“My ears,” he said, as the waiter hovered over him expecting a dessert order, “are always open. I’ll have the strawberry cheesecake,” he told the man—dressed like all the others in black pants, white shirt and apron—who thanked him and toddled off. To Armand Touton and his sidekick, he added, “After that, we shall see.”
Touton waited in his car on Ontario Street for the man to come out. Reconnaissance by one of his detectives suggested that the guy liked to enjoy a few beers before he went out on the town to make his rounds. He stationed a car a third of a block down from the tavern, then waited with a partner beyond that. Two more detectives guarded the opposite direction, in case the thug got wind of their presence. The stakeout took two hours, longer than the captain of the Night Patrol had intended, but when his man appeared the situation looked easy, a walk in the park, as the man was alone.
Touton’s partner climbed out of the car, somewhat awkwardly, accidentally knocking his fedora onto the sidewalk. Stooping to pick it up, he dusted it off, then adjusted the hat as if amending his attitude as he moved towards the bad guy. The bad guy didn’t like the car or the clumsy oaf who’d pulled himself out of it, or perhaps he recognized the cop from a previous encounter. In any case, intuition made him take a sharp turn off the sidewalk onto the street, still heading for his own vehicle, a scrunched Pontiac. When Touton opened his car door, the man panicked and ran, crossing the street, darting between two cars—one honked in anger—and Touton was already running and knew he had a good angle on his target.
The culprit knew it, too. He tried to run the opposite way, but spotted the other two detectives charging towards him. The clumsy cop he had first noticed was crossing the street, and he decided to take a chance on his initial plan and run away from Touton, but that didn’t work out. Touton heaved him against a brick wall.
“You fucking cop asshole!” He wasn’t going to fight. He knew he was badly outnumbered and he knew Touton. He couldn’t lick him one on one, and definitely not with these reinforcements.
“Cuff him. Take him in your car. I don’t want to breathe the same air as this bastard.”
“You got nothing on me, you fucker! You got no proof! No fucker in this town will testify!”
“You’ve got a point,” Touton acknowledged. “You prefer chickenshit clients.”
“You got no proof!”
“Get him out of my sight,” Touton said, but his voice was calm.
Touton considered himself a freelance cop. Which meant that a reputable citizen could approach him with a problem that required his attention without any strict compliance to procedure, or even to the law. A successful restaurateur whose establishment was a hot spot for athletes, entertainers and businesspeople had called him in a number of times. The restaurant’s location was out of the way, west and north of downtown, but adjacent to the racetrack and central to an industrial park. Being Chinese, the owner provided an extravagant Peking cuisine with a serving style that included considerable theatrical panache. Clearly nervous, he had called recently and asked that Touton drive him away for a chat, as he didn’t want to be seen in his company.
Touton drove him over to the racetrack parking lot. Fans on a warm summer night were cheering a close finish. He turned off the engine.
“What’s up, Lu?”
“Captain, I don’t like to bother you.”
“If you have trouble, that’s my job.”
“I understand my business. Always somebody wants a piece. Sometimes, it’s the easy thing to make accommodation, you understand?”
“You know I don’t like that, Lu.”
“I have a wife, three children, a house, a car—it’s my situation.”
“I understand.”
“But this one guy, Captain. He’s not reasonable. He’s new. He wants to make big rep, to please his boss. Always he wants more money, more money. It’s not possible no more—always more money, more money. Not once a month, now every three weeks, this is crazy, crazy—”
“Calm down, Lu. I took care of somebody for you a couple of months ago—”
“That’s him! He’s back. Same guy. Only now I have to pay him, to start, twice what I pay him before because he had trouble with you. Only that much go up every month, higher, always more, now it’s three weeks—”
“The same guy?”
“That’s him. He’s the one.”
This was serious. That a new thug had appeared in town, trying to make a reputation by being a scarier collector than the next guy, was nothing new. It happened regularly. That Touton would take it upon himself to help out a businessman like Lu Lee was also typical. Once the sun went down, this was his city, and in Touton’s mind honest businessmen should be allowed to work without fear while the crooks should labour in a contrary atmosphere. That he had instructed the newcomer to leave Lu Lee alone and had been ignored was a drastic breach of police–crook protocol. He sincerely believed that he had to be the most feared man in the city, for when that was not true, the bad guys took the city back from him.
“Lu, I’ll take care of this again. This time, I will ask you for a favour.”
“You come my restaurant, bring your wife, any time, every night you want, have good dinner.”
“Lu, it doesn’t work that way, but thanks. I have a different favour to ask.”
“What you want, I will give you,” Lu repeated. “It’s crazy, crazy.”
Just south of downtown, busy highways carried traffic to and from the west and south. Under an overpass, Touton pulled in with his squad car. He got out of the car and waited. The slums of St. Henri, Pointe St. Charles and Verdun spread out below this slope. At his back stood a cliff, a high step on the way up the mountain. This was a dark, austere location where he would not be disturbed. He had been here before.
The second car showed up and the plainclothes detectives stepped out and they left their passenger in the back seat. Both men were smoking. Putting on their fedoras, they joined Touton and his partner by his car, but the men
didn’t speak. They gazed out over the lights of the slum and beyond to the black swath of the St. Lawrence River, ever flowing to the sea.
The two cops finished their cigarettes.
“All right,” Touton commanded. “Get him out here.”
The ruffian was cuffed behind his back. He wasn’t big. The two men had little trouble bringing him over. He had his sleeves rolled up to show off his biceps and appeared to be a man who lifted weights. His forearms were tattooed with black and red inks, a serpent uncoiling on one, an eagle baring its claws on another.
“Oo-oooo,” the man said. “Oo-oooo. I’m so scared.”
“I’ve talked to you before,” Touton said.
“You gonna talk tough to me again? Read me the riot act?”
“You promised to stay away from Lu Lee. You gave me your word.”
“Oo-oooo,” the man said, grinning and feinting his head around while held on both sides by the two detectives. “Did I lie? Is my word not good now?”
“Hold him up straight,” Touton decreed, and his men took a firmer grasp of their captive.
“Oo-oooo, I’m so scared,” the man said.
Touton hit him.
The punch was devastating. Simultaneously, it broke the man’s jaw and his will to live. He crumpled and looked totally dazed, and his two handlers had to prop him up to receive Touton’s next blow. This one broke his nose, and blood spurted and was suddenly all over his chest. Touton hit his mouth, and the other cops turned away as teeth snapped and the man bit through his tongue. He was moaning now as though from a distance. They let him moan on the ground awhile, then the two cops hoisted him back up. Touton hit him three more times in the same rib, until he felt it crack. The man cried out, and they let him fall to the ground. Touton gave him a minute, then indicated that he was to be brought to his feet again. The man could not believe that his ordeal would continue. Touton drove his right hand into the man’s stomach and the culprit lost his breath. This time, he curled up on the ground and gasped and swallowed his own blood and vomit.
“Take him for a drive,” Touton instructed. “Put him in the trunk—don’t mess
up your back seat. Dump him in a cornfield outside of town, somewhere close to a hospital.” He crouched down beside the man. “This is what
you
do to good people. How do you like it? Not so much, huh? We’re taking you out of town. No matter what, never set foot on the island of Montreal again. Is that clear to you?”
The man possessed sufficient faculties to nod his head.
“Good.” Touton put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Good luck to you.”
He got back in his car, and was soon joined by his partner for the night. They drove out from under the overpass, up Décarie to Lu Lee’s Chinese Restaurant and Buffet. Touton found a booth for himself and his partner and told the waiter who approached him—brandishing knives and a grin—that he wanted to speak to Lu Lee. A minute later, the proprietor slid onto the bench seat beside him.
“You won’t have a problem anymore,” he said. “I’m sorry that this guy didn’t understand the message the first time. I got through to him the second time, I’m pretty sure.”
“Thank you, Captain. What can I do for you?”
“We had to miss dinner, so we’re going to eat. You can choose for us, okay, your specialities. But we’re on duty, so we won’t have alcohol—well, one beer each, that’s it—and we will pay for the meal, Lu. That’s not negotiable.”
“You’re not like other cops who come here over the years.”
“Isn’t that the point, Lu? That’s why you should not wait so long to call me in the future.” He looked across the table at his partner, who, like him, was a war veteran. He was the guy he brought along on nocturnal excursions, such as this one, that might require a certain kind of activity. His name was Michel Desbiens, a nervous type, but he usually didn’t have to do much, and the Captain knew that he’d be a good backup should that ever be required. He also knew that he would keep his mouth shut. “Would you excuse us just a minute, Michel?” Touton asked him.
“Sure, Captain. Need a leak anyways.”
Alone with Lu Lee, he told him, “You got rich guys coming in here all the time. Big spenders. You also got politicians in here, and lawyers—high rollers.”
“Yeah, sure,” Lu agreed. “Big part of my business.”
“People drink a lot. They talk. They say things they might regret later.”
“Yeah, sure,” Lu confirmed.
“If people like that ever talk about—listen now, remember this—if they ever talk about Jacques Cartier, or ‘the Order,’ or an ancient, valuable knife, or if they ever talk about getting rid of Asians like yourself, or getting rid of the Jews—”
“Yes, sir?” Lu Lee spoke softly, but he never broke off his gaze. He was intent.
“—then I want to know who those people are. And Lu, this isn’t just for now, or this summer, or this year. This is for as long as you’re alive and for as long as I am. I want to know who those people are. Understood?”
“Yes, Captain. No problem.”
“No problem. Good.” He waved the waiter back. “Now serve us up your best food, all right? I’m willing to spend a little tonight.”
The two cops enjoyed a feast, and at the end of the meal Touton wagged his finger at his host, for the bill seemed rather slight to him.
Sooner than he had expected, a message was passed along from Detective Fleury to Captain Touton. Pierre Elliott Trudeau wanted to meet him, and alone. Touton agreed to pick him up at midnight that same day.
The man had flair, he had to give him that, although it was hard to take him seriously. Trudeau was waiting for him under a streetlamp on a darkened corner, dressed to look like the spitting image of Sherlock Holmes. Deerstalker cap, stovepipe and a lapelled coat that resembled a cape. Life was an act to this young man, and he was treating the world as his stage.
The pipe, at least, wasn’t lit.
“I’ve created a monster,” Touton acknowledged.
“You’ve only recruited one,” Trudeau said. “I have my answer, Captain.”
“What is it?” They drove down Sherbrooke Street. People were out on the town, enjoying the warm July air.
“I will not spy for you, sir. Perhaps if we were at war, the right war, I could be inspired. But it’s not in my nature and the circumstances don’t suit me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I wanted to tell you in person.”
“Thanks. I’m still disappointed.”
“Will you drive me up to the Westmount Lookout?”
Something more might be on the man’s mind, so Touton acquiesced.
The road wound upward among the mansions of the rich. Near the top of one of Mount Royal’s multiple peaks, Summit Circle took in the views. They passed the old Van Horne mansion, built by the man who had constructed the first railway across the continent. The house was so large that, when it came time to be resold, it had been cut into two separate sections. Thirty feet of width was removed from the multiple storeys. Farther along, they arrived at the lookout, where lovers had parked and tourists scanned the city’s lights.
“So you won’t work for me,” Touton repeated.
“I have secret ambitions, Captain. If it ever came out that I was a stool pigeon for the cops, it could crush me.”
“That sounds like the counsel of your friend Pelletier.”
“That’s what impresses me about you, Captain. You’re astute. Do you know the name de Bernonville?”
He did, although it wasn’t on the tip of his tongue. “He was in the papers. Years ago.” Then it came to him. “A collaborator with the Germans in France, no?”
“That’s right. Tried in absentia in France and sentenced to death. He had tortured and killed his fellow countrymen in the Resistance. And Jews. After the war, he slipped through France and Spain and landed in New York. He came up to Quebec under an alias, disguised as a priest.”
Touton nodded. “Someone found him out?”
“Dozens of French collaborators found their way to Quebec after the war. They discovered they had friends here who would look after their welfare. But a few Resistance fighters emigrated here as well. Count Jacques Dugé de Bernonville was recognized, his exploits publicly recounted.”
“He’d been well received here?” Good to know by whom.
“With aplomb, Captain. Brought into Montreal society. After being recognized, he threw himself upon the mercy of Canada. He even admitted his deception but begged permission to stay. Canada investigated, and ordered
him deported. But the outcry within Quebec was intense. His crimes were brought forward. Supporters declared that they constituted the propaganda of Jews and Freemasons. As if those two groups had ever consulted each other. They claimed he’d been following orders, that the rush to return him to France smacked of a communist plot. He managed a stay while his case was being reviewed, and he hung on for another three years. But his past crimes became indisputable, his support eroded, and eventually the count deciphered the writing on the wall. They say he escaped to Brazil, where he hooked up with another infamous man from the period, Klaus Barbie. Rumour has it that he doesn’t always stay away, that he makes return trips.”