La Voix sur la montagne
Maxime Houde
(Excerpt from chapter 7, p. 57-67)
Despite the late hour, downtown was as busy as a beehive. The trams on Sainte-Catherine disgorged their passengers, cars followed one another in a single line, with all their lights on. A clamour of horns and tram bells melodiously rang out over the muted roar of cars and people. Night had fallen and revellers were drawn to the bright signs of El Morocco, The Downbeat or The Tic-Toc like bees to honey.
I drove through the grid of streets like a mouse in a labyrinth to finally end up in front of the Savoy. The noise hit me like a fist when I went in, a mix of people's voices and the music of the band perched on a narrow dais in a corner of the hall. I found my way between the tables to the bar padded with red leather. My eyes weren't yet accustomed to the smoke and I squinted reflexively. There was a large mirror behind the bar, reflecting the room, giving it deceptive dimensions. People were packed in like sardines.
I put an elbow on the alcohol-stained, cigarette-burned bar. The barman standing at the other end was wiping a gin glass. Seeing me, he put the glass in its place and came to me. He was not very tall, with a bony face and the bored look of all barmen.
"Good evening. What will you have, sir?"
"Whisky and soda."
With a nod, he went away.
I watched the band. I didn't know the bass player and the saxophonist, but the pianist was a familiar face. Roland Lavallée. I'd heard him play in another venue. As I watched him, I could see his hands leaping so fast on the keys that they didn't seem to touch them. He was nodding in time. Then his left hand went the full length of the keyboard, pursued by his right. Under the tables, dozens of legs were jumping. He could have had a legless cripple dancing.
The barman came back with my order. He put the glass on the bar, on a white paper napkin.
"The boss is in?"
"Yes, in his office."
"Thanks."
I turned away from him and watched the throng, sipping on my whisky and soda. There were the time-honoured solitary drinkers, elbows on the bar, looking bleakly at the bottom of their glasses, oblivious to all that was taking place around them. Couples were sitting at the tables. All the women but three had dates. Those three were sitting in the back, all dolled up, feeding themselves cigarettes and Singapore Slings.
A man suddenly walked through the tables to go to them. He walked stiffly and quickly, like he was pretending to be discreet but was not quite succeeding. He took his fedora off and leaned towards one of the girls, a well-endowed creature with russet hair. The girl smiled at him professionally, they exchanged a few words, the girl nodded and stood up. She went to the door, with the man on her heels. He was fingering the brim of his hat, looking straight ahead.
I went back to my whisky and soda. I don't know if it was because of all those couples in the room, but my thoughts soon drifted towards Kathryn. There had been a time when we often went to bars like the Savoy. We stayed there until late at night, especially on Saturdays, drinking, listening to the music. We didn't dance, we didn't hold hands. We just listened. The mere presence of the other was enough for each of us.
And now she was no longer there. The music suddenly seemed not as good. I ordered a second whisky and soda, even though I didn't really want it.
"Will you buy me a drink?" a voice said behind me.
I turned my head. The voice belonged to a blond, blue-eyed girl. She was wearing a dress that on the upper end suggested breasts fit to damn a saint and on the lower end revealed calves and ankles that were a bit on the skinny side. And she wore a ton of make-up; even the nails of the toes pointing through the front end of her high-heeled sandals had polish.
It was Sylvia Dufresne.
"Come on, Mr. Coveleski," she said, sliding onto the bar stool next to me. "Just one."
"OK, just one."
She put her purse on the bar and asked the barman for a Bloody Mary with a dollop of Tabasco sauce. Then she smiled at me, white teeth flashing.
"Fancy meeting you here."
"Indeed, I would never have thought I would meet you in such a place."
"I know I have no business being here," she said, hanging her head as if in shame.
"What did you tell your mother?"
"That I was going to the Orpheum with some girlfriends. I went to the house of one of them to change clothes and make myself up before coming here. If my mother hears I lied to her, she's going to be angry. Can you can keep a secret?"
"I can do that. But your mother will notice, Miss Dufresne: you won't be wearing the same clothes when you get home."
"No need to be too formal. That only goes for older people."
"As you wish, Sylvia."
"Right," she said. "And my mother won't know. She'll be in bed and fast asleep when I get home."
"Hum. Brilliant."
"Thanks," she smiled. "You got a cigarette?"
"You smoke?"
"Now and then."
I held out my pack of Grads. Coveleski, corruptor of youth. She took a cigarette and leaned towards my lighter, giving me a glimpse of her cleavage. Then she watched me through the smoke, eyes half-closed, while I lit my own cigarette.
"I like you, Mr. Coveleski," she said.
"I should not have offered you a drink but rather a pair of spectacles."
She laughed a bit too loud.
The barman came back with her Bloody Mary and my whisky and soda. She put her cigarette in an ashtray on the bar and brought the glass to her lips. The band was playing a quieter piece. The noise had abated in the room. I availed myself of the different ambiance to try and move my investigation forward.
"I had a very interesting conversation, yesterday afternoon," I said "With Dan Cloutier."
Sylvia looked at me, frowning.
"Dan Cloutier?"
"Your grandmother's ex-driver."
"Oh, yes," she said, switching her cigarette for her glass. "What did you talk about?"
"Your grandmother's necklace."
"So she did hire you to find it."
"Yes. Cloutier told me an amusing story," I said with the appropriate smile.
"What, what?" Sylvia said, enthusiastically curious.
"He told me you lured him to your bed."
I watched her. Her eyes widened as she took another drag on her cigarette. Either she was a good actress or she was really shocked. She blew the smoke through her nostrils, flicking her cigarette over the ashtray.
"He told you that?"
"Not exactly. He added some details, but I'll spare you."
She emitted a small sarcastic laugh.
"I'm the one who should have told you that story, Mr. Coveleski. Switching roles."
"Did he make advances?"
"More than that. One afternoon, I was sitting on the swing in my grandmother's yard. He came to me. He put an arm around my shoulders and said he just wanted a little kiss. He'd been drinking, his breath stank of alcohol. He tried to slip a hand under my sweater."
"What did you do?"
"I told him I would scream my head off if he didn't stop. He didn't stop. I screamed and Bertaud, the cook, came running. Cloutier stood up and left the yard, half-drunk, staggering. I'm glad my grandmother fired him. I was never comfortable with him."
She sipped her Bloody Mary. Which reminded me I hadn't touched my own glass. I brought it to my lips. Who had seduced whom? Despite what Sylvia was telling me, she was laying it on a bit too thick to convince me she was being truthful. Her hand lightly touched my arm.
"But let's not talk about that anymore, Mr. Coveleski. Would you like to be my date for the evening? We could go to Maurice's to eat and dance. I have pins and needles in my legs! "
I looked at her small red mouth, her breasts, her hips that her dress hugged so tightly. She was attractive, no doubt about that. But I felt it was somewhat upsetting that a girl her age dressed like that and went to nightclubs. Besides, I had work to do.
"No, thanks, I'm here on business."
I stubbed out my cigarette and pulled out from my pocket two one dollar bills which I slipped under my glass.
"Pity," she sighed theatrically.
"Another time, maybe."
"I hope so. Thank you for the Bloody Mary, Mr. Coveleski."
"My pleasure."
I made my way between the tables to the other end of the room. A rickety staircase led to the second floor. I walked up the stairs and followed the dark corridor that opened on the landing. The sounds of the band were muted here. I knocked on a door at the end of the corridor.*** "Come in, come in," said a tired voice.
I went in and closed the door behind me. The room was barely larger than a closet. The only furniture was two file cabinets, a desk and a ratty carpet. There was only one window, with no drapes, looking out on the brick wall of the next building, on the other side of the alley.
The man sitting behind the desk did not acknowledge my presence, keeping his nose in his papers. The smoke from a cigar burning in an ashtray next to his elbow rose lazily to the ceiling.
"Hello, Nick," I said.
He looked up and, recognizing me, looked down again at his papers.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't my old friend Coveleski, the police detective?"
"Just a PI now. I work for myself."
"Ah. Good for you."
Pictures of musicians who'd played the Savoy lined the walls. I looked at them as if I'd been interested. I knew several faces, but without being able to put a name to them.
Nothing happened for a while. Then Nick was annoyed by my silence and I felt him move behind me.
"What do you want?"
"I saw that business is going well, downstairs," I said. "Congratulations."
"Thanks. The competition is heavy."
"Hiring Roland Lavallée is a good way to keep ahead of your competitors."
"Yes. He's been playing to a full room all week long."
"He's the best piano player in town."
"I agree. But say, you're not here to talk about music."
I turned to him with my best smile. He remained impassive. He hadn't changed since our last encounter, two years earlier. A podgy face, curly hair glistening with cream, a hangdog look. A moustache as thin as a hair was drawn over his delicate little mouth. That was new. He looked like he belonged here like a missionary among a tribe of cannibals.
"I thought about you today, Nick."
"You don't say."
"I was thinking of the past, just like that, no particular reason, and the name Nick Tremblay came to my mind."
"Really."
"It's true. I wondered why I arrested you and even though I tried and tried..."
"You know perfectly well why," he interrupted.
"No, I forgot. Can you refresh my memory?"
He didn't believe me for a second "- and he was right - but he chose to play the game. He took his cigar in his right hand, took a drag, then put it back in the ashtray.
"I was with a gang. We stole relatively expensive things and we peddled them to pawnbrokers who didn't have a clue, of course. We loaned the money to people who needed it, at huge interest rates. If the police found out where the jewellery or silverware came from, it was the pawnbroker who was in trouble, not us."
I sat down near him on a corner of the desk.
"Simple, but ingenious."
"Yeah, thanks," he muttered.
"You asked your victims for money directly sometimes?"
"It happened. Everything was peachy until one of your men infiltrated our gang and set us up."
"You knew it couldn't last. Say, do you still see your little friends?"
Nick shook his head, took another drag on his cigar and put his right hand on the edge of the desk.
"Hmm. Pity."
"Why?"
"Well, you see, Nick, an old lady hired me to find a necklace that was stolen from her and there aren't many clues. It could be a professional job. I thought you could mention that necklace to your friends. One of them might have heard something, you never know."
"Sorry, I no longer do business with those people. Since the police broke up the gang, I've been a low-abiding citizen."
"Really?"
"I did six months inside. The toughest six months of my life. I don't want it to happen again."
Very nice speech. He only forgot one detail.
"And the three prostitutes downstairs? Are they part of the show?"
Nick turned away with a little smile
"What's so funny?"
"I don't like the way this conversation is going. It stinks to high heaven of blackmail."
"That sounds like a confession."
"I'm not confessing anything. I don't know what you're talking about."
"But of course you do. The three dolled up girls. I saw a guy leaving with one of them."
"Maybe they knew one another and had a date," Nick said innocently.
I laughed. That was a good one.
"Come on, Nick, come on. How does it work, your little gig? They work for you? Or you share the money half and half with their pimp?"
We stared at one another for a moment in silence. He was cornered and he knew it. Then his right hand drifted to the edge of the desk. I took the cigar from the ashtray and crushed it on his hairy hand. Nick squealed and brought his hand to his lips to lick the burn.
"You don't think very highly of me, do you, Nick? What are you hiding under your desk? An alarm, to alert your bouncer, is that it?"
He nodded, glaring at me.
"The police would like to know about the three prostitutes. They're hookers alright, don't try to outsmart me. You'll go back inside for sure if somebody were to tell them. And you don't want to go back, do you?"
"No, I don't."
"Good. Look, here's what we're gonna do, you and me. You'll help me nicely like I asked you a moment ago, and I won't tell the police about what's going on here. What do you think, Nick? Deal?"
"Do I have a choice?" he replied sarcastically.
"You've got it down pat. The necklace is a heart-shaped pendant hanging on a fine chain. Both gold. The heart is studded with diamonds. It's quite an expensive piece of jewellery. Okay?"
"Yeah, okay."
I stood up.
"You didn't have to do that," Nick said.
"You just had to cooperate instead of trying to be smart."
I pulled out one of my business cards - I brought it especially for the occasion - and placed it in front of him.
"You can contact me at this number. And hurry it up, I'm not the patient type."
He nodded, not looking me in the eyes. I left his office and followed the corridor to the staircase, thinking about my tough guy performance. It was Oscar material...
© 2000 Éditions Alire & Maxime Houde
To find out what happens next...
