The Delicate Storm (20 page)

“A madness they shared with Yves Grenelle, no? Why has his name never come up before?”

“Yves Grenelle was never caught, never charged with anything.” The woman’s manner suddenly changed. She looked down at her hands as if she held between them a fragile screen on which the events of her youth played out. “That was part of the agreement, you understand.”

“Agreement?”

“Among the members of the cell. It was like blood brothers. The agreement was that if the cops found them, anyone who got away was never to be mentioned—not to the cops, not to the press, not to anyone. It was to be as if he or she never existed.

“That’s what happened with Yves Grenelle. He was not captured with the others. He disappeared off the face of the earth the day Raoul Duquette was killed. Nobody has heard from him since that day. Probably he went to France—a lot of people did when things got hot. Mostly they came back. But Grenelle was never seen again.”

“How was he recruited, this Grenelle? Was he a friend of your husband? A friend of Lemoyne?”

“He must have been a friend of Lemoyne’s. Bernard didn’t know him. I think he was introduced to Lemoyne a year or two previously by Simone Rouault. That’s who you should talk to if you want to know about recruitment. She was so beautiful, they could have made posters of her and the membership would have tripled overnight. She brought a lot of the young men in. She gave the revolution a pretty face, a beautiful mouth. And of course, she fucked everybody in sight.”

“I’ve heard the name. Were you close?”

“We were friendly. We didn’t see much of her, because of the need to stay separate, but she was something. A real character.” Mrs. Theroux shook her head, remembering. “She drank nothing but champagne. French champagne—Veuve Clicquot, that was it. And she was always smoking Gitanes. I hate those things. They stink like cigars. I’m telling you, if you talk to Simone, take her a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and she’ll tell you her life story.”

“But Simone Rouault was with the Liberation cell, the cell that kidnapped Hawthorne, no? So she and Grenelle couldn’t have met.”

“Oh, but they could, you see. Grenelle was the contact between the cells. He moved back and forth. A big talker, Grenelle, always full of ideas, always wanting action, always wanting to move ahead. Bernard and even Lemoyne were, I don’t know, more thoughtful.”

“So, how did Grenelle avoid being caught?”

“Partly because of my husband. Bernard is a carpenter, like his father. Before they kidnapped Duquette, they had arranged another safe house as a fallback. A place on the south shore. Bernard built a false wall inside a closet. That was the extent of their escape plan. It seems pitiful, in retrospect, but you see, they never intended to kill anyone, so they never planned an elaborate escape.”

“That’s not what the communiqués said. They threatened to execute Duquette from the first day.”

“They were negotiating. Using their hostage for leverage. You don’t believe me, but it’s true—thirty years later I have no reason to lie. They were astounded by how the government reacted. Suspending civil rights. Calling out the army. Nobody saw that coming. Bernard and Daniel thought they had a pretty good chance of getting a couple of the political prisoners released. Nobody thought the government would let the hostages die. At worst, they figured they themselves would get transport to Cuba or Algeria or somewhere.”

“You would have gone to Cuba with your husband?”

“Yes, of course. Algeria. Anywhere.” Mrs. Theroux shrugged. “I was young.”

“And you never believed they would kill anyone. Even when they kidnapped a provincial cabinet minister like Duquette?”

“No. It never occurred to me. Not for one second.” She stood up and went to look out the window. Delorme thought it was only so she could turn away. “The taxi is taking a long time.”

“Yes. If they don’t come in a few minutes, I’ll call again.”

The door opened and a little girl came in, her face the image of tragedy. “Sasha spilled paint all over my picture.”

“Well, that’s a shame, Monique.” Mrs. Theroux leaned forward and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to.”

“He did! Sasha’s mean!”

“Well, you go back and talk to Gabrielle about it. You can always draw another one, you know.”

“I don’t want to!”

“Well, you talk to Gabrielle about it.”

Mrs. Theroux held the door open for her and a gust of children’s racket blew in from the other room. She sat across from Delorme again and stirred her coffee till Delorme thought it would evaporate.

“It never occurred to me that Bernard would be involved with a murder. I know my husband. I know him now, I knew him then. Blowing up statues, yes. Attacking corporations, yes—in the middle of the night, with no one around and a warning given. But to kill someone in cold blood, never. It’s just not in him.” She frowned and rubbed her forehead as if she could wipe away the memories.

“After four or five days, the pressure was really on. Army and police everywhere. The three men are trying to decide what to do. Grenelle, the big talker, is all for killing Duquette, but Lemoyne and Bernard need time to think. They go to a friend’s place, someone in the support network, to discuss what to do, just the two of them, leaving Grenelle to keep watch over the minister. After a long hard debate they decide there is nothing to be gained by killing their hostage. The army was everywhere, the government was refusing to negotiate, it looked like the entire thing was lost, you understand? They decided not to kill Raoul Duquette.

“They go back to the house to tell Grenelle of their decision. They come in, they find him in the kitchen, staring out the window, not saying a word—which was unusual for him, such a bigmouth he was. Now he was sitting there staring out the window, Bernard told me, like he’d been hit on the head with a hammer.

“They tell him they’ve decided not to kill Duquette. They tell him the reasons. They go over the pros and cons. They tell him it was a hard decision but they believe it’s the right one. All this time Grenelle is saying nothing. Not one word. He just keeps staring out that window.

“Finally, he turns to them. Looks them both up and down and shakes his head, disappointed.

“‘What?’ they say. ‘What’s the matter? If you don’t agree, say so. Just don’t keep staring at nothing like a dumb ox. Say what’s on your mind.’

“‘You’re too late,’ he tells them.

“‘Too late,’ they say. ‘What do you mean, “too late”?’

“‘I killed him,’ Grenelle says, and then he bursts into tears. This big strong guy, Mr. Action, crying like a little baby. Bernard and Lemoyne run into the next room and find it’s true. Duquette is lying in a heap near the window—no breath, no pulse, and around his neck this terrible bruise. The window is broken and there’s a mess like there was a struggle.

“They go back into the kitchen, where Grenelle is still crying. Eventually they get him to calm down.

“‘Tell us what happened,’ Bernard says. ‘He tried to escape?’

“Grenelle tells them Duquette somehow got his ropes off. Grenelle’s in the kitchen, listening to the news. Suddenly he hears a crash. He runs into the bedroom, and there’s Duquette halfway out the window. Grenelle hauls him back in, but he fights like a wild man, hysterical. Grenelle shows them his eye where it’s starting to turn black. Anyway, he and Duquette fight, and eventually Grenelle gets him down on his stomach and pulls like hell on his sweater. All he wants to do is calm him down, knock him out. He lets go, and Duquette starts fighting again. So again he pulls back on the sweater. This time he’s determined to knock the guy out, so he leans back with all his weight, pulling the collar tight against his throat. That was it. Duquette goes unconscious, Grenelle grabs the rope and ties his wrists together. Only problem is, Duquette’s not unconscious—he’s dead.

“Grenelle tells them all this and starts crying again. The tough-guy revolutionary, suddenly he’s a mama’s boy. The other two are extremely upset, but also they understand how it could happen. They have a whole new set of decisions to make.”

“That’s for sure,” Delorme said. “Do they claim Duquette’s death as an accident, in which case they look clumsy and amateurish? Or do they claim it as an execution, in which case they look ruthless—cruel, but revolutionaries?”

“Exactly. They decided to look like revolutionaries. They would stick to the original plan. The whole cell will claim collective responsibility, no matter who gets caught or who gets away. They will say it was a group action.

“So they put the body in the trunk of the car and drive to the St-Hubert airport. They tell the media where to find it. Then they go to their safe house on the south shore. Three weeks later the police find the house, and all three manage to squeeze into the false back of the closet. They were in there the whole time the police were searching the place, listening to everything they said. When finally the police left, they waited another twelve hours and then took off in the middle of the night. The police had no one guarding the place, and they just slipped out the back.

“Bernard and Lemoyne were caught within a week, hiding in a barn like a couple of hoboes. Grenelle got away.” Mrs. Theroux sighed heavily and bit her lip. “The only one who got away.”

Delorme spoke softly. “Why have you never told anyone before?”

“In the first place, there was the oath of loyalty. And Bernard didn’t want to tell anyone. He wanted to leave history the way it was.” Sounds of toddler outrage issued from the next room. “Not so noisy in there, Sasha! Others are trying to talk!”

“Did it ever occur to anyone that Grenelle was lying? That maybe he sensed his brothers-in-arms were vacillating—weakening, in his view—and to save the revolution he went ahead and killed Duquette on his own initiative?”

“Oh, yes. It occurred to everyone, despite all his tears. Grenelle was always the hottest head. The one who wanted more action, bigger explosions, more press. I even raised it with Bernard during the trial. At first he didn’t want to consider it, and later, in prison, he felt it made no difference. Remember, my husband was only convicted of kidnapping, not murder.”

“Something else bothers me,” Delorme said. “If Grenelle was such a hothead, such a revolutionary, why didn’t he take credit for the killing? Why call it an accident? After all, in his view, it’s an act of war, no? Isn’t he a hero?”

“Oh, yes. He was always bragging about his exploits with the bombs and so on. He was always quick to take credit for any violent action the cell took. I mean, he usually instigated it, so why not?”

“But instead of bragging about killing Duquette, he bursts into tears. From what you tell me, it’s out of character.”

Mrs. Theroux shrugged. “Perhaps that’s how one reacts. I wouldn’t know, I’ve never killed anyone.”

Delorme had. A serial murderer named Edie Soames. And it had left her depressed and tearful for weeks.

“This taxi of yours—I’m beginning to think you didn’t really call one.”

“It’s okay, I think the rain is letting up. Thank you for the coffee.” Delorme put on her coat. “You say your husband didn’t want to consider that Grenelle had killed Duquette on purpose. Why do you suppose that is? I would have thought it would help preserve his self-image as a revolutionary.”

Mrs. Theroux had stood up with Delorme. Now she turned away slightly and gathered her apron into her hands. She looked out the window with its fringe of dripping icicles.

“Did he never speak of any other possibilities to you?”

Mrs. Theroux shook her head tightly.

“Did he never, for example—I don’t know—did he never mention anything about the scene? The bedroom, when he and Lemoyne returned and found Duquette dead? Did he never mention anything about how it looked? About whether it fit with what Grenelle was telling them about an escape attempt, the broken window, the struggle?”

“My husband was nineteen years old. A carpenter, not a forensic expert.”

“Yes, but given the gravity of the situation, the effect on their personal lives—not to mention history—they would want to be sure of what was true and what wasn’t. After all, Lemoyne and your husband went to prison for twelve years. If it hadn’t been for Grenelle, they might well have got off with a trip to Cuba and a couple of years in jail on their return. So what I’m asking is, do you know whether there was anything at the scene that might have made your husband wonder whether Grenelle was something other than what he appeared to be?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do. I think it’s been on your mind for thirty years.”

“You’d better go. Bernard was right, we’ve nothing to gain by talking to cops, and everything to lose.”

“Why did Miles Shackley call here, Mrs. Theroux? Less than a month before he was murdered.”

“I told you: I don’t know any Miles Shackley. But someone did call here a month ago. A stranger. He identified himself as Yves Grenelle’s cousin from Trois-Rivières. Bernard says it’s true Grenelle was from Trois-Rivières, though whether he had any cousins or not, who knows? Anyway, this ‘cousin’ says his father has died and part of the estate is supposed to go to Yves, do we know where to find him. We were even suspicious, but who would be looking for him at this point? The
RCMP?
They never even knew he existed.”

“What did you tell him, this stranger who was looking for Grenelle?”

“It was Bernard who got the call. He told him he’d never heard of any Yves Grenelle.”

Delorme looked around at the kitchen, the children’s drawings, taking in the air of harmless domesticity. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

“My husband will never speak to you, and now I’ve told you everything I know. You won’t come back, I hope.”

“No. That shouldn’t be necessary.”

Mrs. Theroux, summoned by a delegation of three toddlers to fulfill her duties as reader-in-chief at Beau Soleil Daycare Centre, disappeared into the other room. Delorme let herself out the front door.

Outside, the rain had abated, and the streets of Montreal looked clean and new.

21

O
N HIS WAY BACK TO TOWN
after his useless visit to the former Corporal Sauvé, Cardinal called Catherine, who informed him that his father had been discharged from the hospital and was now back at home.

“I asked him to come and stay with us, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I didn’t push it. You know what he’s like.”

“How’s he seem to you?”

“Not bad, considering. A little wobbly, but he’s a tough old bird.”

Cardinal told her he thought he’d be home by the next day.

“You’d better not leave it too late. It’s raining and it looks like we’re going to get another layer of ice. Could get pretty messy for travelling.”

Cardinal had arranged to meet Delorme in a café on St-Denis, but he was early and it was drizzling again, so he ducked into one of the underground malls beneath Ste-Catherine. Most modern cities have such malls, of course, and they are particularly popular in cities prone to long winters. But Montreal hides an entire civilization beneath its streets. Stores of every variety—pharmacies, department stores, tobacconists, furriers—go on for mile after mile. Cardinal could see the point, on a rainy day like today—even more so when the temperature might hit thirty below—but it wasn’t his idea of a good time. Being underground felt oppressive, despite the exuberant trappings, and the lighting made everyone look washed out and dissatisfied.

He reached an intersection the size of an airport and took careful note of the street signs; being underground was disorienting. A cosmetics store caught his eye, and he stood for a few moments looking in the window, wondering if there might be something he could take home to Catherine. He noticed a cologne called Torso, with a bottle to match, but it reminded him of autopsies.

At one o’clock he went back to street level and met Delorme, as they had arranged, at the Tasse Toi coffee shop. It was a tiny, touristy crêperie with souvenir match-books from around the world attached to the ceiling. The clientele seemed to consist entirely of enormous women from Texas.

“God, am I glad to see you,” he said to Delorme.

“I know you can’t live without me, Cardinal. It’s the only reason I came along.”

They each ordered the crêpe special of the day and a coffee, decaf for Cardinal.

“How’d it go with Bernard Theroux?”

“Actually, I saw Françoise Theroux. I think it may have worked out even better.”

Cardinal listened quietly, making a few notes. He propped the picture of the young FLQ members against his coffee cup. “So his name’s Yves Grenelle, and Miles Shackley was looking for him shortly before he died. That’s if Madame Theroux can be believed.”

“She’s a middle-aged woman with a daycare centre and all she wants to do is put this stuff behind her. I think we can believe her. What did you get from Sauvé?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all? After going all the way out there?”

“I don’t think he liked my French.”

“I can agree with him on that one.”

“Plus we don’t have any leverage on the guy. He’s done his time, he keeps to himself, what does he care what a couple of Ontario cops want? I’d probably do the same in his position.”

When the check arrived, Cardinal said, “Pretty pricey for a couple of coffees. How do they get away with that?”

“They charge double if you’re from Ontario.”

They dropped one of the cars at
RCMP
headquarters and then headed across town toward the Hochelaga district. Delorme consulted a street map spread open across her knees and directed Cardinal through a complicated series of one-way streets.

“Couldn’t we just have gone straight along Ste-Catherine?”

“Not if you want to get there today. This is it.”

Cardinal turned onto a depressing little one-way street.

“Wow,” Delorme said. “This is a couple of steps down from where Theroux lives.”

She remembered what Sergeant Ducharme had told them that morning about Simone Rouault: Simone Rouault, in the sergeant’s words, was a real piece of work. She was an informer, among other things—a lot of other things. Simone Rouault was, shall we say, complicated. One minute she was all for the good guys, all law and order and let’s toss these bastards in a dungeon and throw away the key. Next minute she was setting off dynamite on Mount Royal. Fond of blowing things up, that woman. A committed separatist who informed for the
CAT
Squad, and when you figure that one out, you let me know. Moody as hell. Fougère used to come back from their meetings looking like he’d gone five rounds with a bobcat. On the bright side, the sergeant had informed them, give Simone Rouault a drink and she’ll sell you her mother.

The address was a tiny duplex with a rusted red balcony that sagged from the upper storey like a split lip. After an eternity, the bell was answered by an ancient woman leaning on a walker. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth, an inch and a half of ash quivering on its tip.

“We’re sorry to disturb you,” Delorme said in French. “We’re looking for Simone Rouault.”

“I’m Simone Rouault. What do you want?”

Delorme’s rapid-fire French was too much for Cardinal. About the only word he recognized was “Ontario.” And Ms. Rouault’s response was even more inscrutable. Cardinal hung back behind Delorme, trying to look serious but not threatening.

Finally the woman stood aside. Cardinal and Delorme stepped into a room slightly larger than Cardinal’s bedroom at home. “What’s the matter with you?” the woman demanded of Cardinal. “Are you deaf-mute?”

“My French isn’t very good, I’m afraid.”

“That’s Ontario for you. Fine. We’ll speak English—clumsy language, but it will have to do.”

She moved with painful slowness, listing badly to one side. Each step evoked a gasp. She lowered herself slowly into an armchair. There was nothing else to sit on but the bed, a fold-out couch she hadn’t bothered to fold back up; Cardinal doubted she had the strength.

“That’s okay,” Cardinal said. “I’ll stand.”

“Sit, for God’s sake. It’s just a bed. It won’t bite. I’m damned if I’m going to fold the thing up for you. Bloody monstrosity.”

When Cardinal and Delorme sat, the bed sank several inches toward the floor.

“Ms. Rouault,” Cardinal said, “the case we’re working on involves at least one person who was active in the FLQ back in 1970, and we need to talk to you about that time. You don’t have anything to worry about. We’re here strictly for information.”

“Worried? Honey, I’m not worried. I planted a dozen bombs, wrote twenty-five communiqués, harboured fugitives, aided and abetted enemies of the state, and organized seven bank robberies. Go ahead and arrest me.” She held out her bent, tormented wrists for handcuffs.

“We’re not here to arrest you.”

“Damn right you’re not. You’d have to arrest the entire
RCMP
if you were going to do that. My associates went to jail. My lovers went to jail. Even my best friend went to jail. But I stayed free. There are reasons for that.”

“So we understand,” Cardinal said. “In fact, I’m wondering how it is you still live in Montreal, and under the same name.”

“Look at me. What can they do to me now? Break in and shoot a little old lady? Let them come, I don’t care.”

“Well, we’re hoping you can—”

She interrupted him. “You know I’m not supposed to talk to you?”

“The events we’re interested in were over thirty years ago. I don’t think you’ll be breaching security at this point.”

“
CSIS
disagrees with you. They called me this morning and told me not to tell you anything.”

“Was it Calvin Squier who called?”

“He wouldn’t give his name. An older man. French Canadian. He told me I would be jeopardizing national security if I gave you any information. He even threatened to get my social security taken away. I don’t feel the slightest loyalty to them. You see how I live. I doubt that Detective Lieutenant Jean-Paul Fougère lived like this—in New Brunswick or wherever the hell he retired to before he died.
CSIS
is the same gang with a new name. If they hadn’t called and threatened me, I might not have talked to you, but now they can go fuck themselves as far as I’m concerned.”

Delorme reached into her bag and pulled out the oblong box. “Françoise Theroux told me you were fond of this stuff.”

The woman took the box and examined it as if it were an object of the utmost rarity. Museum quality. With difficulty she extracted the bottle and cradled it in her arms like a newborn.

“Are they doing well for themselves, the Therouxs?”

“They seem to make a good living.”

“God has a sense of humour, no? The murderer, he makes a good living; I live like a welfare case.”

“We need to know about this person,” Cardinal said. He handed her the photograph of Shackley as a young man.

She examined it without expression for a few moments before handing it back. A small smile hovered about her dry, cracked lips, and she shook her head gently from side to side. “Such a story I could tell.” She nodded at the bottle of champagne. “Open that for me, will you?”

Cardinal picked up the bottle and started removing the foil.

“Always such a pleasure, isn’t it?” she said to Delorme. “To watch a strong man work with his hands.”

Delorme let that one go.

“Glasses are over there, dear.” She gestured toward a row of metal cupboards above a half-size fridge. “Won’t you join me?”

“I’d love to,” Cardinal said. “But unfortunately …”

“Yes, yes. So sad. Can’t have intoxicated Mounties running all over the place, can we?”

“We’re not Mounties,” Delorme said.

“I was speaking metaphorically, my dear. You mustn’t be so literal-minded.”

Cardinal brought the bottle and a murky champagne flute. He poured her a glass and set the bottle down.

The woman held the glass under her nose a moment and inhaled. “Veuve Clicquot,” she said. “Everybody’s favourite widow.”

“Veuve means widow,” Delorme said to Cardinal.

“Thank you. I figured.”

“There was a time when I drank nothing else.” Ms. Rouault took a delicate sip, held the glass before her and examined the colour, then took another sip. “It hasn’t changed at all—unlike me.”

Cardinal and Delorme waited.

“I was beautiful,” she said. “That’s the first thing you must understand. I was very beautiful.”

“That’s easy to believe,” Cardinal said. Though veined with tiny violet capillaries, the fine high cheekbones were still apparent. The graceful arch of eyebrow. The grey eyes, almost hidden now in folds of skin, were so wide-set that in her younger days she would have had a look of wisdom beyond her years.

“It was an intensity I had,” she said in a factual tone. “An air of passion, coupled with a necessary aloofness that people found compelling.” She reached painfully toward a bookshelf and brought down a photograph of a young woman laughing at the camera. She had magnificent teeth, an invitingly plump upper lip, and the wide grey eyes were absolutely clear.

“At the beach. Summer of 1970. I was thirty-one.” Which put her in her sixties now. She looked closer to eighty. “Osteoporosis, arthritis, you name it,” she said, catching Cardinal’s thoughts. “I never did like milk. And I always loved these.” She pulled out a pack of Gitanes and lit one up. Then she took the photo back in a desiccated claw and pointed her index finger not at her younger face but at the clouds in the background of the photo, the hill to the left, foliage on the right. “You see that? You know what that is? Or rather, what that was?”

Cardinal shrugged. “You said you were at the beach.”

“Again so literal-minded. The two of you should get married. I was pointing at my future. That’s what that was. I still had one then. Would you mind?” She held out her glass to Cardinal and he filled it for her. She took a trembling sip and held the glass in her lap. “My future,” she said again. “How strange to think that this body—this face, this room—how strange to think that these were my future. If I’d known that then, of course, I would have hanged myself. You have some time, I take it?”

Cardinal and Delorme nodded.

“That is a great luxury, having time.
Bon
. I have your attention, I have my cigarette, I have a full glass. Let an old lady tell you where her future went.

“I was twenty-nine years old. Not so old, really. But in those days, youth was everything. To be young was regarded as an honour, just as in earlier times to be old was valued as an achievement. A load of crap, either way. Your age is your age and it’s not in your control. But back then—I’m talking 1968, 1969, now—if you were over thirty, you were over the hill. The Beatles were at the height of their fame. It was Trudeaumania—why? Because he was young and handsome—like Kennedy. Good television. There was even a government organization called the Company of Young Canadians. Of course, it was a make-work program designed to hide the high unemployment figures, but it sounded so romantic.

“Fifty percent of the population was under thirty, and that meant we had power. With numbers like that, politicians had to listen. At the universities, students went on strike to change their curriculum, even to have a say in hiring and firing, in tenure. And of course the endless marches against the Vietnam War. They were radical times.

“You’d go to a march, a sit-in, and there’d be not a soul over thirty—or very few. So exhilarating to be surrounded by thousands of people who look just like you. All saying the same things, singing the same things, believing the same things. Of course, there’s a frightening side to it: so many people all wearing the same things—flak jackets and blue jeans, tie-dyed T-shirts and blue jeans, Indian silk and blue jeans—all saying the same things. George Orwell knew a thing or two.”

She took a sip of champagne and a deep drag on her cigarette. She exhaled slowly, contemplating the stream of smoke. “I was terrified of growing old. It was the times I lived in, not just my own neurosis. That is point number one. Point number two: I had married young and badly. My husband considered himself a great artist, but the rest of the world disagreed, and he took it out on me. Anyway, it ended, and I felt all washed up the moment I turned thirty.