The Drowned Man (10 page)

“You have an expression in English, ‘Don't speak ill of the departed,'” he began. “I believe in granting the dead their dignity. The young man deserves my best accounting of the details. I heard him say something after the first time he called out. He said, ‘Oh, God!' Undoubtedly, you have been told that I followed him in to save his life. Sure, but the thing is, I knew he was almost dead when he said those two specific words. It was like his
cri de coeur
, his . . .”

“His death rattle.”

“Yes. Very sad.”

“On behalf of Scotland Yard, Professor, thank you,” Peter said.

“Chief Inspector, you would not want your worst enemy to die alone in a dark, stinking canal.” Renaud paused. “The canal doesn't go anywhere. If I ever romanticized the old Lachine, I think I've lost my illusions because of Carpenter's death. I am sorry, I have to confess my sentimental nature. In fact, I moved here because of the canal. Yes! I am a romantic. Lachine. The Canal to China. I loved that. Otherwise, my friend, this is a yuppie place to live and not a politically correct spot for a
vrai Montréalais
to reside.”

“You teach Canadian history. Where?”

“Université de Montréal. And it is advisable in the present atmosphere to call it
Quebec
history, my friend. For the record, I am a card-carrying
péquiste
, a separatist.”

The professor smiled. He punctuated his admission with a long swig of his beer, and continued. “Do you know the significance of the Lachine Canal in our history?”

“I've hardly seen any of the city,” Peter said, “but I did read the official plaque.”

“The canal was a big deal. It allowed the big ships to move farther up the
Grand Fleuve
to Lake Ontario and Toronto. Inspector, the symbolism for Quebec separatists of a canal that had its destination in English Canada is irresistible. But at first, the word ‘China' evoked a vision of the exotic Far East. The Québécois in Montreal saw a rosy future. After that, Montreal became the most important harbour for trade, the centre of commercial life and shipbuilding in the east. But the vision was doomed. The English already dominated trade here, and now they shunted the Québécois to the fringes of the economy. Children of the French began to enter the law or the Church, or local politics, no longer favouring commerce or manufacturing. The canal was, pun intended, a watershed for the French.”

Peter had little time for the politics of resentment — whether in Quebec or Scotland — but he did recognize the academic's need to deliver a lecture before the discussion could rebalance itself. He eased the conversation back to his mission.

“Can you tell me about Montreal during the Civil War period?” Peter said.

Renaud reached behind him and pulled a shiny-jacketed hardback from a bottom shelf:
The American Civil War and Quebec
, by Pascal Renaud. He prestidigitated another, thinner book and handed it over, too:
L'Histoire du Canal Lachine
, also authored by him.

“Half of the city was pro-Confederacy, half pro-Union,” he began, “with the newspapers split about evenly. Some of the French feared Uncle Sam while others took encouragement from the spirit of the breakaway Confederacy. Shall I continue? When the North won, there was no appetite for turning the victorious armies against the Canadas. That left the way clear for Canada's national independence in 1867. The Anglophones swept aside all hopes for Quebec self-reliance, as they always have. A dead end, just like the Lachine Canal out there. Our history inscribes circles of frustrated ambitions.”

Peter tolerated the dogma, and the professor's tone was benign enough. But his next statement took Peter by surprise.

“The Booth documents?” Renaud said, and smiled.

How did the professor learn about the letters? Nicola had emphasized the secrecy underpinning her negotiations. The strong beer and Peter's jet lag sent his thoughts whipsawing. He had to admit that he had little idea of the motives of Hilfgott, Greenwell, or even the High Commissioner in Ottawa regarding the letters. And then there was the elusive girlfriend.
Where do you fit in all this, Professor?

Peter jerked back to the surface. “Does
everybody
know about the letters?”

“The police have interviewed me several times,” Renaud said. “First while I was soaking wet.” He shrugged. “The second time, the next day, they asked if I had seen any papers floating in the canal. The Sûreté detectives vaguely mentioned documents from the Civil War period. An academic community is like a small village. I had heard rumours of the letters, but I said nothing to the detectives. The third time, it was a call from the presiding pathologist but he never mentioned the papers.”

“That night, you called the police from . . . where?”

“I swam with the young man to the bottom of the bridge and got him onto the platform at the base of the pillars. I knew Monsieur Carpenter was dead but I tried
CPR
. He did not respond. I had my cell phone with me and called 9-1-1. Then I tried to revive him again.”

Peter was sorry for the opprobrium implied in his next question, but he asked anyway. “You carry your mobile with you when you go walking in the middle of the night?”

“I am a university lecturer. Believe it or not, I have to be on call, like a doctor. Or a policeman.”

“I'm sorry. I wasn't insinuating anything.”

The academic continued. “They pulled me out of the water and asked me a bunch of questions. Only then was I allowed to change my clothes. When I returned they had already placed the body on a stretcher and put out the
rubans
, the yellow tape. Inspector Deroche asked me a couple more questions. Not very astute questions, either. After they finally left, that was when I came back and was able to retrace the route Carpenter took from the curb to the canal.”

“That's useful,” Peter said in a coaxing tone. “Was it your impression that he crawled across the grass, or that he stayed on his feet?”

“I am no expert, but it was pretty clear,
tiens
, that the car tossed him onto the grass. But, you know, I think he got up and walked, with great difficulty, towards the canal. The way the grass was disturbed. He may have been trying to get to the sidewalk. Why would he do that?”

Peter knew that Carpenter had been trying to get to the false safety of the shadows, but he simply stated, “Because he was fleeing the driver of the car.”

Renaud's grandfather clock in the hall chimed eleven o'clock, and the cross-Atlantic time shift suddenly caught up to Peter. Much as he was enjoying Renaud's company, he needed to take his leave. He thanked his host for the books, which he promised to read.

“What is your schedule for the next few days, Peter?” Renaud said.

“Visit the Sûreté tomorrow, then I fly home with the body the day after that.”

“It's too bad you aren't staying longer, to get to know the city.”

“You're not the only one who wants me to stay on, but I have to leave.”

“How about tomorrow? I can show you the Montreal of John Wilkes Booth. I have a class in the morning but a late lunch?”

“I would like that. Should we meet here?”

“I'll come to you. At the police station?”

Peter fished out a note from his wallet. “The morgue is in the Sûreté Headquarters building.”

“Rue Parthenais. I will meet you out front about 1 p.m.”

But Peter recalled the other squib of paper in his wallet, and took it out. “I forgot, I want to drop by the funeral home and make sure the shipping arrangements are in shape. But I should be all done by one o'clock.”

He showed Renaud the address, and Renaud nodded. “Okay. I'll pick you up there instead. It will give me the opportunity to pay my respects as well.”

Renaud walked Peter over to the market to hook him up with a taxi. They shook hands. Peter turned to his new friend. “Did you see a young woman near the canal at any point that night, Pascal?”

“A woman? No, not at any time.”

Peter returned to the Bonaventure and collapsed on the bed, not bothering to pull back the comforter. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he noticed the blinking red light again. He turned on the overhead and pressed a button on the phone console. A message had been recorded at 11 p.m.: “Chief Inspector, it is Inspector Deroche again. Once again, I am sorry to have missed you. Exciting times, and I am glad you are here. I do hope that you will join me for our excursion.”

None of this made any sense, right down to the slightly British inflection of the last phrase, “I do hope that you will join me.” Peter killed the red light and set his wristwatch alarm for eight o'clock in the morning, Montreal time.

The phone chimed again a short twenty minutes later. Peter knocked the receiver onto the carpet and when he answered heard the same resonant baritone. “Inspector Deroche.”

“Inspector?” Peter managed to say. “To what do I owe . . . What time is it?”

“One thirty-three.”

“Give me a minute,” Peter said. He got up, poured himself a glass of water, and returned to his bedside. “Inspector, where exactly are you calling from?”

“Monsieur Cammon, I can't actually tell you the address. I'm in a police vehicle.”

Peter was tired and wanted nothing more than to end the conversation. “Are you working a stakeout, Inspector?”

“Very good, sir. Yes, one of our local biker gangs. I wish you were here.”

Peter suddenly understood. Frank Counter had mentioned that the Sûreté policeman was obsessed with organized crime, in addition to having the Carpenter murder on his plate. For unknown reasons, Deroche expected him to participate in a stakeout — not the current one, but the following night. Did Deroche ever sleep?

“So you are calling me . . . why?”

“I'm just sitting here watching a warehouse. Thought I'd verify your availability for tonight's stakeout. Chance to discuss the Carpenter affair, and other interesting things.”

“Aren't we scheduled to meet at ten at the Dr. Lowndes's office?”

“Yes.”

Flummoxed, Peter could only say, “Is there a particular reason you want me to join you on the stakeout tomorrow . . . tonight?”

“Mr. Counter tells me you knew the Krays. I want to hear all about that.”

So that was it. Frank Counter had dropped a reference to the Kray twins, the notorious East End gangsters.
My reputation precedes me,
Peter thought. There were plenty of fetishists out there, civilians and cops too, who romanticized Reggie and Ronnie Kray, both dead now, and found them as charismatic as Dillinger and as mysterious as Jack the Ripper. Tell people you knew them, or worked with the Murder Squad that brought them down, and you might as well have said that you knew Bonnie and Clyde or the Wild Bunch.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Inspector,” Peter said.

“No, I'll see you later this morning.”

A minute after Peter arrived at the morgue in the Sûreté building on Rue Parthenais, the chief pathologist himself came out to greet him. It was never a good idea to keep guests waiting too long in a morgue, Peter supposed. Dr. Lowndes was tall and white-haired, and underneath his lab coat he sported a striped pink shirt and navy blue tie. They shook hands and introduced themselves.

“I expected Inspector Deroche to join us,” Peter said.

“Ah,” said Lowndes, “the young inspector is a busy man. Out chasing various Rizzutos, I imagine.”

“Rizzutos. The crime family?” Peter said.

The pathologist raised an eyebrow, surprised at Peter's familiarity with the local mob. “That's right. They keep dying and Deroche keeps watching the coffins go by.”

“Why does the body count stress him?” Peter said, trying not to sound gossipy or judgemental.

“Because the procession never stops! He's distressed because there seems to be an unlimited supply of mafiosi in this city. How do you measure progress when the challenge is Sisyphean?”

The man's a philosopher
, Peter concluded. Lowndes ushered Peter into his office. Peter recognized the Carpenter autopsy analysis in the clutter on the desk.

“Deroche takes the burden of organized crime on his own shoulders,” the doctor continued. “That's all he is interested in. A nostalgist. Thinks he's Eliot Ness. The Cosa Nostra factions in Montreal are currently battling for control and, for now, the Rizzutos are on the receiving end. I personally have dealt with five on the slabs in the back, though a few others have just disappeared. Deroche leads a task force on the killings. You understand?”

“Young Inspector Deroche has ambitions?” Peter said.

He nodded. “Deroche feels responsible for the entire mob in his hometown. Me, I say the only thing worse than a bureaucrat who does too little is one who does too much.”

Peter moved quickly to address the double-barrel cause of death asserted in Lowndes's autopsy report. “Why did you put down both homicide and drowning in the report?”

At that exact moment, Inspector Deroche rushed in. He was all smiles. He had a round, boyish face that gave a first impression of immaturity, although his caramel baritone rendered him older and more authoritative.

“Chief Inspector! We finally meet.” He at once turned to Lowndes. “Did I hear homicide and drowning?”

Lowndes clearly wasn't intimidated by policemen, not in his own domain of the dead. He hefted the John Carpenter folder, like a butcher might present a cut of steak, and addressed Peter directly, almost as if Deroche weren't present. “You and I have been at this game many years, Mr. Cammon. Most of the time our task is to simplify. What finished off the victim? Was there intent to kill? But sometimes the reductive approach won't do.” He threw a conciliatory glance at Deroche. “We agreed that hit-and-run wouldn't suffice.”

“I wanted to keep our options open for later charges, crim neg, for example,” Deroche stated.

“Future charges aren't my concern,” said Lowndes. “But I certainly supported ‘homicide' and ‘drowning.' At least we didn't settle on ‘death by misadventure.'”

Peter suppressed a smile. Every student of British criminology loved that ancient term, which coroners and constables could always agree on: what could be a better catch-all than “death by misadventure”?

Deroche suddenly seemed to lose interest, even though his smile did not contract a millimetre. He came over and shook Peter's hand.

“So! I will pick you up at midnight in front of your hotel.” With that, he rushed out.

Lowndes grinned and shook his head, but remained unruffled as he turned back to Peter. “If my assessment of cause of death is wrong, I'll put the blame on the Rizzutos. ‘Mafia hit.' Deroche might like that.”

Peter was glad to have the pathologist to himself again. “Tell me what you can about the car. Deroche hasn't found it yet.”

“First, notice that Carpenter was struck by the automobile from behind. It arced him forward, face down onto the grass.”

“Squarely in the back?” Peter asked.

“Back of the legs and buttocks. There are lateral impressions on his thighs that show the grill of the car hit him squarely. There were no paint flakes on his clothing, though they might have washed off in the canal.”

Peter imagined Carpenter's agony.
You were hit square on, with heavy force. Speed. You had no time to turn, because you didn't hear it coming. Look for a well-tuned, i.e., late-model car. A rental.

At the risk of repeating what's in your report,” Peter continued, “would the initial blow have eventually killed him?”

“His pelvis was cracked — ischium, sacrum, and coccyx. He was catapulted onto the grass — hard. Grass stained his chin. But adrenaline and panic are powerful stimulants.”

“Could he have stayed on his feet all the way to the canal?”

“The damage to his internal organs would have proved fatal within minutes. But he did get to his feet, briefly. He crawled most of the way.”

At first, you were fleeing your killer. The driver took a minute, or two or three, to stop, turn off the engine, walk towards you. He was after you.

Peter pointed a finger at a description in the file. “What do the abrasions on his hands tell us?”

“He clawed his way for some distance, but not the full way. It was fear that drove him forward. Broken nails, raw pads on his fingertips. Inspector, I contacted the witness, Professor Renaud. He heard Carpenter call out before hearing a splash. When Carpenter cried out again in the water, Renaud was able to find him. Otherwise, it was pitch black in the canal and he wouldn't have seen Carpenter from above.” Lowndes seemed to grow weary. “Yes. He did drown. His lungs were full. Full of blood and filthy water.”

Who helped you into the water, Johnny?

The interview was winding down.

“Just for the record, Doctor, I talked to Professor Renaud. He described the drowning man as trying to say something.”

Lowndes shook his head. “Blood and water, Inspector. He was in the process of drowning. Little chance of forming words. And his rescuer would never have been able to revive him. In fact, Renaud tried and failed.”

“May I ask why you called Renaud directly to confirm this, rather than relying on Inspector Deroche's notes?”

“Ah, Inspector,” Lowndes said, “I don't trust Deroche. Renaud is a separatist and the young inspector hates separatists.”

Peter arrived by taxi at the funeral home exactly on time for his appointment with Monsieur Parrish, the director. He counted on a quick visit to confirm that the coffin and paperwork had been straightened away. He looked forward to lunch with Pascal and a tour of the old city.

He sat down in the waiting room and fished out the professor's history of Montreal during the Civil War. He was still at the first years of the conflict, 1861 through 1862, when the urbane Monsieur Parrish entered.

“What are you reading?” Parrish said, proffering a manicured hand. Peter looked up and saw a very old man, who smiled with warmth and sincerity. The mortician exuded smartness, his black suit as much the stockbroker's as the body broker's. Peter had dealt with many undertakers and they fascinated him, with their specialized knowledge of death and its final indignities. Morticians were great sources of insight into foul play. Peter displayed the cover of the history and Parrish responded with an unimpressed murmur.

“Everything is ready, Chief Inspector, but I regret that I cannot show you the body.”

He conducted Peter down the main hallway of the funeral home to a wide set of stairs to the basement. At the lower level the air became cold and infused with the inextinguishable residue of formalin. Parrish kept the storage room brightly lit. The dead man's coffin lay on a gurney, amongst a mah-jong array of empty coffins. The consul general's office had paid for the mid-priced burnished mahogany model. What stood out was the ugly blue, ribbon-like tape that had been laid across the lid. Worse, it was sticky tape, Peter noted, and removing it would certainly lift some of the mahogany polish from the lid. In a way, the desecration of the lacquer finish was a moot issue, since John Carpenter, as Peter knew from Joe, would be transferred at Heathrow into a new walnut coffin. Peter nonetheless experienced a queasy feeling at this wasteful expense. (He must have been more jet-lagged than he knew, for he had a sudden vision of the walnut box floating empty on the ocean, like Queequeg's coffin.)

Parrish pointed out a mechanism that looked to Peter like just another latch. On closer view, he saw the misshapen keyhole in the coffin lid.

“Regulations require special sealing procedures for shipping outside the country. The tape is mandatory. We should lock it, too. Few people know that a casket lid can be locked. They think, Why bother? But the Egyptians did it and we certainly can, too.”

He held up an elbowed metal bar with a six-sided head, similar to an Allen wrench. Even though it was only a few inches long, Peter pointed out that airport security would never allow him to carry it on the plane with him.

“You're right, Inspector. Forget the wrench. No need to lock it under the circumstances. Most often, believe it or not, these days no one accompanies the body home, and I thought I'd entrust a key to you. But I don't want a minimum wage security screener with his cattle wand refusing to let you through at the gate.”

Peter liked the older man but he was venting unnecessarily. The shipping would be routine. Peter was confident that no one would need to open Carpenter's coffin.

“Listen, I want to thank you for coming, Chief Inspector,” Parrish said.

“Why do you say that?”

“It is helpful to us that you are taking the documents to the airport. It will help avoid last-minute hiccups with the officials at Air Freight. Sometimes we give the package to the relatives, but they usually become upset. Confronted by the bureaucracy of death.”

“I'll stay with the body at Freight until it is loaded,” Peter stated.

“Not strictly necessary,” the mortician said.

“I owe it to my colleague.”

The mortician placed his palm on the lid of the coffin and held it there for a long moment. He began to hum “Abide with Me.” It was a gesture of respect for the deceased and for Peter's role as Charon to the dead. And it was Parrish's benediction.

“I do have a few questions,” Peter said gently.

Parrish's smile turned mischievous. “Was Lowndes unable to answer them?”

Peter hesitated, but only because what came next implied a mild criticism of the pathologist. “No. Lowndes got it right — unless you tell me different. Carpenter died by drowning in the canal but would have perished from his injuries anyway. Internal injuries. What interests me now is how the young man struggled all that distance. It was a hundred feet to the water.”

“And Lowndes's explanation has not satisfied you?”