River City (21 page)

They wanted to be in on the action.

The situation remained volatile, citizens were tense, and Touton suspected that this might be the most hopeful scenario over the next few days. The worst case would involve men looking for trouble who would discover a flashpoint, and the city would descend into violence once more. A second eruption, he was convinced, could do more damage.

A stretch of Sherbrooke had been part of Montreal’s famed Golden Square Mile, an area of magnificent homes and buildings, each graced with an aristocratic air. The push of a burgeoning downtown, the advent of income tax and the inability of successive generations to continue living at that heightened level of prosperity had caused the properties, one by one, to be bulldozed for office towers or hotels, or else remodelled for shops at street level with tenants above. The president of the National Hockey League lived in a fine Old World apartment building with darkened hallways, staunch doors and high ceilings. The stone frame had been constructed so thickly that visitors wondered if the dominance of the automobile had not been anticipated, for the walls silenced traffic’s thrum while successfully muting sirens. The elevator’s whir accompanied him up to the seventh floor, and after a sojourn down a long corridor he located the Campbell residence, to be admitted by a maid.

For a man living virtually under siege, Clarence Campbell was found to be in good spirits. He greeted the policeman warmly and coaxed him into accepting a coffee, which his helper discreetly disappeared to prepare. The Queen Anne wing chairs into which they settled were not particularly comfortable, at least not for Captain Touton. Perhaps, he thought, Campbell’s short, round
body suited them better. He seemed to have odd tastes for a bachelor, including a maid with long black hairs growing from her pasty, pointy chin, and the policeman suspected that somewhere a woman of influence lurked, a curmudgeonly aunt or dour sister.

“It’s a disgrace,” Mr. Campbell decreed. “If people want to direct a grievance at me, they don’t need to wreck the city.”

“Perhaps if they were able to find you, sir—”

“I was at the Forum,” the former war prosecutor pointed out. “I caught a tomato in the eye. The papers didn’t report that one. It bounced off without bursting. Another one caught me on the shoulder. I suppose it’s civilized to throw tomatoes.”

“Rather than rocks, say?”

“Exactly. Or Molotov cocktails. But I suppose those came later.”

“A lot of fires,” Touton concurred. “They’re worrisome.”

“A city in flames.” Mr. Campbell folded his hands in his lap. “I’d call that worrisome. Ah! Your coffee, my tea. As long as we have tea, we have civilization, Captain. Tell me, did you have tea in your POW camp?”

Touton shook his head. “Brit pilots did. They had privileges. These days, I prefer my wake-up coffee.”

“No wonder. You’re captain of the Night Patrol—it must be a narcotic. Cream and sugar?”

“Black, thanks.”

“Ah.”

Touton sipped, found the coffee to his liking but very hot, and put the cup and saucer down on the credenza next to him. He would have preferred a mug. Suddenly, he was aware of the quiet moment passing between them. Observing Campbell, he realized that he was a shy individual.

Touton began by taking a moderately deep breath. “I bring unpleasant news.”

“More
unpleasant news?” Mr. Campbell asked, flashing a grim smile. Having stirred his tea, he moved the cup from his lips to the saucer captive on his lap. “How much can a man take, Captain?”

“The Jacques Cartier Dagger, sir, has been stolen again.”

The executive, who had received his guest into his home as though they had been at the office, was wearing a jacket and tie. He placed the teacup and saucer on the side table to his left and removed a handkerchief from his right jacket pocket. He glanced at Armand Touton, then seemed to cast his reflections upon the carpet. He dabbed his mouth with the handkerchief, carefully creased the folds again and returned it to his pocket. “I see,” he said quietly.

“It’s an unfortunate situation.”

“Would it be correct to say that the dagger had been entrusted to your care, Captain Touton? I recall arguing for its return and being rebuffed.”

The officer nodded. He rubbed his hands slowly. “You wouldn’t be out of line to mention it. I considered the knife to be in my care.”

“Any other officer, you understand, and my suspicions would quickly rest on police corruption. Tell me what happened, Captain.”

The policeman took another deep breath and exhaled. “Sir, two men have been killed. Perhaps you heard about it on the news. Driving over here, I was listening to the radio myself. All the talk is about the riot, and the Rocket’s statement. But a pair of deaths in Dominion Square—”

“I heard. A coroner, wasn’t it? That’s awful.”

“He had possession of your knife, sir. The men who killed him stole it.”

Mr. Campbell’s head remained still, his expression blank, but his eyes moved back and forth repeatedly. Then he blinked. What he said next caught his guest off guard. “I’d rather that you not refer to it as my knife, Captain. I only had it on loan.”

“I understand, sir.”

“So this is a deeper tragedy, then, and not of your doing. I see. Villainy, not police negligence.” He tugged his trouser legs up ever so slightly.

“That would be my personal view, sir. Obviously, we had no clue that a second murder would take place. About the first death, I should tell you, the Cartier Dagger was the murder weapon.”

Mr. Campbell flexed backwards at the news, and this time he was the one to exhale. “Unbelievable,” he murmured, and shook his head. Early in his life, his hair had thinned, so that he looked older than a man set to turn fifty in a few months. “Captain, I have something I need to ask.”

“Go ahead.”

“Have you ever heard of the Order of Jacques Cartier?”

“Can’t say that I have. A bunch of guys in funny hats, it sounds like.”

The league president rubbed his eyes before speaking. Given all that had transpired the previous evening, Touton doubted he’d had much sleep.

“If only that’s who they were. Check police records. They will show that I once brought the name to the attention of the authorities. I didn’t expect any serious danger to be imminent, but at the time it seemed prudent. I’m a lawyer, so naturally I try to follow the precepts of the law.”

Touton leaned forward, interested. He had come here hoping to explore a number of avenues, but had expected only to close down a few lines of inquiry. He had not expected to discover a fresh lead.

“Months ago, I received a letter. I’ll have to check my records to provide a more precise date.”

“Do you still have this letter?”

“I surrendered it to the police. To my knowledge, it’s not been returned.”

“What did it say?”

Mr. Campbell cleared his throat. “At the office, we receive threats on rare occasion. We don’t pay them much heed. Nevertheless, it is appropriate to take at least cautionary notice.”

“You were threatened?”

“Me personally? No. My office. ‘A Molotov cocktail through the window’ was how they put it. If you allow for the fact that the bottom floor has an immensely high ceiling, we’re about twelve flights up. Who can throw a Molotov that high? So I don’t think they knew where the offices were. The address on the envelope wasn’t complete. Just ‘National Hockey League, Montreal.’ In French. That’s how they addressed it, and by some fluke it arrived on our doorstep.”

“The post office would find you. Did the letter say anything else?”

“Something to the effect that the Order of Jacques Cartier demands the return of the supreme symbol of the Order, the venerable dagger of Jacques Cartier. Not terribly particular. It didn’t provide us with anyone to return it to, for example.”

This, at least, was something. “They still sound like men in funny hats to me. After our officers took the report, did you hear back from the department?”

“No, sir.”

“Nor from the Order of Jacques Cartier?”

“Not unless I did last night.”

Touton stood. Enough issues were churning through his head that at this point he’d rather pace. He was in no position to be confrontational. Campbell was a respected man, relied upon for his integrity, but Touton wished that he had the freedom to push him a little. The man had not owned the knife, but he would see it every day when he stepped into his office. He was aware of the object’s value. Was there no residual wish to personally possess the knife? Was there no interest in selling an object worth that much? As a relic, it either sat on his desk or slept in his vault. Millions of dollars would be considered more tempting by many. As for the Order of Jacques Cartier, the lead was interesting, but to a suspicious or inquiring mind, the mention of an “Order” struck him as convenient. As a beat cop, he had answered calls about jimmied doors and broken windows when nothing had been taken, yet a few weeks later the house would be properly burglarized. Coincidence or not, the homeowners had a police report from an earlier attempted break-in to show a skeptical insurance company that might otherwise suspect the occupants of indulging in fraud. In this instance, had there been a conspiracy—one that involved Campbell, or even one that did not—the letter from an “Order” might well have been sent in advance to divert a police investigation later on. He saw no reason to credit an obviously skilled thief with the decency to first announce his intention to commit the crime.

Besides, he had to assume that Roger Clément had committed the crime, not some “Order.”

“About the letter, there’s another aspect,” Mr. Campbell mentioned. His guest had turned his back to him and was examining a large painting from an earlier century of children clustered around a rather vivacious mother.

“What would that be?” Touton asked, without facing him.

“At the bottom of the letter—”

Touton turned. “Yes?”

“—they had stamped a swastika.”

Touton’s only response was to cock his head slightly and gaze at the other man more intently, indicating his interest and a subtle demand for more.

Mr. Campbell sipped his tea first, then put it down again. “It’s something I live with, Captain. From time to time, residual pro-fascist elements choose to disparage my work at Nuremberg. I thought I’d mention it, in case the item assists you. I read an article on you one time, so I feel secure in assuming where you stand on the matter.”

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Touton conferred a pensive nod. “Thank you. Yes. We both served. We’ve that in common.” He left unsaid that the military lawyer had very different war experiences than the foot soldier and POW, yet he knew that the conflict altered the course of both their lives. Both had believed in what they were doing, and both had seen and learned matters about humanity that only a war will divulge. Without making a conscious decision to do so, they subtly segregated themselves from those who had not participated—never fully trusting them, never being comfortable when conversations included the home front during the war. In an odd way, then, the experience did bind them. “Mr. Campbell, do you know Roger Clément?”

“The name rings a bell, but I don’t believe I do.”

“A former NHLer. Before your time.” Touton resumed his seat. “A cup of coffee with the Blackhawks, lunch with the Rangers.”

“Then I’ve heard the name. I don’t believe I know him. Why?”

“He was the other man killed last night, with the Cartier Dagger.”

“Oh dear.” Mr. Campbell sighed heavily and repeated himself. “Oh dear. I don’t like the sound of this. A former hockey player? Killed with a dagger from my office? The papers will have a field day.”

“Perhaps we won’t put it all together for them. They don’t need to hear about the murder weapon. Clément, whom I knew quite well, had a criminal record. He spent the war in an internment camp for politicos.”

The president of the National Hockey League nodded, content that his organization might elude media scrutiny on the matter. “I hate when a player falls on hard times.”

Touton waited to learn whether Campbell had anything to add, and, when the man remained quiet, took his leave. They shook hands at the door. Touton put on his hat, buttoned up his coat and departed the building, intent on a closer inspection of the riot’s aftermath. Most of the devastation had occurred on Ste. Catherine Street, parallel to Sherbrooke, two short blocks down. He chose to walk.

One hour later, at police headquarters, his arrival may have been unexpected, for rarely did the famous captain of the Night Patrol show up during daylight, but no one registered even token surprise. The riot had altered the landscape, the times were volatile. Half the department was working a double shift anyway. Under the circumstances, his subsequent activity did raise a few curious eyebrows among the ranks. From Records, Touton wanted to know which officers had responded to a call months earlier at National Hockey League headquarters, and from Archives he requested a report on whatever had been determined about the Order of Jacques Cartier.

For his part, Armand Touton was explaining nothing—not a shock either.

He sat at his desk and placidly drank more coffee while the tumult around him rose, and fell, and rose again. Intermittently, he smiled. The day shift, uninitiated to his habits, felt intimidated, as though under indictment themselves.

Which they were. Touton gently chastised them. On his own internal scale, the riot hadn’t been so bad. They didn’t know how mad chaos could be. They didn’t know what it meant to be on a beach in hell, and so they spoke excitedly of recent events and they related experiences at a feverish pitch.

When Armand Touton had heard the ping of machine-gun fire on the hull of his landing craft at Dieppe, he and the others understood that death was imminent. Only a few dared look each other in the eye, for they shared the shameful truth that they were about to die. They finished up their notes home, tucked photos of their loved ones away, said their final prayers and heard the landing gate creak down, admitting bullets. They weren’t far enough in. The first to get out dropped into water over their heads. Touton splashed
down, then was pushed down deeper by the men jumping out behind him, and pushed down again by the next, the feet above him kicking him below the water. Looking up, he saw bullets penetrate the surface, like rain, with blood already pooling. He swam underwater and crawled ashore with his comrades. Within two minutes, twenty-four were dead, and the three remaining survivors had been shot. Touton bled from the wrist. He had tucked himself down behind two dead soldiers, and, with the help of another survivor, piled a third and then a fourth corpse onto their wall. Bullets never stopped snapping at the sand around them and ripping into the flesh of those who were dead.
That
was chaos.
That
was fear. Not this exuberant, charged madness in the streets.