Le Salaire de la honte
Maxime Houde
(Chapter 4, p. 53-63)
I wanted to have a look at Emma's things. Knox thought she had the pictures and perhaps he hadn't looked everywhere during the search. But Armand and the police would spend part of the afternoon in her apartment, and I didn't want to run into them. I played house cleaner. That's all I could do to while away the time.
At four o'clock, I drove off. It was still raining. In the gloom, most drivers had switched their lights on. There were no patrol cars in the vicinity of the building. I found a parking place for the Studebaker, went through the passageway leading to the inner courtyard and entered. Going up to the second floor, I unlocked the door and slipped inside, closing it after me. I could barely make out the silhouette of the furniture.
I switched on a floor lamp and another one on a table near the bed. Everything had been left in a mess. I picked up the camera from the chest of drawers. The little door in the back had been ripped off, and the camera was empty.
"What are you doing here?"
Startled, I spun around. It was Armand. He was standing on the other side of the bed.
"Did I scare you?"
"No, I'm okay. What are you doing here?"
"I decided to stay, in case Emma came back. I was in the bathroom. Have you got any news?"
" No."
"She didn't call your office?"
"No, she didn't. The police came?"
"Yes, Mr. Coveleski. They were here a moment ago."
"And?"
"They had a look, they took some notes," he said vaguely.
"Was anything taken, finally?"
He shook his head, "no." Around him, the furniture looked like it belonged to a dollhouse.
"You didn't answer my question, Mr. Coveleski," he said.
"What question?"
"What you're doing here."
"I'm looking for something that might tell me where Emma has gone."
"Like what?"
"Anything."
"Oh, okay. Should I tell my parents, Mr. Coveleski?" he added, jumping the subject.
"Good question."
I hadn't thought of that. Better to wait. His parents could have done nothing but worry, which is not good for much, except ulcers. And I didn't want to draw Armand into the same nasty business I found myself in. It would certainly have happened if I had told him everything. I therefore said that for the time being it was better to wait. "Okay," he replied, and I began my search.
The living room/bedroom didn't tell me anything new. I'd already seen Emma's clothes. I checked the pockets, to no avail. I glanced at the little pots and bottles on the chest. Emma used Sno-Mist, the deodorant powder you can spray on, as the ads said, and her perfume was Chantilly. The only drawer that had not been emptied on the floor was the one with the underwear in it. Things inside had merely been pushed around and unfolded. Knox was prudish. I fully examined the drawer's contents. Emma wore black lace slips, matching her bras. Had I been the kind of man who thinks about these things, I would have expected her to wear white cotton underwear.
My next stop was the kitchen. I checked all the containers in the pantry: flour bag, biscuit box, a box of Robin Hood oatmeal. Nothing. I examined the contents of the trash bin. Emma had said she threw away the film that was in the camera. Perhaps the pictures Knox was looking for were on it. But no film. I dropped on all fours and checked under the fridge and under the stove. You never know. I only found dust bunnies.
Lastly, I visited the bathroom. Lifting the toilet tank lid, I found nothing interesting. I looked into the small medicine chest over the sink. It contained an aspirin bottle, like every medicine chest in the world, bandages, cough syrup, a thermometer. There was also a small bottle of Docteur Chase's little red nerve pills. I wondered what Emma was doing with those. She was never tense or on edge. Perhaps thanks to the doctor. In the trash, there were crumpled tissues and balls of cotton, but no film.
So, the pictures were not here. Even though I didn't really expect them to be, I felt like a chef whose soufflé hadn't risen. I went back to the living room/bedroom. Armand was sitting in a chair in a corner, staring at the door. Unmoving. He looked like a huge guard dog.
"I didn't find anything," I said before he asked. "Say, are you going to stay the night in here?"
"Yes, Why?"
"Nothing. I was only thinking that you would be better off in a hotel."
"Ah, you think so?"
He stared at me, looking vaguely confused and worried. He wanted someone else to decide for him. He was a big bumpkin lost in the big city.
"You got any money?"
"A little bit."
"We'll go have a bite and we'll find a hotel for you, not too expensive."
He stood up.
"Thanks, Mr. Coveleski," he said, embarrassed.*** I took him for supper at the Montreal Pool Room. After all that had happened, I had not had time for lunch, and my stomach was growling plaintively. I ate two hot-dogs with fries and a Coke, and my stomach shut up. As for Armand, he downed eight hot-dogs, two or three bites each, plus five big portions of fries and four Cokes. I'd never seen anything like it, and neither had the patrons sitting near our table, judging from the way they glanced at us.
I paid the bill and drove Armand to the Hotel Le Relais, close to the Champ-de-Mars subway station. It was clean and not too expensive, with a tavern on the ground floor, which could always be useful. I helped Armand with the formalities then accompanied him to his room on the first floor. I opened the only window and told Armand not to hesitate to call me at home, if need be. I gave him my home number. He thanked me a hundred times. "That's nothing" I said and I left. I was glad he was off my hands.
I went back to the Studebaker. The street was dark and empty. A light rain was falling. I got in and I slipped the key in the ignition.
An arm throttled me, raising my chin, the muzzle of a gun pressed against the side of my head.
"Hands up," a voice growled at my ear.
I obeyed. It was a hard voice, which would have commanded respect even if its owner had not been armed.
"The pictures. Go on, give them to me."
"I don't have them."
"You're lying!"
"No, I..."
"Where did you hide them?"
The arm raised my chin some more, brutally. My ass left the seat.
"Go on, talk," the voice snarled.
"I told you..."
"The pictures!"
I glanced at the rear-view mirror. I only a saw a bald head and a big pointed ear. It was neither Johnny or Potato Nose.
"Who are you working for?"
"None of your business," the voice growled. "Come on!"
"I'm curious, that's all."
"Talk, I said!"
"You haven't got a silencer on that gun."
"So what?"
"If you fire, you'll attract attention."
"Oh yeah? You see anyone around here, eh?"
I looked at the rear-view mirror. The street was empty... for the time being.
"Come on, talk!"
"I don't have the pictures. Why won't anyone believe me? I look like an honest man, don't I?"
"I fucking don't care what you look like."
"It's true, I'm telling you. I can't lie. When I play poker with friends, they always know when I'm bluffing, they see it on my face."
"Shut up!"
The arm tightened around my neck, the gun muzzle pressed painfully into my temple. A quick glance at the rear-view mirror: no one in sight. On the other side of the windshield, perhaps thirty meters away, a car speeded up towards Saint-Louis.
"What makes you think I've got the pictures?"
"He knows you have them," the voice said.
"Who's 'he'?"
"My boss."
"I think your boss have been misinformed."
"Come on, spit it out!"
"What? Here, in my car?" I said stupidly.
"Fuck, just tell me where they are!"
"It's true, about your boss. Not one of my hobbies, taking pictures. I prefer painting. I have paintings that might interest him, still lifes or..."
"You're gonna be a still life if you don't talk!"
"That's not what a still life is. It's a plate of grapes beside a flower pot."
Silhouettes appeared in the rear-view mirror. They'd just turned the corner and were walking towards the Studebaker
I was going to push the horn with both hands, but the revolver handle hit me on the head, interfering with my plan. That's the danger, when you try to delay someone's work, he can lose patience. But a knock on the head is better than a bullet in the brain.
I found myself lying on the seat, on my back, my legs under the dashboard. The sky was black and threatening on the other side of the windshield.
"You've got until tomorrow at three," the voice said. "I'll call you at your office. Not a word to anyone."
One of the car doors opened and closed. Feet, moving away, rather quickly, but not too quickly.
I grabbed the wheel and straightened up on the seat. I could have followed the unknown man, but I was shaking like a leaf. I was drenched in a cold and sticky sweat, I felt like taking a bath as soon as possible.
The silhouettes walked past the Studebaker. They belonged to some young people who were laughing and prattling on all at the same time as if they didn't have a care in the world.*** I drove home, an eye on the rear-view mirror, the other on the street. No one followed me, although it was hard to say; the cars all look alike at night. I was living in the chic Appartments The Court, in the west, near Notre-Dame. It was an old building that looked its age. The gas stove seemed to have been installed by the very first tenant, and the bathroom was so small that I couldn't hold out my arms without touching the walls. That was all I could afford.
Once inside I locked the door and put the chain in place, then went to the bathroom and turned on the bathtub faucets. While water was running, I checked the back of my head with a small mirror and the one above the sink. I saw nothing. But when I felt my skull my fingers touched something sticky, where my unexpected passenger had hit me. Some blood had begun coagulating. Carefully, I cleaned the back of my head with a washcloth dipped in cold water.
I stuck my hand in the tub. The water was not hot enough. I turned off the cold water and let the hot water run while I got my clothes off. After turning off the hot water, I slowly sunk into the tub, up to my neck.
I should have been unwinding, but instead I went over the events of the day. Telling everything to the police was a tempting idea, but it was risky. If Knox heard that I was going behind his back - he was the kind of man who had the means to get that kind of information - God only knows what he would do to Emma. I thought of Potato Nose's hairy hands and the pictures that sprang up in my mind were not very cheerful. I also thought of Comeau, which did nothing to help me relax.
And the bald man with the big pointed ear was in no mood to laugh either. Where did that one come from? Who was he working for? And why did this whole merry band want to get their paws on those pictures? I had no idea what they were or of the photographer's identity. Emma? Perhaps Emma. Knox did believe she had the pictures. But what could they show to interest Knox that much, and the boss of the bald man? Montreal scenery? What could be of interest for them in there? And how had they managed to hear of the existence of these pictures?
I washed and put my pyjamas on. All those thoughts, and the hot dogs, were giving me heartburn. I took a glass of water with some sodium bicarbonate in it, belched, and checked if the door and windows were well locked. And I went to bed, futilely looking for answers to my questions. It took longer than usual for me to fall asleep, but finally, I succumbed.
The next morning, I didn't exactly feel like bacon and eggs. In fact, I wasn't hungry at all. But I had to eat something. I swallowed a piece of toast and gulped down some coffee, and I turned the radio on, to keep me company. Above the sink, the window looked out on a sky heavy with grey clouds.
I went to my office, stopped at the newsstand for my daily pack of Grads.
"I thought about our talk the other day, Mr. Coveleski," Émile said. "And a good goalie is important too. Especially since the defence seems iffy to me."
"Iffy?
"The players are two slow."
"Give them a break, they skate backwards," I said, to cut the conversation short.
I went up to my office and sat down in Emma's chair in the waiting room, waiting for the phone to ring. At about ten o'clock, it did. Reaching out my arm, I took a deep breath and picked up.
"Hello?"
"Stan Coveleski? It's Fred Fillion."
I exhaled slowly between my teeth.
"I'm not disturbing you?"
"No, not at all."
"I'm calling you about your secretary."
"Any news?"
"No, nothing. We called people she knows in town. We interrogated everybody in her building. No one saw her. No one saw anything. She is now a missing person."
I bit my lip.
"I need some information, a picture too, if possible," Fillion added. "Can you come to the station?"
"You should talk to Armand. My day is going to be rather busy."
"Okay. Where can I get in touch with him?"
"Hotel Le Relais. Room 8."
There was a short silence while he wrote everything down.
"I'll call you if anything happens."
"All right."
"Can you give me your number? In case there's no answer at your office."
"Yes, of course."
I gave him my number, and we exchanged pleasantries civilities. I'd just put the receiver back in its cradle when it rang again. This time, it had to be Knox. I let the phone ring twice and picked up.
"Mr. Coveleski, please."
"It's me, Knox."
"Ah. How are you this morning?"
"Very well. Why should it be otherwise? No reason for that, is there?"
"No, no, of course not."
Silence. My fingers were gripping the phone as if I wanted to crush it dust.
"You have what I asked for?"
"Well, there was a small problem."
"A small problem," Know repeated.
"Uh-uh."
"I'm sure we'll find a solution, Mr. Coveleski. Every problem has a solution. Come see me, we'll talk about it."
"That's an idea," I said. "Where?"
"The White Palace. You know where it is?"
"Yes. In Lachine, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"It's open now?"
"No, of course not. Much too early."
"I'd prefer a place with people around."
"You are in no position to demand anything," Knox said, in a rather sharp tone of voice.
"That's true."
"I'll be expecting you. See you soon."
Click, the line went dead.
"See you soon," I said to no one.
I hung up and slowly unfolded my aching fingers...
© 2003 Éditions Alire & Maxime Houde
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