Le Prix du mensonge
Maxime Houde
(Chapter 2, p. 12-21)
It had snowed more heavily in Joliette than in Montreal and, judging by the landscape, the authorities had been caught short. Snow had merely been pushed back to the sides of the streets. Cars were parked at various odd angles around what the inhabitants called the market place. Streets had not been cleared in the boroughs. There were just the two ruts made by the tires, and the snow brushing the belly of the Studebaker had a somewhat lugubrious sound.
Our hosts lived very close to Lanaudière Park. Their house was one of the most beautiful in the neighbourhood. It was a low building, very long, which seemed crushed beneath its gabled roof. It was perched on a small hill, half hidden by a hedge of dwarf cedar trees. These had been clipped off and, under the snow, they looked like huge vanilla ice cream cones. You arrived at the door by a staircase with only one handrail.
I parked the car in front of the house, with the two front tires in a snow bank. Some kind soul had cleared the front steps. We walked up and Kathryn rang the doorbell. After what felt like an eternity because of the cold, a small girl opened the door. She barely came up to the door handle. Her hair was cut in bangs over her big brown eyes.
"Is your mommy home?" Kathryn asked.
The girl nodded.
"Will you go fetch her, please? Hurry, you'll catch cold."
A voice was suddenly heard inside the house.
"Justice? Who's there?"
The door opened completely and a woman looked at us one by one. She beamed when she saw Kathryn. This was Clémence, obviously. She told us not to stay there, we'd catch our death. In the hallway, I took off my overshoes and unbuttoned my coat, while the two women got reacquainted.
Clémence Durand was a very small woman. Her light skin was freckled all over and she had emerald eyes underneath long red lashes. She was that kind of woman who never looked young, but on the other hand seems never to grow old. Kathryn made the introductions. Clémence Durand took my fedora and coat, asking if we'd made a good trip, if the road had been cleared, if it was colder here than in Montreal.
The sound of voices brought in other occupants of the house: two children, a boy and a girl. No sign of Jacques.
"And where is the man of the house?" I asked our hostess.
"In his office, with Mr. Faucher. If you want to meet with him at once..."
"I wouldn't want to disturb him."
"No, it's all right, Julien will show you in. Julien..."
I followed the boy upstairs. There was a carpeted hallway at the top of the stairs, lined on both sides with doors, looking like a hotel corridor. Loud voices were ringing at the other end, behind the last door. They belong to two men who didn't sound like they were in the best of moods.
Julien knocked on the door. There was a sudden silence.
"Dad?" Julian asked.
"What?" one of the voice said brusquely.
"The private investigator is here."
"He's with you?"
"Yes."
The owner of the voice sighed, almost grunted.
"All right... might as well send him in."
The boy opened the door for me, like a servant, and I went in. A mahogany desk presided over the room. There were papers and books everywhere, on the tables, on the chairs, on the shelves of the bookcase that lined a whole wall. The leather chairs looked expensive. The room was gloomy with dark carpets and drapes that gave it an almost ecclesiastical feel.
While I was taking in the decor, the two men were observing me. The one behind the desk was in his shirt sleeves and his tie was loose. He had a toothbrush moustache, with dark shadows under his blue eyes. He had rounded shoulders, and he carried a few too many kilos, all above his belt buckle.
The other man was still wearing his suit jacket and his tie was in place, impeccably tied. He asked the man in shirt sleeves:
"What's this about a detective, Jacques?"
"None of your business," Jacques grunted.
"He's here to investigate the Count, is that it? That's what you hired him for, say it."
"Well, yes, if you absolutely must know."
Jacques Durand turned back to me.
"Stan, yes? Have a seat, make yourself at home. This is Georges Faucher, the town notary."
I nodded to the notary and sat in the armchair that my host pointed to.
"If you believe that Mayor Laporte will pay for this..." Mr. Faucher said.
"I don't expect him to pay a damned cent. He's infatuated with the Count too."
"The mayor, infatuated with the Count!" Maitre Faucher guffawed.
"He no longer sees straight, like everybody here."
"Do you want to know something, Jacques?"
"What?"
"You won't like it, but it's the truth."
"OK, go on, say it," Durand retorted with a defiant look on his face.
"You're jealous of the Count."
"Jealous? Me? Are you crazy?"
The notary had a little smile on his face. A tall man, ramrod straight, he made me think of a retired Hollywood actor. His features had begun to go slack, but he still looked good. His coal black hair had a touch of grey at the temples, which some women find attractive.
"Oh, don't fib, Jacques. You've always dreamed of being in the mayor's good graces, it would be the best way of getting a foot in the door of city hall. You would like to go into politics, wouldn't you? But you can no longer afford it. Being his right arm, you could pull some strings and it wouldn't cost you a cent."
"You've got some nerve saying that to me!" Durand retorted.
"I told you you wouldn't like it."
"After what I did for your boy, that's how you thank me?"
"I didn't know I had to return the favour. I thought you were just doing your job as a conscientious lawyer."
Durand gritted his teeth, his face colouring, especially with reds. Did I drive almost two hours to watch two grown men squabbling?
"I'm not asking you to return any favours," Durand said. "I just thought I could count on your support."
"To do what? Convince Mayor Laporte to drop the Count for you, is that it?"
"Open your eyes, damn it! He has him eating out of his hand."
"Come on, he's not eating out of anybody's hand. You're just imagining things, Jacques. Go for a walk around the block. Some fresh air will clear your mind. You spend too much time inside."
"You're just like all the others, Georges, you're not good for anything anymore."
"I beg your pardon!" Faucher exclaimed indignantly.
Jacques Durand plunked himself down in his chair and swivelled, turning his back on us. In a calm voice, he told the notary:
"You're infatuated with the Count too. Get out of here."
"What have you got against him anyway? Do you have proof he's swindling us, as you claim? I thought I was exaggerating when I said you're jealous, but I'm beginning to believe I was dead right."
"Get out of here!" Durand shouted. "Didn't you hear me the first time? I never want to see your face around here again."
Faucher stared for a while at Durand's head, visible over the back of the armchair. Then he turned on his heels and stiffly left the room.
Another moment passed. I killed time by lighting a Grads. Then my host asked:
"Did you like the show, Stan?"
"All that was missing was a tap dance routine."
He swivelled his chair back to face me. He was slumping in it, playing with his lower lip. He wore a big ring on his right ring finger. His face no longer looked like a tomato.
"We don't see eye to eye, Georges and I."
"I noticed. Pity he's gone, I could have asked him a few questions."
"You'll take care of that soon enough. Kathryn told you about the situation, I gather?"
"Briefly. Why do you think the Count of Fontenailles has crooked intentions?"
"I don't like his face."
"Kind of lame as an argument."
"You say what you think," Jacques Durand said with a grin, "I like that. We'll get on fine."
I wasn't so sure of that, but I still replied:
"There shouldn't be any problems, I'm a friendly kind of guy. So?"
"The count was prepared. He had a plan. He had the blueprints of his development project in hand and he went directly to the mayor to give him his little song and dance."
"He's not a count, in your opinion?"
"A count, my ass," Durand declared. "The way he talks... nobody talks like that, not even a count or a duke or I don't know what. He's like an actor saying lines."
"What's the story with this real estate deal?"
Durand made a face. Playing with his ring with its "JD" monogram he answered:
"I don't quite know. Something about prefabricated houses... He wants to build a factory outside the town to make the panels. Georges has all the details."
"The notary is close to the mayor?"
"He's his lapdog, you mean," Durand replied disdainfully.
He gave his chair a quarter tour, put his feet on the corner of a small table and looked out the window.
"If you want a drink, help yourself. Everything you need is in the bookcase."
"I don't usually drink whisky after lunch."
"How do you plan on proceeding? Are you going to go directly to see the Count?"
"No, too risky," I said, puffing on my Grads. "If he's an impostor, he might get scared and run."
"That's what I thought."
"Tell me, is there a lot of money involved in this affair?"
"You can say that again! The Count hasn't got a cent. He says he has millions in the bank but can't touch them because of a technicality.... Anyway, he convinced the mayor to partially finance his factory, and the mayor immediately called Quebec City. The land where the Count wants to build his factory belongs to the provincial government. The mayor got a green light and asked the municipal council to loan the Count the money in the petty cash fund. They're going to vote on Monday."
I thought it over for a minute. The Count was apparently a good salesman.
"I'm going to ask some questions here and there, try to learn more about this Count. Still, I'll have to meet him at some point. Do you have something on him that could be useful to me?"
"No, nothing."
"You didn't try to learn more about him?"
"Well, of course, what do you think?" Durand retorted. "But everybody is hypnotized by this guy, even the parish priest gets all mushy when he talks about him. And no one wanted to answer my questions."
Perhaps no one wanted to cooperate because they didn't like his manners. I wasn't a big fan myself.
"I'll look into it."
"That's what I pay you for. How much do you charge, by the way?"
"Fifteen dollars a day, plus expenses."
"No problem."
"Don't you want to know if I'm worth it?"
"I've seen your name once or twice in the newspapers. Coveleski, that's not a name you forget easily... Besides, I don't have time to shop around for a private investigator. Should we get to work?"
"We?"
"I'll be your guide," Durand said, hoisting himself out of his armchair.
I stubbed out my cigarette and we went downstairs. The women were sitting in the big living-room one half of which was the dining-room. A coffee set was spread on a table at knee level. The furniture was made of dark wood and white lace draped the back of the chairs and the tables. Everything looked old and expensive. A window almost as wide as the wall looked out on a snowed-covered flowerbed in front of the house.
"Coffee, gentlemen?" Clémence Durand asked.
"No," her husband muttered.
I too declined, albeit more politely.
"What did you say to Georges for him to leave like that?" she asked. "He looked furious."
"I said he was hypnotized by the Count and told him to get the fuck out of here."
"That's not very nice."
"Yeah, well, the truth is hard to hear sometimes. By the way, thanks a lot for sending Stan up to my study."
She stiffened on the sofa.
"He wanted to see you," she said, raising her voice, "What's the problem?"
"You could have waited for Georges to leave."
"Why? Was your meeting top secret?"
"No, but as it is now, he'll go blab to the mayor and he could try to put a spoke in Stan's wheel!"
"To listen to you, you'd think they're in league together. Aren't you exaggerating a bit?"
"Bah, you don't know the whole story..."
Clémence Durand bent her head, a fleeting smile on her lips. She said more softly:
"I would know a bit more if you talked to me once in a while."
"This is not a good time!" her husband said, looking annoyed.
"It's never a good time."
Embarrassed, Kathryn was staring into her cup. Since I didn't have a cup, I stared at the carpet.
"Come on, Stan, let's go," Durand said.
He grabbed me by elbow and dragged me to the hallway.
"Right," his wife muttered, "do what you always do, leave."
He pretended he didn't hear, but his face gave him away...
© 2005 Éditions Alire & Maxime Houde
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