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 was 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.
Without speaking, the pair decided upon a mutual destination—a scruffy, nearby park. Each year, the grass came up, and each year, it was worn back down to dirt by children at their summer games and by adults wandering through for a small dose of tranquility. Now it was well groomed with about an inch of fresh, powdery snow. The benches had been cleared, most likely by teenagers needing a place to neck in winter, or somewhere to sit and smoke, and by aging, saggy bachelors who’d arrive each morning with small sacks of cornmeal for the cooing pigeons. As the pair sat down, a flock flew into the park, appraising the possibilities.
“I’m presuming that you understand the risk, Anik. No one can ever know that you possess the knife. That kind of information makes you a target.”
“You know,” she said. She smiled.
He shook his head. “I’ll keep it to myself. But I don’t want to know anything about the knife—what you do with it, its whereabouts, whatever. Not unless you donate it to a museum.”
“I’m not giving it to a museum,” she revealed. “It’s stolen property. But why don’t you want to know? Can’t you trust yourself?”
The question was valid—a good one, really. He knew he’d take knowledge of the knife to his grave, and never betray her, so that wasn’t the source of his anxiety. “I don’t want you to trust a soul. Beginning with me. Tell me what you
tell everyone else—absolutely nothing. If you were to tell me about the knife, I’d be afraid that you’d speak to someone else someday. A future boyfriend, a husband, a child. That won’t be good, Anik. It’ll never be good.”
She sat still on the bench, observing a pigeon. She thought it looked like a juvenile delinquent. Maybe the bird had been studying the attitude of kids in the neighbourhood. “Trudeau knows I have it,” she said.
A valid concern. “I haven’t mentioned your name, but he knows it’s going to Roger Clément’s daughter. So, yeah, he knows you have it.”
“So I’m at risk.”
“That’s what I’m saying.” Cinq-Mars nodded. “Truth is, I want you to think that way. I believe Trudeau’s accepted the loss. He feels it’s been a good trade. He won’t seek you out. He won’t be inclined to blab about it, either, not as long as he’s a politician. How can he bray that he had once owned a murder weapon? Then again, there’s not much stopping him. Someday, he’ll be out of office. That’s why I want you to be wary of everyone.”
If her friend was looking to scare her, or at least make her especially cautious, he was succeeding. “Armand knows I have it. That means you told him.”
“He’ll keep your secret.” He placed his hand on her wrist. “But, Anik, you see, this is what I’m talking about. I didn’t tell him.”
“You must’ve. Émile—he knows. He called me while he was negotiating with the kidnappers. By then, he already knew I bargained for the knife.”
Cinq-Mars did not dispute her argument—rather, he nodded to confirm it. “He had a few things to go on, that’s true. But you see? I never told him. He just called you and made you admit to having the knife, or to say that you were expecting to get it soon, by pretending that he already knew. It’s an old technique. I didn’t tell him.”
She crossed her ankles, just for the relief of getting one foot off the frozen ground, and squeezed herself more tightly against the chill. “It’s a nice lecture, Émile. Armand said similar things. He was worried that other people would come after me. I didn’t think he was only digging for knowledge. Look, I intend to keep quiet. I’m not telling anyone. Not even my mother.”
“Good for you. That’s how it has to be. Whatever measures that go beyond your death—”
“Oh, will you stop worrying. I’m not a child, Émile.” “Just don’t trust people.”
“I heard you the first time. Honestly. Who are you, anyway? Émile Cinq-Mars, country boy. Comes to the big city and now distrusts everyone. He’s rational about all things. What’s happened to you, country boy?”
He shrugged, and offered back a smile to her tease. “I’ve figured out a few things, I guess.”
“Like what?”
“I have my secrets, too,” he said, being cagey. “I’m sure you do.”
“Anyway, I still have a job in front of me.” “Trudeau’s report?” she inquired.
“What you heard in the closet. Yes. The report to our prime minister.” Cinq-Mars nodded, thinking, wondering. “I can set that up.”
She shook her head no. He expected that she’d choose the method they had already agreed upon. “He might throw stones at me.” The remark broke them up a little. “I’ll tell you what I heard in the closet. Then you can tell him.”
Cinq-Mars stared straight ahead then, at a few cars in their bright progress down the adjacent boulevard. He was waiting to hear himself say something of ready importance, waiting to hear himself stop her from speaking. From a distance, a dog’s bark distracted him.
“Émile?” Anik inquired.
As the priest admitted a friend into the church house from out of the snapping cold, Teilhard, the parish cat, poked its nose through the front door. Before its passage could be blocked, he scooted outside. The animal did not go far. This was a day for neither man nor domestic beast. The temperature had plummeted not long after Christmas, staying that way into mid-January. With its first full breath of icy air, the tabby appeared to freeze on the porch, then, stiffly, tried lifting all four paws off the mat at once, doing a dance. Bending down, laughing, the visiting policeman snatched the cat up to return it to the temperate climate of the rectory.
“You have a way with animals.”
“Poor thing’s in shock. He didn’t imagine it could be so cold out.”
“Now he’ll be depressed. Teilhard is miffed to be cooped up inside with the likes of me. Émile, you wanted to be a vet. What would you prescribe for my disgruntled feline?”
Cinq-Mars set the animal down on the hall runner, petting it a little more and receiving appreciative purrs in return. “A youthful playmate might do,” he suggested. “A female kitten.”
“Ha! There’s a thought. Are you sure you’re not thinking of yourself?”
“Father. Please.” He blushed, though.
The priest laughed, his big belly jiggling in his merriment. Cinq-Mars peeled his boots off by prying the heels down with his toes, then allowed Father François to give him a hand in removing his overcoat. “You’ll have a cup of tea, to brace yourself from the cold?”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Good!” He relayed the request to his housekeeper, and the two men made themselves comfortable in the living-room armchairs. “Now, to what do I owe the grand pleasure? I’m on to you. I know you’re not checking up on me without a good—probably a devious—reason.”
The younger man chuckled lightly. “Don’t you visit parishioners, Father, to see how they’re doing? Why be suspicious of me?”
“When I check on the welfare of my flock, I don’t do so equipped with the power to put them in jail. Perhaps I can ship them off to a lower inferno—although that’s arguable—but they still have the option of an audience with St. Peter—who’s tough, we’re told, but fair. The War Measures Act, on the other hand, or whatever it’s called now—the Public Order Act—is a powerful instrument without recourse to the courts or the saints. You could click your fingers and have me locked up, Émile. Is that just?”
“I’m not sure, Father. But I’d like to try it sometime, just for fun.”
The remark caught the priest by surprise, and he responded with another chuckle. Evidently, he was in a good mood, and smiled broadly as he watched the tabby leap onto the policeman’s lap. Cinq-Mars helped the animal settle in, petting its greyish, black-streaked head.
“You’ve made a new pal.”
“Indeed.”
“Teilhard believes priests have private pipelines to God, to dial up the weather. I’ve tried to explain, my God lets the weather take care of itself. My God maintains the attitude of a parent, one who believes His children ought to be seen but seldom heard. God will heed my prayers,” Father François continued in a whisper, “but only if He has nothing better to occupy His time, and never to effect a change of weather for a cat.” Then he returned to his usual voice levels. “But Teilhard—try telling him that. He’s not been persuaded. He blames the current cold snap on me.”
The cat looked over at him as though to agree.
“The workings of God—for that matter, of men—confuse us all, not just cats,” Cinq-Mars offered.
“Touché. That’s a hint, though, isn’t it? You’re here on a serious errand.” While he was doing his best to flaunt a relaxed manner and keep things light, Father François gave the impression of a man trying hard to be at ease, coming across instead as worried.
“As you can see, Father, I’m not in uniform.”
“Plain clothes.”
“Off-duty.”
“Ah. I wished I realized. But it’s not too late. There’s still time to cancel the tea and break out the port.”
“Or have our tea,” Émile suggested, striking a compromise, “and a brief, serious discussion, then move on to the port.”
“Fine with me. A warning, though. Our electric kettle’s on the fritz. The water takes awhile to boil. But I’m eager, Émile. What’s on your mind? Now that Laporte’s killers are behind bars, you and your fellow officers must be feeling vindicated. What did my old friend call me—a bleeding-heart liberal? Well, Trudeau, not Teilhard, is the cat who’s swallowed the canary now. Insufferable, don’t you think? The luck of that man, although I’m also pleased with the final outcome.”
The nod Cinq-Mars proffered, rocking his chin slightly, appeared noncommittal. He was playing his hand close to the vest. “My colleagues are relieved, sure. We pulled double shifts for months.”