CHAPTER 15
1968
ACCOMPANIED BY AN EXPLETIVE LOST INSTANTLY UNDER an onslaught of trombones, pipes, drums and a crash of cymbals, the first rock arched gently above the heads of an astonished crowd. The granite chunk cleared the sidewalk before it ricocheted off the fourth step of the broad stairwell to the Municipal Library, where a reviewing stand had been erected. At the bounce, people in all directions ducked, then leaped for cover. The athletic form of the combatant who had darted off the sidewalk into the path of the parade appeared exemplary, the throw adroit, the effect of its relative accuracy electric. Suddenly, a barrage of rocks and bottles flew from the hands of an agitated portion of the throng. Startled dignitaries, including the mayor of Montreal, held up their hands for protection or cowered behind policemen, assistants, chairs and the tall Doric columns.
A security detail sprang forward. The prime minister of Canada, the primary target, did not seek shelter. Defiantly, he stood up for a better view. Young men and women wasted no time in answering the unspoken challenge. On cue, the next volleys rained down upon the reviewing stand, thrown less in anger, perhaps, than in a swift, unbridled release, an enthusiasm for the rambunctious sport of rioting and for the pleasure of endeavouring to strike a foe smack on the noggin.
Yet all their fierce throws missed.
On crowd-control duty that night, a strapping young officer had no specific orders to follow in this circumstance, nor was he experienced at events that deteriorated so swiftly into violence. Insults had been directed his way all evening as the parade moved into the vicinity of his post by the stand. As a rookie cop, he was proud of his blue uniform, and he enjoyed wearing the badge. He stood his ground and let the foul words nick him then fall to the pavement. Establishment pig! If absorbing the taunts of young people high on rage, politics and beer was the price of wearing the uniform, he’d pay it, suffering their abuse without being provoked.
Fascist!
The tall, well-built youth was no older than most of them. Traitor! Twenty-four. His detractors, long-haired boys and wildly dressed girls, had attempted little in their lives, or so he contended in a private debate with himself, and had accomplished less. “Do something with your life,” he whispered under his breath, “before you tell me what to think.” Never did he let on that the heckling young women managed to get his goat, especially the more attractive ones. Redneck! To stand at his station like a statue and endure rhetoric from pretty girls was not a favourite detail, yet he remained determined to endure it, to not lose his cool.
Power to the people! Fuck the police!
Words. He didn’t respond.
Then the first rock was thrown, and instantly he reacted.
Other cops were ducking tomatoes and eggs and bottles, even the ingredients of sandwiches, as people who had intended to enjoy a parade now chose to hurl the contents of their picnic hampers, but Constable Émile Cinq-Mars had caught sight of the one who’d thrown the first missile and he would not permit the miscreant to elude his capture. This arrest would make the abuse he’d endured all evening moderately worthwhile.
He charged after the culprit who had retreated into the apparent safety of the crowd, while on the reviewing stand Pierre Elliott Trudeau, now the prime minister of Canada, who faced an election the very next day, watched him go, disappearing into the impressive mob.
Auspicious times these, Pierre Elliott Trudeau believed.
Rarely was his life his own anymore. In a vague sense, he belonged to the people—words his friends were fond of dispensing—and while he disputed the severity of that limitation, the people clearly held his fate in their hands. Now a contingent loudly brayed that they more properly represented the people than he did, and to drive that point home they were doing their best to stone him. This did not bode well for the next day’s election, nor did it augur well for his health if a missile should strike the mark, given that his forehead was their principal target.
He knew what his confreres were thinking, and the security detail in particular. This could be a calculated attack. Trudeau stood upright, calm enough, his weight imperceptibly forward on the balls of his feet, as he had learned to do slipping punches as a boy boxer. He bobbed when he had to and dodged an occasional beer bottle or a chunk of brick clawed out of a building and thrown in anger from the darkness. The fury of the streets convulsed before him, worsening, police and ambulance sirens wailing now, debris clattering around him as though the sky itself caved in before his eyes.
Mounties in plain clothes urged him to come away, but he shoved them aside. He didn’t want them blocking his view. Had he not been invited to this parade? He was not going to be driven off by packs of wild ruffians—elections in Quebec had known too much of that. Pierre Elliott Trudeau, the youthful prime minister of Canada, the upper-class drifter, the man who had failed to do much with his life except read and travel a lot and talk to a few people—on occasion, he’d encourage a strike, or scribble an essay, or teach a few classes in constitutional law—had found his true vocation, to represent the pinnacle of power in the land and be prime minister. Now those who would remove him sought to do so through thuggery. He declined to depart the reviewing stand, and permitted the rioters—for the actions on the streets were rapidly escalating to that level of furore—to try to pelt him with hard objects.
He stood fairly still—reserved, defiant—as they continued to miss.
She loved it, and never felt scared. The adrenaline rush was intoxicating. She leapfrogged startled couples who had brought little stools to sit on and spread a picnic of wine and cheese across their knees, and she cut through throngs of people moving towards and away from the commotion of the riot. Other police officers, seeing that she was being chased by one of their own, entered the fray, but she made quick cuts to elude them and they became embroiled with others, who shouted insults or intruded upon their path. She’d brake, shoot a glance around, choose her next destination, and take off. Yet always that one cop pursued her. What was the matter with him? Why was he so obsessed? Because she had thrown the first stone? Hey, buddy, a thousand bottles are flying through the air right now. Get over it! I’m not the only one out here who’s angry.
He kept running after her.
She thought she could rely upon her youth and endurance, but after a while she supposed that her pursuer was around the same age as her and equally fit, so that wasn’t going to work. She pulled her cap off, letting her long hair fly loose. See, Mr. Policeman? I’m a woman. You’re going to all this trouble to catch a woman. What are you, too chickenshit to go after a guy? Young people in the crowd thought so, and as she cut back through the crowd, a few blocked the cop’s access and some tried to trip him. One man succeeded, and the cop went down. The cop picked himself up, grabbed his cap and carried on after the girl.
Jesus, mister. What’s with you anyway?
The young constable, Émile Cinq-Mars, controlled his breathing to conserve energy. This was the culprit who had instigated the disturbance, and he wanted him in custody. Her, he discovered along the way. That was a revelation. With her long locks flowing behind her, it occurred to him that he was vaguely attracted to the woman—to this arrest, in any case. She was lithe, she could move, she ran like a fawn, with beautiful, long strides and then, when necessary, she eluded him with skittish counter-steps that left him half out of his shoes.
He wanted this girl caught. Too many pretty girls had taunted him, not just insulting the uniform but wounding his feelings. Girls shouldn’t be immune from prosecution, especially the one who had started the whole thing. Young men were being rounded up. Paddy wagons had been brought in. He could see two vehicles waiting to be filled. Here and there, cops had their nightsticks out, beating heads. He didn’t want to beat heads. But if he could bring this girl in, he’d be doing his job. He wanted to lay claim to the riot’s instigator.
Golly, she was lovely, the way she ran. Limber, swift. Vaulting bushes and people, cutting on a dime. She was cheered on, he was booed—reason enough to maintain the pursuit. Failure would only egg everybody on, give the rioters confidence. Success might help subdue them.
Émile Cinq-Mars caught her by the hair, but instantly let go. He could tell that if she didn’t stop in her tracks, he might snap her head back more violently than she would expect, and she could be injured. He ran harder, knowing that he was losing his breath, that he had to catch her soon. He was probably half in love with her, he was thinking, almost giddy, laughing to himself, he so admired her form and grit and physical grace. Maybe he would have to just let her go.
The young woman circled behind a cluster of a dozen people, slowing a little to catch her breath. She couldn’t run forever. This was nuts. The cop was a maniac. And yet, he had caught her by the hair, briefly, she had felt his grip, and then he’d let go. Thank God for that. She’d thought her neck would snap. Maybe, if she was to be caught, this guy deserved to be the cop to do it. Clearly, he had a conscience. He probably wouldn’t drag her to a paddy wagon by the hair, as some cops were doing to both men and women.
Breathe, breathe, she had to breathe and keep running.
Émile Cinq-Mars was thinking the same thing: breathe and keep running.
The times had changed so rapidly. Friends and foes alike had believed that Pierre Trudeau would find himself with the socialists, but he considered their party to be colossally ignorant of Quebec. Instead, he founded the Union des forces démocratiques, with which he intended to unite opposition groups in advance of the provincial election of 1960. Defeating Duplessis was his priority. Yet le Chef outfoxed his brilliant young antagonist with a simple and elegant ruse. He died.
Which killed Trudeau’s party.
Everything changed. Without him, Duplessis’s own party disintegrated. The Church, its friend gone, found itself bereft of moral authority as well as power. The ecclesiastical voice became a decayed echo from dusty statuary, the pale words falling upon empty pews. Outspoken political thinkers were brought into the new provincial government, and the fiery, popular René Lévesque accepted a cabinet post. He agitated from within to take the government to a position that favoured independence, and constantly pressed Ottawa to surrender more of its influence and treasure. In short order, Trudeau went from being an out-of-work teacher, to part-time lecturing, to becoming a member of Parliament, to being the minister of justice. With the retirement of the prime minister, he ran for the party’s leadership. A rank outsider, yet he won. Such was the shock of his rapid ascent that he had become unbeatable at the polls, yet rocks now rained down upon him and the police were attacking the rioters even as the protesters fought back.
He would not stand down. This was the fight of his lifetime, between those who believed that Quebec rightfully belonged in Canada—the elegant destiny that he believed the country had prepared for itself—and those who vied for an independent state dressed in its full, mythic glory. His astonishing rise to power, his unprecedented popularity, had led to this moment and this conflict. The history of the Quebec nation had moved inexorably towards this quarrel. Trudeau’s words and position provoked rocks and bottles, and now he would stand and see if such actions could break him.
On television, the country watched.
She kicked, and flailed her legs. He had her, the bastard, and God, he was strong. Then she was free again. The young rock-thrower didn’t know how it had happened. She was running again. She looked back. Bystanders had jumped in, taking the side of the girl against the cop, and now he fought off those who’d jumped him, but instead of arresting the ruffians, he was running after her once more.
He’d catch her, too.
In the end, she didn’t want to be caught. So she surrendered. The better option. Her lungs were desperate for air, her whole body was rebelling. She slumped to her knees and waited. Momentarily, the cop was upon her, locking her hands behind her back.
“You got me,” she said, breathing heavily.
“Piece of cake,” he said, and they both laughed lightly.
Both of them needed a respite, and once she was cuffed, Cinq-Mars put his hands on his knees and caught his breath. He looked at her, and she returned his gaze. Captor and captive, each curious about the other. She seemed stretched to him, her neck elongated, her nose as slender as a knife. Her brown eyes were wide-set, but the face itself seemed pinched, so that her eyes stood out all the more. Her eyebrows, light and gently curved, were the most perfect of angel wings. She was so pretty, he wanted to stop all this and let her go. He wanted to run after her again. To look at her eyes was easier, and more polite, but he wanted to observe her mouth, and, pretending to breathe extra heavily, he looked down between his feet, then back up again, his glance crossing her lips. Slender also, not the full lips of so-called great beauties but he found her lips inviting. Under the left side of her mouth, a quartet of faint spots. A sprinkle of fine freckles across her nose, falling slightly onto the soft rise of her cheeks.
He was the captor, but he knew that he had been disarmed.
She was just so pretty.
“Do you know Captain Armand Touton?” she asked as he pulled her up to her feet.
He was thinking of her legs. They were beautifully long. He was looking forward to the walk in search of a paddy wagon. He reached out to guide her away and was astonished at how easily his fingers encircled her wrist.
“Heard of him.” Touton was the most famous and feared cop in the department, yet although both men worked out of downtown headquarters, Cinq-Mars had not been around long enough to make his acquaintance. “You want to tell me a story? How he’s your uncle?”
“He’s closer to me than any uncle.”
“I don’t care if he’s your father—is he?—you still threw the first rock.”
“Eighteen thousand rocks have been thrown so far. I’ve kept count. Why do you care so much about the first one?” He was leading her towards a paddy wagon down the block. She feared it, for she was mildly claustrophobic and it looked as though they were packing the rioters in tightly. She might not be able to endure that confinement without losing her cool.
“You started it.”
“The English started it when they invaded us in 1759. That rock’s been waiting to be thrown for over two hundred years.”
“Tell it to the judge.” He had to wait with her in a line with other cops leading their prisoners to the paddy wagon. Standing beside her, he did not mind the delay.
“You tell it to Armand—Captain Touton,” she said. “Treat me badly, and you can kiss your career goodbye.”
“There’s nothing at all charming about threatening people.”
“You haven’t treated me badly yet. I’m not asking for special treatment.”
“I don’t have the energy to treat you badly.”
They laughed briefly again, and Cinq-Mars couldn’t help but wish that they had met under different circumstances. In the larger scheme of things, throwing a rock might not be the most heinous crime on earth.
“Do me a favour … no—two favours.” She was still trying to breathe normally.
“You’re in a great situation to be asking for favours.”
“I’m claustrophobic. Put me in a squad car. Not a paddy wagon. I’ll scream. I’ll go insane.”
Cinq-Mars looked at her. He saw that she was serious. “Sorry, but you should have thought of that before you threw the rock.” The response was a tough one, and the woman continued to gaze up at him as though another option might yet occur to the officer. “I don’t have a squad car,” he went on, “and I don’t have the rank to do anything more than put you in that paddy wagon.”
“Then promise me this—”
“I can’t make any promises.”
“Promise me. Get me on this paddy wagon. It’s nearly full. I’ll be at the end, near the window. It’ll leave soon. If you put me on the next one, I’ll get pushed all the way inside and I’ll have to wait. I’ll die in there. Please.”
Cinq-Mars nodded. Dragging her along with him, he shoved past other officers. “We need this one to go on right now. I can’t wait.” Other officers didn’t mind. The longer they spent in line with their prisoners, the longer they were out of the fray, where no one really wanted to be.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll put in a good word with Armand.”
“You do that.”
“My second favour …”
They were almost at the rear gate, and Cinq-Mars shouted at the guard to hold on, he had one more prisoner to shove in for this trip. The guard argued back, but Cinq-Mars pressed forward with his captive and the door remained ajar.
“What second favour?” he shouted in the young woman’s ear.
“Tell Armand I’m under arrest. Get the word to him, all right?”
“I don’t have access to the man—”
“Just do it, all right? Trust me. He’ll thank you.”
“What’s your name? I’ll have to tell him your name.”
He helped hoist her into the back. From inside, an arm reached around her waist and clasped her, pulling her in.
“Get your cuffs back,” the guard commanded.
Cinq-Mars helped turn the woman around so that he could reclaim his handcuffs. She spoke to him over her shoulder. “Anik Clément. Got that? Will you remember? Anik. Clément.”
He got his cuffs off her. The door closed on the young woman. Cinq-Mars moved off quickly, not really knowing what he should do in the chaos of the street. He noticed that the parade remained in shocked existence, although wildly dispersed, and various segments had lost touch one with the other. Performers, bands and floats were continuing to come down Sherbrooke Street, those at the rear not fully cognizant of what was going on up ahead. He thought that he should at least stop the parade before any baton-twirling teenagers got hurt.
Then he heard a burst of screams and shouts behind him. Twisting around, he saw the tumult of bodies and cops flailing with their sticks close to the paddy wagon. The situation looked rough, but the police had the upper hand. He wasn’t needed. Then, in what seemed like slow motion, although it happened in seconds, he spotted a rioter opening the rear door with the keys, and prisoners inside the paddy wagon splurged out. For one quick instant, he caught sight of the girl, and she noticed him, then darted into the mob and into the dark night, away from the bright parade and television lights.
Cinq-Mars took three steps towards her, then let it go.
She was lost to him this time. In any case, she had given him her name. She undoubtedly regretted that now. Just to be safe—who knew what distractions might await him through the night—he wrote her name in his notebook before returning his attention to the streets. When he looked up, he gazed straight across at the prime minister scanning the situation. Interesting. A politician who hadn’t run for cover. Cinq-Mars then brought his hand down upon the back of a rioter, opened up the boy’s left palm until he dropped his rock, then gave him a shove to send him on his way. The rock he kicked down a storm drain, to keep it out of circulation.
Most of his fellow officers were busy handcuffing their prey and lining them up for transport to crowded overnight lockups, but order had largely been restored in this area and the mopping-up procedures were under control. Cinq-Mars helped out an elderly couple petrified that they might be run down by escapees or policemen. They both walked with canes. Although anxious to avoid any further unexpected adventures, they had enjoyed the spectacle well enough. He clasped the frail, stooped woman around the shoulders and shuffled along with her, while the diminutive old man took hold of his opposite elbow for balance. They made their way through a gap in the crowd towards a quiet side street. From there, they progressed on their own, undeterred by the steep incline. He watched them go, admiring the longevity of their affection for one another.
Before heading back to the bedlam, the young officer again took out his notebook. He had nothing further to jot down. Instead, he read the name inscribed on the page. Anik Clément.
Alone on the reviewing stand, Pierre Elliott Trudeau again took his seat. Momentarily, his good friend Gérard Pelletier, these days a cabinet minister who’d been down at Liberal Party headquarters prior to the fracas, joined him for a preliminary debriefing.
“I’ll be blamed for this, I suppose,” Trudeau remarked.
“You looked great on TV. The commentary was positive. A few journalists took cheap shots, the people-in-the-street interviews were largely negative. Overall, you looked good. The commentary will be helpful.”
Trudeau nodded and moved around as though preparing to leave. The parade was gone now, the big fight over, and only thousands of dazed spectators remained behind. The biggest story they recounted had to do with the rioters—some called them patriots—who’d been tossed into a paddy wagon and then escaped. That had been exciting.
“Gérard, this isn’t going away. It’ll be the fight of our lives.”
The tall man beamed. “Interesting times, Pierre. Would you rather be bored?”
The question did not demand an answer. They both knew that a confluence of events and forces had placed them in power in changing times. Two weeks before this riot, Robert F. Kennedy had been gunned down in Los Angeles, two months after the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. President John F. Kennedy had been dead for less than five years. The potential for attacks on leaders was now part and parcel of the stress of political life, and while the night’s foray had been limited to glass and rocks, who knew what the future might hold? He loved to debate. He loved to tangle on the fly with those who brought ideas of their own. He presumed that he’d continue to have that opportunity. Others, though, moved in the shadows and guarded their secrecy. For them, the discussion was closed. Out there, some believed in their own analysis, and while today they had tossed projectiles without much accuracy, no one could predict how their rage might escalate, or their range improve.
“I’m beginning to believe in your Cartier Dagger. The luck you’ve had.”
“Come on,” Trudeau said. “Let’s go win an election.”
Trudeau and Pelletier walked back up the steps to the library, to the relief of the officer assigned to the prime minister’s protection, and the two men departed behind curtains erected for this event as though they were moving off a stage. Another performance awaited them as the country went to the polls the following morning, their fate in the hands of the people once again.
She counted this among the best times of her life. No sooner had she broken out of the van with the other prisoners than one had shouted, “This way! Come on!” She had gone with him, running blindly, furious and scared. She was so relieved to be out of that crowded space that she could scream, and she remained utterly terrified that she might be stuffed back into the truck again. Almost immediately, five of them were on the move, running hard, leaping hurdles and sprinting through small openings in the clusters of people. They alerted one another to police sightings—all thrilling, all fun—and headed north, still on the run, where the crowds thinned out, and finally dispersed to being only stragglers. The group slowed to a jog, always glancing behind, then bent, exhausted, they stopped to catch their breath.
“Paul,” said one.
Another said his name was Jean-Luc.
“Pierre,” said the boy nearest her.
“Anik.”
“Let’s grab a beer,” Paul suggested, and they drifted onto St. Denis Street and the bar scene there. They entered a crowded subterranean spot where young people were talking about the night, for most had taken part in the events firsthand and perhaps more were claiming to have thrown rocks than had actually done so. One boy wiggled both his big toes, which poked out from holes in his socks. “I got so mad, I threw my shoes.” Everyone was euphoric from the snap of adrenaline.
The five escapees pooled their coins and ordered a pitcher. When the word went around the bar that they were the ones who’d bolted from the paddy wagon, new friends bought them beer into the wee hours. They were the heroes of the escapade, and Anik remained ecstatic. She had been longing for this. Real contact with people like herself, who shared the same ideals. The boys were in school—Paul in photography, Jean-Luc in political science, both Vincent and Pierre studying literature at different universities. They were high on excitement, and after forays to the back alley they were high on marijuana as well. A good night all around.
The conversation ignited her. Anik’s own friends had let her down. They had wimped out. She hadn’t expected much from them, but definitely something more than retreat. Tonight was the last straw. Time to change her friends. These boys, though, had not only joined in but had come prepared to fight, and one, playfully, was mad at her for beating him to the punch.
“I wanted to throw the first rock,” Jean-Luc exclaimed. “I was waiting for the pretty majorettes to pass by, the ones in pink. Why’d they stop right in front of me?”
“I didn’t know anybody else would join in.”
“I saw you run right out into the street. I couldn’t believe it!”
“The people of Quebec joined with you tonight, Anik,” Paul said solemnly. “We are rising up.”
Finally, she was making friends with those who would not only talk and debate, but with those who understood that actions spoke more loudly than words. Tomorrow, headlines would announce the riot to the world, and the people of Quebec would realize that their cause had been brought forward, that students were willing to denounce the politicians, fight the police and even escape from their custody for the sake of independence. The people of Quebec would know, in their hearts and minds, that their political environment had changed forever.
“Trudeau loses tomorrow, I bet,” Vincent opined. “If he does, it’s because of us. Quebecers will wake up in the morning and their eyes will be open for the first time in a century. We’ve exposed him as a traitor—he’ll be kicked out of office.”
They clinked glasses and waited as expectantly as politicians for the verdict from the polls.
“Are we all members of the RIN?” Jean-Luc inquired.
The boys agreed that they were, but Anik flatly said no.
“You must join,” Vincent encouraged her.
“No,” she repeated. “I won’t.”
A shock. “But you must!” Paul insisted. “Why won’t you?”
“We need all the help we can find.”
“I won’t join.”
“Why not?” Paul pressed.
“I won’t put my name on a membership list. You never know how things will evolve. Someday, we may have to go underground. You don’t want to go underground if you’ve put your name on a list the Mounties have already copied in triplicate.”
They were impressed by her foresight, by her commitment. Anik had inherited tactics from her mother’s long experience fighting union battles.
Very late that night, exhausted, exhilarated, she slumped home. None of her new friends had cars, and after the last pitcher of beer she didn’t have cab fare. The métro had closed for the night, and the bus schedule didn’t offer help at that hour. A long walk across downtown, then down the hill into the poor community of Pointe St. Charles, would be welcome anyway. A chance to clear her head and process her thoughts on the night’s uproar. To act, to be doing something, felt so great. Yet she doubted the optimism of her new companions. Students had been throwing rocks, that’s true, and bottles, which had been foolish, but no general uprising had taken place. For sure, they’d caused a commotion, but nothing more. Among the thousands of spectators, most had turned out for a parade, not a riot, and only a minority had responded favourably to the rampage. Changing people’s minds, Anik believed—and again, she drew upon her mother’s experiences—could be a slow, discouraging process. At least the contest for the hearts and minds of the population had begun, and that was the value of this night. The sun would come up on election day, and should Pierre Elliott Trudeau be returned to power, he would know, and the whole country would know, that a new contest had indeed begun, one the election itself had not resolved.
Bone tired, she was opening the latch to the knee-high gate outside her house when she heard a step. At this pre-dawn hour, it made her heart jump.
“Hello, Anik,” a voice said.
She would not have turned had the intruder not spoken, but now curiosity obliged her to look his way. She recognized the uniform, then him. “You,” she said.
“I guess I never introduced myself. Constable Émile Cinq-Mars.”
“Curious name. Is this a social call?”
“I’m here to arrest you.”
“What’s with you, anyway? I met people tonight who threw twenty or thirty rocks, so they say. I threw one. I met a guy who threw his shoes—he’d be easy to find. You could do a Cinderella thing—if the shoes fit, arrest him. Why hunt me?”
“You threw the first rock.” He stepped closer to her, cognizant that she could still make a run for it, in which case catching her, as he knew, would not be easy.
“Is that a bigger crime? Tell me about this mythical law that says whoever throws the first rock is more guilty than the person who throws the second.”
“‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ That’s from the Bible. So there’s an implied dimension of guilt, but I agree, it won’t stand up in court. But let’s not forget, you also escaped from police custody. That’s a bigger crime.”
“I’m claustrophobic. I told you. I was going mad in there. I had to get out. When the door burst open, I burst out. When you think about it, nobody actually told me to stay put. Maybe I was being let go.”
“You’ll have to tell that to the judge, I’m afraid.”
“I intend to. He’ll be sympathetic, I bet.”
They were lit by the porch light her mother had left on, but suddenly the hall light inside the house also snapped on as the door creaked open.
“Anik?” Carole Clément asked sleepily. “Is everything all right?”
Out ran a terrier, bounding frantically around the young woman. She knelt down to calm him by ruffling his ears and giving him a kiss on the snout.
“Yeah, Mommy, don’t worry. I’m just being arrested—I think.”
“That’s nice, dear. Officer, I think you should call it a night. It’s 4 A.M.”
Anik laughed, and Émile smiled a little himself. “Mommy, I’m serious. He’s arresting me.”
“He’s not your date?”
“I don’t date—” she censored herself before uttering the insult on the tip of her tongue. “—cops,” she concluded.
“Why don’t you both come inside and we’ll discuss it,” Carole invited, and held the door open.
“Ma’am—” Cinq-Mars was about to issue his objection when Anik snatched the opportunity to skip up the stairs and slip past her mother. He followed her up, where the woman put a hand on his chest.
“Incidentally, Officer,” Carole inquired, “do you have a warrant?”
“The arrest commenced outside, ma’am. That gives me the right to continue the pursuit indoors,” he informed her. He moderated his ire. “Should such a pursuit become necessary.”
Carole removed her hand from the policeman’s chest and instead used it to direct him inside with a welcoming, yet sardonic, flourish. “Ranger, stay outside, boy. Have your pee.”
The dog welcomed the early-morning romp in the yard.
Inside, the policeman’s problems continued. First, the daughter said, “Want a cup of tea, copper?” and then her mother dialled a number on the phone.
Waiting for someone to pick up, Carole Clément asked, “What’s this about anyway? What did she—allegedly—do?”
“Allegedly—” Cinq-Mars began, but the woman was holding up a hand to stop him.
Into the phone, she said, “Captain Armand Touton, please.”
That name again. Of all the officers above him, Cinq-Mars accorded no one more respect than Touton, albeit by reputation alone. “Is he your brother or something?” he asked the woman, but before she could reply she was talking directly to the captain himself.
“Armand, it’s Carole. Sounds as though you’ve had a busy night.”
She nodded to Anik that she would indeed have tea. Cinq-Mars shrugged. Obviously, he was not going to regain control anytime soon. He might as well have a cup, too. He had been through a long night, and had endured a boring wait for Anik outside in the gloomy shadows. “There’s a police officer here … No, a patrolman. He’s come to arrest Anik … Allegedly, she was being rambunctious at the parade tonight.”
That was one way to put it. Cinq-Mars bobbed his chin to indicate that he’d state matters differently.
“Sorry,” Carole said, speaking to him, “what’s your name again?”
Her daughter answered first. “Émile Cinq-Mars, Mommy. Where’d you get a name like that anyway, copper?”
He didn’t know if she was teasing him.
“Are you from Montreal?” Anik asked.
“I’m from the country. Small town. Saint-Jacques-le-Majeur-de-Wolfestown.”
“He’s a small-town boy,” Carole said into the telephone. “Are you a rookie?” she asked him.
Cinq-Mars nodded that he was.
“Yep, a rookie. Goes by the name of Cinq-Mars.”
Waiting for the kettle to boil, Anik had slumped down cross-ways into an armchair. Having kicked off her running shoes, which had served her well that night, she peeled her socks off and let her bare feet dangle over the side, rocking them a little.
“Is she really talking to Armand Touton?”
“Yep.”
“The Armand Touton?”
“Scared?”
“That’s right,” Carole advised the famous captain of the Night Patrol. “He’s in the house right now. Set to have a cup of tea like he’s the king of England…. No, I think he followed Anik home.” She paused, then held out the phone to Cinq-Mars. “Your boss wants a word.”
The young officer hesitated. This was not going well, and certainly not as expected. “He’s not really my boss—not directly,” he said.
“Do you truly want to split that hair right now? You’ve ticked him off enough already.”
Cinq-Mars took the phone. “Hello?” he asked, tentatively.
“What the hell’s going on?” the voice demanded.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know for sure whom I’m talking to, sir.”
“Do you want to find that out?”
He wasn’t sure. “Well, sir, no, to be truthful. But you’re only a voice on a telephone right now.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you followed some girl home for miles?”
“No, sir. I knew her name. I got her address from the station, because she has a driver’s licence. Then I went to her house, and I waited for her.”
“Why?” the voice demanded to know.
“Sir, I don’t know whom I’m talking to—”
“Cinq-Mars, is it? Answer the fucking question.”
“Sir, she started the riot tonight. She was the instigator. She threw the first stone.”
As he spoke, he realized that his obsession with this one fact carried no legal weight. Throwing the first stone was no more significant than throwing the last one, and Anik had been correct to call him on that. Yet the voice on the other end took a moment to consider this news, and Cinq-Mars took advantage of the pause to add, “And she escaped from police custody, sir.”
“What are you talking about? She’s never been in police custody.”
“Tonight, sir. She was in a paddy wagon. She and the others broke out.”
“She was one of those?” The man seemed to imply a certain admiration.
“She would have been the first one out, sir.”
“All right, Cinq-Mars. Do you mind staying on until I arrive?”
This sounded suspiciously like appropriate police protocol. “I’ll wait, sir. How long, do you think?”
“Quick enough. Just cool your heels,” the voice said, and hung up.
The police officer put the phone back in its cradle. He looked from Carole to Anik, then back down at the phone.
“He’s coming over,” he said.
“Kettle’s boiling,” Anik announced. “Milk, Cinq-Mars? Sugar? Cyanide?”
Carole Clément, grey-haired with wan skin, flicked on another floor lamp to provide additional light, then pulled her housecoat more snugly around herself as she sat in the chair Anik had vacated.
“How come your daughter’s so hard to arrest?” he asked her.
“You’ve had an exciting night,” the woman noted.
“It’s been an experience.”
“Something new for you, I expect, coming in from the country.”
Her reference sounded vaguely derogatory.
“I might be a rookie, I might be new to the city—”
“—and therefore lacking experience in these matters.”
“People should not throw rocks and bottles, I don’t care where they live.”
“My daughter knows to never throw a bottle.”
Of all the surprises that had confounded him through the night, that remark topped them all. “Rocks can hurt people, too, ma’am.”
“Don’t I know it. Twice I’ve dropped a scab to her knees with a rock.”
Cinq-Mars appeared too flabbergasted to respond.
“Strikes,” Carole explained. “Sometimes you have to take a side.”
Anik returned with the tea.
“What’s Anik’s side?” the officer inquired as he accepted a cup from her.
“Ask her.”
“Trying to humour me, Cinq-Mars?” the young woman asked him back.
“There’s an election tomorrow—later today, now. You could express your opinion that way, by voting.”
“No candidate in this election is expressing my opinion,” she claimed.
“Nor too many of mine, come to think of it,” her mother added.
“No one deserves my support,” Anik maintained. “I suppose your opinions, and the opinions of the police department, are well represented, Cinq-Mars?”
The tea soothed him, the double whammy of a mother-and-daughter verbal confrontation less so.
“At least none of the candidates run on a platform that the police are pigs. Which seemed to be the main argument I heard expressed tonight.”
Both women smiled. “We’ve touched a nerve,” Anik noticed.
“You’re right,” Carole added. “Not every sentiment overheard tonight—I can guess what you went through—not every insult merited expression.”
“Or rocks.”
“Or rocks. Now, really, why have you come all this way, expended so much energy, merely to arrest one of thousands of protesters? Before you answer, keep in mind that it’s a serious question, one your superior officer will be asking.”
“Ma’am,” Cinq-Mars began, putting his cup down on the side table by his chair, “if I may ask, what is your relationship to Captain Armand Touton?”
The two women shared a look. “Cinq-Mars,” Anik piped up, “that’s one issue I wouldn’t press if I were you. Partly because …” The woman put a hand to the side of her mouth as though to block her voice travelling to her mother’s ears, and whispered, “… nobody knows.” She dropped her hand back down and resumed her normal voice. “And partly because nobody wants to know because the answer might scare the living bejesus out of the person who finds out.”
“Anik.”
“They might be lovers.”
“Anik Clément, stop that this instant!”
“Or maybe my mom has something on him, a blackmail-type thing. Either way, you don’t want to know.”
“Maybe you should arrest her,” Carole stated.
“He’s got a thing for me, I can tell.”
The mother looked across at the policeman again. Suddenly, some things made sense. “Officer Cinq-Mars? Is that true?”
“He’s blushing,” Anik pointed out. She enjoyed seeing that.
He’d only admitted it to himself, but he now wished he hadn’t been so impetuous. Why was he here? He could have had an arrest warrant issued—he didn’t need to become personally involved. He also could have not bothered and no one would have cared. Why on earth did this girl and her mother need to be on friendly terms with the most important detective on the force? He figured his career would survive the kerfuffle, but his prospects for advancement—in particular, his hope to join the Night Patrol under Captain Armand Touton himself—had seriously slumped. Cinq-Mars took a lesson to heart: being on the side of the angels, placing himself in a just position, did not automatically constitute being right. He had no business bothering with this arrest, and that understanding fell like a stone dropping down through his gullet as the mythic senior officer climbed the outside stairs.
“Chin up,” the young woman told him. “He’s come alone. No firing squad.”
Her cheery words didn’t help.
Carole Clément was already on her way to answer the door when the detective rang the bell. Cinq-Mars jumped in his seat. He then noticed, glumly, that they greeted one another in a familiar manner, that they were indeed good friends. Entering with Touton was the family pet, but he appeared to be quite tuckered out, and after giving the young cop a sniff he plunked himself down on his sleeping cushion under a bench.
Cinq-Mars had chosen to stand upon the detective’s entry. Feeling at a loss, he saluted, and then felt exceptionally dumb.
“You military?” Touton asked him. He didn’t return the salute.
“Uh. No, sir.”
“Just graduated, huh?”
“Four months, sir.”
“Four months and you’re still saluting?”
“Sorry, sir. I, ah, forgot myself for a moment, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“It might. Cinq-Mars, is it? You’re gung ho, are you?”
Cinq-Mars caught the gist instantly, that there was no way he could respond to that query without appearing to be terribly foolish. He buttoned his lips.
The detective seemed to have made himself right at home. He plunked himself down beside Anik, so closely that she had to squeeze to one side to accommodate his bulk, then rest her weight against him. Cinq-Mars felt doomed. “I expect answers to my questions, Cinq-Mars.”
“Yes, sir,” he murmured.
“You’re gung ho?”
He hated to admit it, and knew how foolish he must sound. “Yes, sir.”
“A little more gung-ish than ho-ish,” Anik added, then deliberately poked her cheek out with her tongue.
“Anik,” her mother censored her.
“I’ve made an inquiry, Cinq-Mars.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You’re off duty.”
“He’s off duty!” Anik shot back. “I told you. He’s insane. I know what this is. I’m being stalked.”
“You’re off duty,” Touton repeated, not taking his eyes off the young cop.
“Yes, sir,” Cinq-Mars managed to squeak out.
“So what are you doing here?”
“I’m … trying to make an arrest, sir.”
“Off duty.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because you’re gung ho.”
Cinq-Mars paused. He felt miserable. “Yes, sir.”
“How?”
“Sir?”
“I want to know how you’re planning to make this arrest, Officer Cinq-Mars. Did you steal a squad car?”
He knew he wouldn’t be let off the hook anytime soon.
“No, sir. I don’t have a squad car.”
“How do you plan to get your suspect downtown?”
“Well, sir, it’s a problem. I don’t have enough money for a cab—”
Anik interrupted, “A cab? I don’t want to be arrested in a cab! I want a squad car—you know, with a siren, flashing lights, all that.”
Her mother was chuckling away.
“The métro’s not running,” Touton pointed out to his officer. “Is it your intention to take a bus?”
“A bus. I won’t be taken to jail on a bus. Come on. This is humiliating.”
Cinq-Mars and Touton were locked in a visual hold, like a pair of wrestlers. “How?” the older man asked again.
“Sir,” Cinq-Mars began, and cleared his throat. “I was planning to walk.”
“Walk!” Anik hollered. “Walk?”
“Anik,” her mother said, but she was in the midst of a laughing fit herself.
“I’m sorry, but this is an indignity,” Anik proclaimed, milking the officer’s discomfort. “My first arrest, and I have to walk, for miles, to the police station. Uh-uh. No way. I’m not going.”
Cinq-Mars held his head down. He knew that he was at the mercy of his superior officer, who probably had more indignities in store for him.
“So you must admit, Cinq-Mars, that this is a trifle …” He hesitated in his search for the appropriate word. “… unusual.”
“I suppose so, sir. Yes.”
“All right.” He looked at Anik, then back at the young man in uniform. “Now let’s consider what prompted this unusual behaviour.”
“There’re only two explanations,” Anik made known. “He’s insane—and man, I’ve got a lot of evidence to back that up—or—”
“Or?” Touton encouraged her.
“This is the argument I’m inclined to buy into myself,” Carole stated.
“Which is?” Touton pressed.
“He has a thing for me,” Anik revealed.
“I’m sorry?” Touton asked.
“He has a crush on me. He’s taken a tumble. He thinks he’s in love. He’s obsessed with me. It’s the only plausible explanation.”
The men shared a glance again. “There is another option,” Touton proposed.
Cinq-Mars lifted his head. He was encouraged by Touton’s tone, sensing that he might have a modicum of hope in this situation, yet at the same time he prepared himself for further defeats. “What’s that, sir?”
“Anik’s behaviour this evening may have justified your response.”
Swiftly, in a twinkling, the embattled young officer felt that he had finally come home. Life as a policeman had not lived up to his expectations. At the academy, he had found a surprising number of candidates to be dim-witted or sour, while others were susceptible to bullying or an antisocial manner. Still others he was tempted to arrest on the spot, as a precaution, for it was hard, coming from the country, to distinguish these ruffians from the ones he was expected to incarcerate. He had yearned to graduate, and had placed his hope on entry to the police department itself.
Being a cop had its moments. He enjoyed walking a beat, but he was still adjusting to older officers who seemed worn and bedraggled, and to the acrimony between men who wore the uniform and those in plain clothes. Officers often deployed more energy screwing each other up than to investigating crimes, and he’d been deflated by duty officers who weren’t the least bit interested in the minor crimes he successfully addressed. Police work, he was discovering, was a bit like fishing. If the catch wasn’t big enough, throw it back in.
Suddenly, he was in a room with a real detective. He hadn’t had opportunity to be in the company of one before. More importantly, the man had demonstrated a talent for interrogation. He kept everyone on their toes, yet off guard at the same time. He had to watch himself here, track his own progress, but Cinq-Mars didn’t care. This man had displayed attributes that defined his notion of quality police work. Explore the possibilities. Get to the bottom of things. Gently allow the truth to surface. Cinq-Mars made a quick mental note to himself to be especially honest here, even if it cost him. He wanted to impress this man. He wanted to work with him someday. He wanted to prove himself worthy of that.
“I didn’t do so much,” Anik responded, suddenly put on the defensive. “It’s not like I was a factor, or anything.”
“But what did you do? Let’s start with that.”
She was saved by the bell, for the phone rang.
“It’s probably for me,” Armand Touton said quietly to Carole.
After responding, and listening, she held out the receiver to the detective.
He struggled up, feeling the pain from old wounds that had been aggravating him lately, and grunted into the mouthpiece, “Touton.” Momentarily, he said, “What?” indicating such surprise that he garnered the attention of those in the room. “Animal husbandry?” He hung up without another word, putting the phone down gently in the cradle, looking as though his mind was far away.
Turning, he gazed at Cinq-Mars and repeated, “Animal husbandry?”
“What?” asked Anik. She was thankful for the reprieve, the attention being taken off her.
Touton returned to the sofa where he’d been sitting and pulled a hand through his thinning hair. Normally, he worked until dawn, so the early-morning hour did not weary him, although the rioting, as always, had been exhausting in its way. Chaos in any form demanded an array of decisions amid a bombardment of surprising information. He enjoyed being at the centre of big events, but after they concluded, an inevitable weariness caught up to him. More so these days, he thought, as he got older.
“Tell me what you did tonight, Anik. How did you break the law? Tell me why I shouldn’t allow this man to arrest you and walk you five miles to headquarters.”
“It’s farther than that. You wouldn’t let him—”
“Tell me what you did tonight, please.”
She fidgeted. Cinq-Mars noticed, for he’d only seen her as feisty and volatile. She turned sulky.
“I threw the first rock. Okay? Is that such a big deal? I threw it at Trudeau. Yes, the prime minister. So what? I missed, I’m sorry to say. I hit the steps. One rock. Which missed. So arrest me for that, for throwing a rock at a concrete building and causing no damage whatsoever.”
“Officer Cinq-Mars will be the one to determine the charges. Why did you throw the rock?”
“Trudeau’s a bastard.”
“Why is Trudeau a bastard?”
She dropped her jaw as she threw him a look.
“If you’re arrested, you’ll have to answer these kinds of questions.”
She threw up her hands. “He’s a bastard.”
Touton sighed, and wrung his hands for a brief moment. “What else did you do? What else, that could be of interest to the police?”
“Somebody unlocked the police van. How that happened, I don’t know—it just did. Don’t blame me for that—I wasn’t involved, all right? I just happened to be in the van. Anyway, it was so fucking crowded in there. I’m claustrophobic. I couldn’t take it. I told him that. He didn’t believe me—”
“I believed you, actually.”
“You still put me in there, didn’t you? You bastard.”
“So he’s a bastard, too? Is everyone a bastard now, Anik?”
“Fuck you.”
Everyone in the room felt a shock and lowered their heads.
They could hear a clock ponderously ticking.
Cinq-Mars shot a glance at the mother, wondering how she felt about her child’s antics. She did seem to be in some distress, but she offered no counsel or censure. He thought she might be stunned.
Squirming, Anik wiped away a tear. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that,” she said.
A more complicated person than he’d first imagined, Cinq-Mars was thinking. Touton was trying to catch his eye. The detective gestured with his chin, and the two men stood and went outside.
“Let Ranger out,” Carole Clément directed, so they did.
Touton guided the younger man farther away from the house, to keep their conversation private in the quiet air. “This is a difficult situation,” the detective mused. The dog kept tabs on them, staying about fifteen feet ahead, wagging its tail and voraciously sniffing the ground and the tires of parked cars.
“How’s that?” Cinq-Mars was already preparing himself for disappointment. He expected that the captain of the Night Patrol wanted him to stand down from this arrest, to let it slide.
“I’ve been carrying out an investigation for some time.”
“Oh?” They were ambling away from the house, more slowly than either man’s usual pace. Normally, Cinq-Mars liked to take long strides and travel quickly on foot, while Touton had shortened his gait in recent years, thanks to old injuries that were acting up. The two had nowhere to go, and so made prodigious progress up the block.
“A murder investigation,” Touton told him.
“When did this take place?” Just to hear a murder investigation mentioned thrilled the rookie.
“I like how you talk, Cinq-Mars,” Touton told him. “You don’t say to me, ‘When did the guy get drubbed out?’ You say, ‘When did this take place?’ That’s very civilized.”
Was the older man mocking him? “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I guess.”
“I should expect nothing less, no?”
He was lost again. Touton had that ability to let him think he knew what was going on, then give him an indiscriminate spin.
“Sir?”
“That kind of educated language, let’s call it. You’re an officer with a university education.”
“Yes, sir, I am.” Advanced education remained rare in the department, although it was becoming more common. For the older officers, his background was an odd one, and for some of them to have a rookie around who had a degree felt vaguely suspect, as if their own authority and experience were being undermined by the newcomer’s apparent intelligence. The old guys resented the development within their familiar culture, and Cinq-Mars had found that the initial reaction to his education usually gave way to curiosity about his choice of program.
“Animal husbandry,” Touton stated, proving that he would not be an exception to the rule. “Why would you get a degree in animal husbandry if you wanted to be a cop?”
“I didn’t actually do it to become a cop, sir.”
“I think I believe you.”
“First, I got the degree—my father was pretty adamant that I have an education—and then I decided to become a cop. I didn’t make it into veterinary school, you see, which was one of my options, when I was younger.”
“I suppose that happens. First choice, I want to be a vet. Second choice, a cop. Either way, you get to spend your life with animals. Or did you want to be a Mountie—join the Musical Ride? Did they turn you down, too?”
“I wanted to work in the city, sir. The job I have now is the job I wanted.”
They walked on quietly. Cinq-Mars took out his cigarettes and offered one to Touton. “I don’t usually,” Touton said, then took one anyway. They lit up and smoked under a street lamp. Walked on a little farther. “So you want to be a cop in this city?” Touton pressed him.
“Yes, sir. For me, it’s more than just a job. This is what I want to do.”
Touton nodded. He didn’t mind the romantic overture, the sense of vocation, as long as the young man knew which side of the world was up. “This is a tough town. The rackets, they’re getting worse. We used to crack down on gambling and prostitution. Now we worry about heroin. We get lots of murders here—two a week, about. More banks get robbed in this town than anywhere else in the world. Rough boys with no criminal record are now robbing banks on a whim. There’s no defence against that. I had one of those last week. ‘Why’d you rob that bank?’ I asked the punk. I told him, ‘You’ve got a good job, a family.’ What does he say? He was bored. I used to catch criminals. Now I have to hunt down the bored as well. It’s difficult.”
They walked on, smoking, into a darker portion of the street, so that only the flare of the cigarettes distinguished them. Cinq-Mars knew the older man was exaggerating, but he wasn’t going to call him on it.
“Your father was pretty adamant that you get an education—those were the words you used.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve never heard a cop use that phrase before—’pretty adamant.’ It’s a common phrase, just not how a cop talks. Is your father totally pissed with you now?”
“Sir? Ah … dismayed, sir, I think is the word. I’m sorry if that’s not a cop’s word, either.”
“Never mind. I understand it. Just like I understand ‘pretty adamant.’ Which I’m not going to be with you, Cinq-Mars, in this situation. Do you realize the harm you might cause that child if you arrest her like this? Not to mention the loss of a grand opportunity. Do you comprehend—that’s not too big a word for you, is it?—do you comprehend the difficult situation you’re putting her in?”
Cinq-Mars shrugged. “Didn’t she put herself in the situation, sir?”
“Maybe so, if you’d arrested her on the scene. Or arrested her and seen to it that she’d stayed put. That’s one thing. The problem is, this is something else. Now you’re arresting her after the fact.”
“I don’t see why that’s an issue, sir. What’s the difference?”
Touton bobbed his head, as though slipping a punch. “After the jails are full, and the rioters have had their overnight séance with lawyers, and their parents wait for the banks to open to arrange bail—after everybody’s had a quick tantrum with the officer-on-duty about bringing us up on charges for false arrest—you’ll cart her onto the scene. After the fact. You’ll be granting her special status, that’s what I’m saying. Anik will be noticed. Conspicuous. She’ll be under suspicion from other prisoners. Do you know how this works?”
His moral footing was less secure than he’d thought. When in doubt with a superior, he tried to find the high ground, then do his best to cling to it. Here, he was discovering the high ground to be already submerged. “I guess I don’t, sir.”
“Cinq-Mars.” Touton stopped walking and rested a hand gently on the younger man’s forearm a moment. “Big riot. The hotheads are rounded up and incarcerated. Miraculously, hours later, one last rioter is apprehended, one out of tens of thousands who are allowed to walk free.” Touton shrugged and flicked his cigarette, only half-smoked, out onto the street. “The more experienced thugs will think she’s a snitch. The lawyers will think so, too. Other cops will think that way. The judge, when he hears the story, will think the same way—he’ll probably give her extra jail time because he assumes he’s making us happy. The judge will accommodate burying our snitch among the other rioters for a longer period of time merely on a hunch created by your actions. Everyone will believe that we arranged to have a stool pigeon dropped into the far end of the cage. That poor girl will then be ruined for life. Not to mention that someone in a situation to assist the police one day will be compromised, under suspicion forever.”
“Do you mean that—”
“I mean no such thing, Cinq-Mars. Did you hear me say any such thing?”
“No, sir.” He was flummoxed. If Touton didn’t want him to think she might already be a police informant, why did he guide him into thinking so? If he didn’t want her compromised, why compromise her himself?
“You see, Cinq-Mars, I’m only asking that you consider the possibilities. The opportunities.”
The officer looked down the vacant street. If nothing else, this was an education.
“May I suggest a course of action?” Touton asked.
Cinq-Mars nodded. He admitted, “I could use the help.” He dropped his smoke and extinguished the butt under the sole of his shoe.
“Go home. Sleep on it. When you come into work in the afternoon, if you still feel that Anik should be jailed, have an arrest warrant issued. Phone her, or her mother. Let them know. At that point, if you’ve gone forward with the arrest warrant, Anik will come in under her own recognizance, which I can personally guarantee. She’ll have a lawyer in tow. He’ll do what lawyers do, bail will be set, Anik will be home in an hour and nobody will think that we tried to drop her into a situation. She won’t be noticed. Don’t you think that that’s fair all around?”
Cinq-Mars nodded. “I do, sir. Thank you. That’s how I’ll proceed.”
“Let’s start back.” But Touton abruptly placed a restraining hand on his forearm again to impede his progress. “Slowly. There’s something else I want to talk to you about along the way. My case.”
“Your case, sir?”
“My murder investigation.”
Cinq-Mars was again perturbed. “You were saying. When did you say it occurred?”
“I didn’t, actually. I deflected the discussion away from that point.”
“Sir?” Cinq-Mars liked this old guy, but dealing with him was hard duty.
“You should notice these things for yourself if you want to be a detective. You asked a question. ‘When did the crime take place?’ That’s what you asked me. I didn’t answer. We’ve been all over the map since then, and I’m the one who’s reminding you that we were talking about a murder. If you want to become a detective one day, officer, you’ll have to learn to never lose the thread of a conversation.”
An education, indeed. “I’ll remember that, sir. You mentioned that this situation, with Anik, affected your investigation. How so, may I ask?”
Walking on, Touton gently stroked a finger in the air. “The victim, Cinq-Mars, was the girl’s father. Carole’s husband, you see. He was a petty criminal. Involved in strong-arm tactics, theft, that sort of thing. He spent the war in an internment camp for his politics.”
“A communist.”
“Good assumption, but it’s wrong. Not a fascist, either. He loved his wife, and that got him into trouble with the law. Does that seem right to you? It still doesn’t seem right to me.”
Hoping to demonstrate that he could keep the threads from unravelling, Cinq-Mars asked, “And when, sir, did this murder take place?”
“Ah. Do you remember the Richard riot? That night.”
Cinq-Mars remembered the event—he’d listened to the radio reports. Offhand, he guessed he’d been eleven back then. That imagined world, a big city burning, the fans stampeding and overturning police cars, the images that had been created by the radio voice, stayed with him throughout his adolescence and had probably, in some subliminal way, influenced him to move to the city and forge a career in law enforcement. Some boyhood notion that he was needed here still resided in him.
“I was only a kid. I didn’t live in Montreal. But I remember it well.”
“That night, Anik’s father was killed.”
This news came as a shock. “Sir—that was a dozen years ago or more.”
“Thirteen, yeah. What are you saying? If someone gets away with a murder for a few years, we should forget about it? Let the killers walk? Is that your attitude?”
“I don’t mean that. But … I’m just … As you said, there’s a hundred murders a year in the city. You’re still working this one case?”
“Trying to, yeah. May I share a concern with you?”
Although he’d been through different turns on the subject, Cinq-Mars was now glad that he’d found his way out to Anik’s house on his time off. “Yes, sir.”
“The investigation of this crime may outlive my usefulness on the force. I may, in fact, have to pass it off to someone coming along, to a younger officer. I might pass it on to you, Cinq-Mars.”
“Why me? With respect, sir, you don’t know me.”
“You have a university education. You talk in an odd manner. You are passionate about your job. Apparently, you’re willing to work during an off-shift.”
“That’s all true, I suppose.” They had reached the front gate to the Clément home, and they stopped there. “Thank you, I guess. But I get the feeling you’re having some fun with me.”
“You gotta have fun, Cinq-Mars. Remember that. Now, what are you saying? You don’t want the case?” Touton inquired.
“I don’t know what to say. I’m not a detective. Not yet.”
“You will be. Don’t tell me you didn’t join the force to become a detective.”
“I did, sir, yes. But there are no guarantees.”
Touton raised that discriminating finger again, as if it represented the launch of a new idea. “Perhaps you think the case is beneath you, not worthy of your time and effort. Let me give you the gist of what I’m talking about. A hoodlum was killed. The same night, a coroner, a public servant, was also murdered. The first murder weapon had just been stolen from the offices of the National Hockey—”
“The Cartier Dagger,” Cinq-Mars interrupted, suddenly keenly interested in being involved.
“Then you have some background already.”
“Hundreds. Names that have merited our consideration include the late premier of Quebec, the late mayor of Montreal, the current prime minister of Canada—”
“Trudeau?”
“He was out for a walk in the vicinity that night. We’ve had no reason to eliminate him, put it that way. Church bishops. Lowly priests. Persons of high standing in the business community. Doctors. A secret political sect known as the Order of Jacques Cartier, distinguished by their fascist sympathies. We have a roster of interested parties, of possible culprits. We have also had an officer’s car bombed, my own home vandalized, the murder of a chauffeur who, on occasion, drove the former mayor around—that’s a crime that may or may not be connected. In short, Cinq-Mars, if an officer is going to be involved in an investigation that takes him through most of his career, this is the kind of case it ought to be. In addition to all that, the first victim—the hoodlum, Anik’s dad—was my friend, who was working for me that night to secure the Sun Life Building. Now, do you still think the case is beneath you?”
“I never thought that, sir. I don’t think it now. I admit, I’m flabbergasted.”
“Your language, Cinq-Mars. What kind of a cop are you, anyway?”
“I’m also intrigued. May I use that word?”
“You may. I’ve been looking for a bright junior officer to do a little undercover work for me. White-collar crime. A short spell. Someone who can talk like an intelligent man. Are you interested?”
He couldn’t contain his smile. “Sir. I’m your man.”
Touton tapped him on the elbow. “Good. Before we go back in, be clear. We did not trade anything here tonight. What you do with respect to Anik is up to you.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. I’ll sleep on it, then decide.”
“Then sleep well, Cinq-Mars. Report to me tomorrow night.” With that, the captain whistled softly, and Ranger raced to his side.
When he woke up that afternoon, Cinq-Mars felt his senses alert, his nerve endings tingling. In his excitement, he almost forgot to consider the issue of Anik’s arrest. He chose not to proceed, and according to plan phoned her to tell her so.
“Oh, God,” she said over the phone. “I got dressed up and everything.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“So, are you admitting to it yet?”
“Sorry?”
“Your crush on me. Why not admit it?”
Good question. “I, ah, have to go to work now, Anik.”
“Yeah. Well. You will let me know, though, right? I mean, you’re not going to just keep it to yourself, right?”
Cinq-Mars got off the phone, wondering. Had Touton put a bug in his ear? Did the captain perhaps want him to be friends with Anik because she had the potential to become a well-placed police informant? The notion confused him. What about friendship? Dating? If he asked her out, would he date out of an obvious attraction, or because she might help him as a cop? Or, the more difficult consideration, could he possibly proceed to do both—be romantic, and recruit?
Later that afternoon, after having voted in the federal election and put in a few hours on his beat, he returned to headquarters and reported to the captain of the Night Patrol.
“Do you own a suit?” Armand Touton demanded to know.
“Yes, sir.”
“Go home. Put it on. Report back to me.”
“Well, go on.”
The junior officer took a deep breath. “I’ll look like a farmer, sir.”
Touton shot a glance at the young man and nodded. When he had returned from the war, not having proper clothes or footwear had often depressed him. He suspected that this young man wore his uniform as he had done—proudly, and with élan—because as soon as he changed back into his street clothes he looked ridiculous. He suspected that the fellow had probably improved his wardrobe with his first paycheques, at least with respect to casual clothes, but he hadn’t had a chance to extend that to more formal attire.
“I get you, son. That won’t work. All right, can you buy yourself a suit with your own money tomorrow? I know a tailor I can send you to. You won’t come away looking like a farmer, the price will be reasonable, and I’ll ask him to offer monthly terms. Does that seem fair?”
“Sure. Tomorrow is supposed to be my day off, though.”
“Forget about it.”
Cinq-Mars took the rest of the night off instead. He was too excited to walk his beat. He booked off and strolled uptown from headquarters and visited a small bar, not too crowded, not too bare, and ordered a whiskey. He wasn’t supposed to do that in uniform, but who was going to arrest him? This was his first hard liquor since coming to the big city, but he finally had something to celebrate, so he did.
When the television above the bar showed that Pierre Elliott Trudeau had won the election handily, he drank to the prime minister as well. He liked the way the guy stood up to the mob, even if he was a vague and unlikely suspect in Touton’s big case. Finally, he called Anik, to see what she thought of the results and to ask if she felt like coming out for a nightcap.
“I don’t date cops,” she reminded him.
“I’m off duty.”
“Yeah, like that makes a difference to you.”
“Besides, it’s not a date. It’s just a drink.”
The ensuing silence, he thought, sounded hopeful.
“What’s that bit about you and animals?” she asked him.
“I’m something of an expert on horses,” he admitted. He didn’t usually speak of himself in such glowing terms, but in this instance he had a lot to overcome. Cinq-Mars waited, expectant, almost forgetting to breathe.
“Are you going to admit that you have a crush on me or not?” Obviously, she was determined not to make this easy on him.
“I admit it. Are you coming out or not?”
“Don’t get huffy. Just tell me where you are.”
He didn’t think he’d been getting huffy, but he told her where he was.