The Delicate Storm. Giles Blunt
kinda worlds around in there like a clothes dryer.’
‘Robert?’
‘What?’
‘Just tell us what you’ve got.’
‘Okay. Day before I pretended to rob the bank?’
‘You took money,’ Delorme said. ‘That isn’t pretending.’
‘Okay, okay. Day before. I’m down in Toronto visiting my girlfriend.’
Cardinal made a mental note – when he had a lot of time – to hear more about this girlfriend. She would have to be either a lunatic or a saint.
‘I’m down in T.O. to see my girlfriend, and I decides to go out one night to a bar. You know, just a night out on my own. So I goes over to Spadina – you know the Penny Wheel?’
‘All too well.’ Before Algonquin Bay, Cardinal had spent ten years on the Toronto force. Every Toronto cop knew the Penny Wheel. It was a dank basement on Spadina, the kind of red-vinyl dive that only a criminal could love. The remarkable thing was that, unlike practically every other square foot of Toronto, this particular dive had managed to remain utterly unchanged.
‘So, I’m over at the Penny Wheel, when who comes in but Thierry Ferand. You know Thierry – he’s like a trapper and shit.’
‘I know Thierry.’ Ferand was indeed one of the local fur trappers. Twice a year he came in out of the woods to sell his wares at the fur auction. Every time he did, he was arrested for drunk and disorderly, and often some variation of assault. There were rumours he occasionally did some work for the local version of the Mafia, but nothing had ever been proved. He was a small guy, but mean with it, and sneaky. When he was upset, his filthy little hand would sprout brass knuckles.
‘Well, me and Thierry go way back.’
‘To Kingston Pen if I recall correctly.’
‘Wow! How’d you know that? You guys’re amazing. Anyways, I see Thierry sitting in a corner by himself, so I go over and we start shooting the breeze. And Thierry is really drunk, eh? I mean really drunk. And he starts telling me things.’ Wudky stepped right up to the bars of his cell and peered both ways along the corridor. Then, in a tone implying information of national import, he said, ‘Big things.’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just a little murder. Would you be interested in that?’ Whatever else Robert Henry Hewitt may have been, he was easily the world’s worst actor. Cardinal had difficulty keeping a straight face. He was afraid even to glance at Delorme in case they both broke up.
‘Why, yes, Robert. We would be interested in murder.’
‘And you’ll tell the Crown guy I helped you out?’
‘That’s it, I’m leaving.’ Cardinal started for the door.
‘Wait! Wait! Okay, okay! I’ll tell you. You’re such a hard-ass. I’ve met guys in stir that’re more calmer.’ As if to clear Cardinal’s impatience from his brain, Wudky inserted a finger into his own ear and reamed it out. ‘So, what I was saying: Thierry is really drunk and he starts telling me this stuff he knew about that like really scared him, you know? He finishes like his tenth beer or so, and he’s leaning all over the table and he tells me what happened to a friend of his. Guy named Paul Bressard. He’s another trapper, eh? Turns out Paul Bressard got himself murdered. Some guy from out of town he owed money to. Could be Mafia, maybe, a godfather or something. You ever rent that movie?’
‘Could we just stick with the story here, Robert?’ Bressard had indeed, though long ago, been charged with aggravated assault after half killing a man who owed money to Leon Petrucci. Perhaps it was the chilling sound on the tapes from the wiretap of Petrucci’s voice synthesizer (legacy of a fondness for Cuban cigars) telling Bressard he’d be well rewarded for ‘explaining their position,’ but the jury had got cold feet and neither Bressard nor Petrucci served a day. It was just possible his mob connections had somehow come back to bite Bressard.
‘I’m telling you. This guy – some bad guy – comes up to Algonquin Bay from out of town and kills Bressard, and Thierry says he knows where the body is.’
Cardinal turned to Delorme. ‘We receive any missing persons report on Paul Bressard?’
‘Not that I know of. I’ll go check the board.’
‘Okay, Robert, where’s the body?’
‘Do I have to know that before you help me out?’
‘Let’s just say it would add to your chances. And how did Thierry Ferand happen to know where the so-called body was buried in the first place?’
‘I don’t know! I didn’t ask!’ Wudky cocked his head to one side like the RCA dog and scratched his scalp. ‘Well, maybe he did tell me, only I can’t remember. I had a few beers myself. But I’m telling you about a murder you didn’t know about, right? The Crown’ll like take that under consignment, right?’
‘I’ll check it out,’ Cardinal said. ‘But I hope you’re not wasting my time.’
‘Oh, no. I would never do a thing like that, eh?’
Cardinal drove out past his father’s place to the northern limit of Algonquin Bay, where he made a left onto Ojibwa Road. There were only three houses on Ojibwa – two decrepit bungalows and Bressard’s brick split-level. Even in the mist it looked like any other middle-class suburban residence; there was nothing about it to tell the passerby that the owner made his living the way generations of his forefathers had, by trapping animals for their fur.
Paul Bressard himself was another matter. He was just coming out of the house as Cardinal swung into the drive, and he looked anything but suburban. Fur trappers are a breed apart, with a tendency to eccentricity, even wildness, that makes them stand out in a place as conservative as Algonquin Bay. But even among that flamboyant species Bressard was a man who made an impression. He swept down the front steps in a wide-brimmed beaver hat and a floor-length raccoon coat, even though it was too warm for either. He had a handlebar moustache that drooped past his chin and deep-set brown eyes that were so dark as to be almost black. He turned those eyes on Cardinal now and, recognizing him, broke into a grin that would have done credit to a movie star.
‘You working for Natural Resources now? Coming to nail me for some out-of-season crap?’
‘No, I heard you were dead, that’s all. Figured I’d stop by to make sure.’
Bressard frowned. Eyebrows the size of squirrel tails met in mid-brow.
‘I hate to alarm you,’ Cardinal went on. ‘It’s just that there’s this rumour going round that you’re deceased. Guess it could be the start of an urban legend.’
Bressard blinked exactly twice, taking this in. Then once again he flashed his movie-star grin. ‘You came all the way out here just to see if I was okay? I’m touched, man. I’m really, really touched. How was I suppose to be dead?’
‘Story is, some guy from out of town – maybe one of those nasty tourists you take hunting – took it into his head to kill you and bury you in the woods.’
‘Well, I don’t see too many tourists this time of year. And as you can see, I’m still alive.’
‘I know – you’re not even missing. It’s disappointing.’
Bressard laughed.
‘These rumours happen to all the greats,’ Cardinal said. ‘At least now you can say you have something in common with Paul McCartney.’
‘You kidding? I’m way better-looking than that guy. Sing better, too.’ Bressard got into his Ford Explorer and rolled down