their own.

  Interesting timing: he’d been waiting in the Café el-Bugat for half an hour when dispatch told him the news. Michael Azarian had not called and would not show. As Baruch might have said, consideration was for peers, and he, a member of the police, was no peer to the Azarians. Daniel had felt slightly put upon, but he got over the bitterness quickly. The matter was closed and, appropriately somehow, the strangest case he’d been involved with was over before it had really got going.

  Daniel had finished his aish el-saraya and coffee when an older gentleman walked into the café. As if he were peeved, the man shouted

  – Can’t a veteran get a tea in this place?

  Daniel recognized him at once. It was the man in Puli’s photo, the one with whom Tancred had spoken. Up close, he looked to be about seventy, and he had a prosthetic leg. The most striking thing about him, however, was a purplish-black bruise on his forehead – it looked as if he’d recently been in a fray of some kind and he’d come out the worse for wear. Though there were tables free, when the man saw Daniel he hobbled over, accompanied by a younger woman who unobtrusively helped him walk.

  When he got close, the man stared at Daniel, wordlessly. Nor would he move on when his minder tried steer him away. Finally, he said

  – Do you know me?

  – It’s not the same man, said the woman.

  – I’m afraid I don’t know you, Daniel said.

  – Well, said Ran Morrissey, I admit I can’t tell the difference between one black man and another. But you look like the one who bought me the best drink I’ve ever had.

  – We were drugged, said the woman.

  – He was a military man, said Morrissey. There’s no chance we were drugged. That was the best arak I’ve ever been served. It was like the opium I had in P.E.I. I didn’t know arak could be so strong.

  – But I had coffee, said the woman, and I passed out.

  – So you say! So you say! said Morrissey. But what looks like coffee is sometimes tea! You asked him for arak, I remember.

  – But what about your bruise?

  – Did you or did you not ask him for arak? asked Morrissey.

  The woman said nothing and Morrissey, confident he’d settled the matter, retired to a table somewhere behind Daniel’s. After a moment, Morrissey began talking loudly about the American economy and the fact that the United States had foolishly elected a lackey to lead it. Barack Hussein Obama! It was a miracle the apocalypse hadn’t come at his inauguration. It was only a matter of time, of course. Only a matter of time.

  Mystified by the encounter, Daniel left the Café el-Bugat and walked to his car, thinking about how peculiar human beings sometimes are. Of course, he worried often, in these days before the birth of his and Fiona’s child, about all the malice on earth, the terrible things his child would face. Baruch had, perhaps, felt similarly at his – that is, Daniel’s – birth. Which would, no doubt, explain Baruch’s rage to make the world a better place. At any rate, it comforted Daniel to think so.

  In fact, Daniel was suddenly sanguine about the world. The man with the bruised forehead was as far from Baruch as he could imagine. But the difference was, momentarily, unimportant. The man was human and fallible and Daniel was moved by this fallibility, by the fate they all shared, by the thought that there was so much they could not know.

  There were, no doubt, worse ways to feel when one had failed to solve a case.

  It was December 4th. No, it was December 5th, one in the morning. What else? It was cold: four or five degrees Celsius at most. What else? Nothing else. Of the moments before Colby and Freud came, Tancred had no memory. No memory of the drive to Mount Pleasant, no memory of going over the fence and drawing his ladder after him, though, of course, he had done these things. His awareness began with the appearance of the two. No, not with their appearance; rather, with the sound of them – loud whispers getting louder as they approached, then silence as they saw him.

  When he was certain Colby and Freud had seen him, Tancred stepped into a Weiden mausoleum that he had, the night before, prepared for them.

  – I hope we’re not doing this for nothing, said Colby.

  – I hope so, too, said Tancred.

  He explained again why they were looking for the name Harp or Harfe on the walls of the mausoleum. When he’d finished, he said

  – I’m going to do this one.

  He stepped up his ladder, turned on his flashlight and made as if he were closely examining the marble around the entrance to the mausoleum.

  Though they were skeptical, Colby and Freud in turn climbed their ladders and began to inspect their walls. The light in the mausoleum was bronze and yellow, the beams from three flashlights creating elongated circles and shadows on the marble.

  After a half-hour of a silence broken only by Freud’s grumbled complaints, Colby shouted

  – Jesus!

  startling the other two.

  – What the fuck? said Freud

  who’d almost fallen off his ladder.

  – Jesus! Colby said again. I found it!

  As Tancred had done before him, Colby pushed on the rectangle with the word HARFE engraved in it. The rectangle went in and then opened out like the drawer it was. Colby took out the same black-leather envelope Tancred had found, extracting from it a silver key and a white business card on which an address was darkly printed:

  Royal Bank of Canada

  2 Bloor Street East,

  Toronto, Ontario

  Safety Deposit Box #15011985

  Colby was careful not to show the contents of the envelope to Tancred. Instead, shining a light on the business card so Freud could see it, he said

  – I knew Willow was right! I knew it!

  – Can I see that? Tancred asked.

  Colby considered the question.

  – No, he said.

  Summoning all the outrage he could, Tancred said

  – I’m the one who solved the puzzle

  and took a step toward the two, as if he intended to press the matter. Freud happily stood between Tancred and Colby, flashlight ready as a weapon. Tancred said

  – Don’t make me break your nose again.

  Worried that Tancred would be more than Freud could handle and too excited to get into it, now that he’d got what he wanted, Colby held Freud back.

  – Not worth the trouble, he said. He’s got nothing.

  Then, to Tancred:

  – We’ll look into this and get back to you.

  Warily, but as if disappointed, Tancred stepped back, waiting for Freud to come at him.

  It was not difficult for him to feign disappointment because he was disappointed. He had, of course, switched card and key himself. Colby and Freud would find, in the rbc safety deposit box, five precious stones that he’d stolen years previously. The stones were worth between fifty and a hundred thousand dollars, depending on how one disposed of th
em. (Depending!) They were beautiful. He’d grown particularly attached to the carbonado – a black diamond with a ruby flaw. It was against his principles to make a fetish of the things he stole – that is, he liked to imagine that his relationship to objects was so pure it verged on indifference. The black diamond was an exception, but he had given the five stones up, knowing that whatever was in an Azarian safety deposit box had to be valuable enough to convince Colby that Tancred had not tricked them, that they were not being played. So, Tancred had given up his most valuable pieces, unsure if what waited in Montreux would compensate him for the loss.

  Then again, he’d had no choice. As he warily watched Colby and Freud leave the mausoleum, he remembered the photographs they’d taken of Fiona. If anything, he wondered if he should not have left the men more.

  Tancred had bought his ticket to Switzerland and had almost managed to stop thinking about Colby when, three days before he was to go, he ran into him at Ali’s.

  – It’s Tancred Palmieri, said Colby. How you doing?

  Tancred feigned displeasure.

  – I’m still waiting to hear what you found.

  – Oh, that? said Colby. It was nothing. A lot of trouble for nothing. A diamond and a couple of pearls. You know how much we made, Tancred? A thousand bucks. Willow’s dad was a cheap motherfucker. I’m glad she didn’t live to find out. It would’ve killed her.

  Tancred said

  – A thousand dollars?

  – I’m sorry about that, said Colby. I really am. If you want, I’ll buy you a roti.

  Tancred looked at him witheringly, then walked out of Ali’s.

  So, in principle, all had gone well. He’d solved Azarian’s puzzle. (It seemed.) He’d outsmarted Colby and Freud. (Perhaps.) He was free (almost free) of his obligations to Willow. Yet from the moment he’d put the jewels – no, not all the jewels, the black diamond specifically – in a safety deposit box, something vague preyed on his attention. He had not taken something into consideration. But what?

  In different circumstances, needing to talk, he’d have spoken to Daniel. Now that Alton Azarian had reclaimed the stolen mementos, now that Colby was satisfied he had got what was meant for him, now that neither Ollie nor Fiona were at risk, why shouldn’t he sit down with Daniel and tell him everything? No reason. Yet he didn’t, promising himself, rather, that he’d speak to Daniel when he got back from Montreux. It was only then, after all, when he’d learned what the Azarian business had been about, that the story would have its end.

  The evening before he left for Europe, Tancred had supper with von Würfel.

  – It was very clever of you to get that right, said von Würfel, but even more clever of Robert Azarian. It’s an elegant solution to an elegant puzzle. Having caught the … the geometry of the man’s mind, I’d have expected nothing less. Do you have any idea what’s in Montreux?

  – No. Do you want to come with me?

  – No, no, not at all, Tancred. I hate spending time in planes. It takes my bones days to recover whenever I visit my daughter in Halifax. Going to Geneva would cripple me. I hope you find something useful, like money. But I’m inclined to believe what Alton told you. His father was a shrewd businessman. It’s hard to credit that he’d leave millions somewhere inaccessible.

  – What do you think it is?

  – If I had to guess, I’d say an heirloom, something to remind his children of himself or their mother. On the other hand, a mind as lovely as Robert’s might just leave money, because he’d have had no reverence for it. So, it could be millions and millions. I feel as if I’ve come to know Robert through all this. And I think of him as an artist. I want you to know that if your share’s something you don’t want, I’ll buy it from you.

  – That’s good to know, said Tancred. But if it’s something I don’t want, you can have it.

  – Do you know, said von Würfel, I’d like another memento of the man. I feel like I’m having a relationship with a friend who’s in some distant country. Very odd, don’t you think?

  – It’s not odd for me, said Tancred. Willow’s in the same place.

  – Yes, of course, said von Würfel.

  On Tancred’s way home, the night was cold and there were patches of hard snow on the ground. The sky was cloudless and the moon was bright. Save for the cars, the streets were quiet and there were few people about, though it was still early and, passing this or that bar or restaurant, there would be the occasional exhalation of sound and warmth, as if the buildings themselves were breathing. It was a night made for contemplation. So, no surprise: the thing that had troubled him, the thing just out of his mind’s reach, came to him at last. Rather, it was shown to him. As he passed a dispenser for the Sun, he saw a picture of his black diamond on the tabloid’s front cover. It was not the main story, but the diamond was there beside the words

  FAMILY’S JEWEL RECOVERED

  He bought the paper and read the story in a coffee shop in Liberty Village.

  Tancred had left five gems in the Royal Bank’s safety deposit box. Each of the stones was in its way valuable but the diamond, stolen from a home on the Bridle Path, was well-known. It had its own personality – a carbonado, expertly cut but with a rare flaw: a naturally occurring, ruby-red crescent at its centre, like a waxing or waning blood moon. It was a striking gem. Which is why Tancred would never have taken it to a dealer. In fact, Tancred was so used to dealing with fences that it had not occurred to him that Colby was not. Then again, as far as Colby knew, the gems had been left by Robert Azarian, and Robert Azarian had been a very wealthy man. Why would he have left stolen property to his children? Rather than fencing the gems, Colby had taken them to a well-known jeweller who, after buying four of them, had expressed doubts about the carbonado.

  The man had then asked Colby if he could do tests on the diamond to see if it was real. When Colby returned to collect either the diamond or money for the diamond, the police had been there to take him in for questioning. No doubt – though Tancred had no way of knowing – Colby had told them all about the Weiden mausoleum, about how he’d found a black-leather envelope, and so on. None of that was in the Sun, however. The black diamond was worth, at a conservative estimate, somewhere north of a hundred thousand dollars on the legitimate market. That, as far as the Sun was concerned, was the most important thing.

  Even to Tancred, it seemed incredible that he could have been so thoughtless. Had he wanted Colby to be caught? If so, why? It would have been senseless to wish him jailed, because bringing attention to Colby would have been bringing attention to himself. But if he hadn’t been thoughtless, what had he been? The answer – the only other answer he could grasp – is that he had been, unwittingly, an instrument of fate.

  He’d been so troubled by what he’d read that, instead of taking East Liberty to Dufferin, he’d turned from the coffee shop right toward Mildred’s, the restaurant, instead of left onto Hanna. That is, he’d gone toward the steps leading down to King Street and it was there – on steps he rarely ever took – that he was shot.

  In the moment itself, he had no idea what had happened. But, of course, a number of things had happened at once. He’d felt, strangely, as if his arm had grazed the branch of a thorn tree. He’d heard the pap of a gun firing or a truck backfiring. He’d heard a human voice. All of this before he had a chance to look up. But when he did look up, his being shot was no longer the issue. He was being shot at and the second bullet missed his feet, sending bits of cement and cement mist up from the step beneath him.

  It was then – thinking himself already dead – that Tancred’s instincts took over. He felt exhilarated. The one shooting at him – Freud, as it turned out – was coming up the steps, drawing closer.

  Tancred heard bits of imprecation

  – Something fuck … something fucker …

  before the gun loudly clicked, misfiring.

  At the sound of the misfire, Freud, his rage almost palpable, swore.

  – You cunt!

&nb
sp; he said, referring perhaps to Tancred, perhaps to the gun.

  Without thinking, instinctively Tancred ran down the steps at him. Freud again tried to fire but, again, there was an unsatisfying click which was, perhaps, the last sound he heard in his life. Holding the guardrail for support, Tancred launched himself at Freud, both feet catching the man solidly in the chest. Freud, gun still in hand, fell back – almost as if diving backward – onto the cement steps, his body awkwardly landing on the concrete: gun beneath him, forehead bloodied, neck broken.

  Tancred – still exhilarated – walked down to see what had happened. Freud’s head was at an unnatural angle to his body, resting on its own shoulder, fresh blood coming through the bandages on his nose.

  A moment before, there’d been rage. Now there were only subsiding spasms.

  Tancred continued down the steps, leaving Freud’s body where it had landed, as if its state had nothing to do with him.

  But, of course, Freud’s death was his doing.

  Yes, certainly, Tancred had accepted the idea that his life was dangerous. But dangerous to him is what he’d imagined. That danger had made for a kind of excitement. Something like this was a different proposition, more difficult to accept.

  But what had he done wrong? Freud had shot him, grazing his arm before the revolver had misfired. In the instant Tancred had charged at his attacker, he had been wholly, unthinkingly himself. He could not have done other than what his instincts demanded. Where, then, was there blame? He’d been the cause of Freud’s death, but he hadn’t chosen to be.

  Distraught, Tancred went about preparing to leave. He tidied his apartment, which took no time at all, there being so little to tidy: a table, four chairs, a couch, the painting of Oshun given to him by his mother, a bed, a handful of dishes, knives and forks, a vacuum cleaner, and little else. He packed his small black bag and set it beside the door. Then he lay down, fully clothed, and tried to sleep.

  But sleep was a thing he would not do for some time.

  So, although it was midnight, he took the 504 to Dundas West and, because he suddenly found it intolerable to be alone, he went on to Runnymede and woke Ollie up.