Читать книгу Nightshade - Tom Henighan - Страница 10

Four

Minutes later, they left the old city, drove through a maze of steeply sloping commercial streets, turned into the Boulevard René Lévesque, and pulled up before an anonymous three-storey glass palace that looked to Sam as if it should be in Minneapolis.

A strange place, he thought, to talk about trees, genetics, and the environment, though swarms of corporate managers, research groups, government planners, academic bigwigs, Shriners, and God knows who else had no doubt enjoyed the building’s well-lit, streamlined ambiance, and its convenience to the heart of Vieux-Québec.

“Don’t be surprised,” Paul told him. “We’ve posted guards everywhere, although there’s always security here — most clients, in fact, request it.”

“Arbor Vitae requested it?”

Paul nodded. “These days scientists, lab researchers in particular, like to have security. There are too many wacko types out there, or so they imagine.”

He flashed his ID to the guards, one of whom greeted him by name, then led the way through the spacious lobby toward the inner corridors at the far end.

“This conference wasn’t just a corporate thing,” Paul told him, as a stocky policeman approached them, in haste, from a basement stairway. “It was part of a bigger scientific gathering, so there were hundreds of lab types all over the place. In fact, some of them are still meeting, murder or no murder. You see —”

The policeman interrupted. He saluted Paul, and rattled out his news, as Sam stood by and doped out the French.

“Excuse me, Inspector, but there’s an unexpected development. Dr. Ballard has left the city. He took off for Ottawa this morning. His wife and son are waiting for you in room 335 just down this corridor.”

Paul nodded his thanks to the policeman, then turned to Sam. “Smartass! Eddie told him to stick around, but I guess the message wasn’t strong enough. I ought to get the Ottawa police to call him in. I ought to put a tail on him.”

“I wonder what’s going on.”

“Some kind of corporate manoeuvring, probably. Maybe nothing to do with the murder itself. Mrs. Linton better be ready to do a boardroom tango. And that SOB better get back here in a hurry.”

Paul knocked perfunctorily and stepped quickly into Room 335. A thin, grey-haired, distinguished-looking woman put down a magazine and stood up; she seemed displeased. A young man lying on a sofa stirred. The sofa was too short for him. He shifted a beer bottle from one hand to the other and swung his long legs around until his feet touched the floor.

“The cops, Mom — unless looks deceive.”

The ironic tone irritated Sam. The boy was very handsome, beautiful even, with a mop of thick blonde hair, dark blue eyes, and a face like a decadent angel.

“Mrs. Ballard,” Paul said in his no-nonsense voice. “I’m Inspector Berthelet and this is Sam Montcalm, an Ottawa investigator. We’d like to talk to you — to your husband even more so. I understand he took off for Ottawa a little while ago?”

“That’s right, Inspector. He’s coming back tonight. Is he under suspicion? You seem irritated. I’m sure he didn’t want to offend you.”

“It’s not a question of offending me, Mrs. Ballard. We have some routines we like to follow. If witnesses disappear unexpectedly, it can make things difficult.”

She nodded. “If I can help you in any way, I’d be glad to … My name is Meg.”

She glanced at her son, who had put down the beer bottle and was tucking the end of his blue twill shirt into his khaki chinos. “Perhaps you want to wait for me outside, Simon.”

“Could Simon hang around for a while?” Sam asked. “He might have something to put in the mix.”

Meg Ballard shrugged her shoulders. Dressed in a dark grey sweater vest, a white silk shirt, and a long black denim skirt that emphasized her slender figure, she looked efficient and stylishly feminine at the same time. She had allowed her tiny gold-rimmed reading glasses to slip down on their chain, so that she regarded the two detectives with large, clear grey eyes, like some rare and distinguished bird. Sam was sure they ought not to trust her for a minute.

Glancing at Simon, Sam noticed that he was beginning to look a little restless. Without dropping his smooth smile, the boy had begun to pace between the sofa and the door. He wiped imaginary sweat from off his forehead, and his thumbs and fingers moved as if he were playing with a deck of cards. His mother had wanted him out of there for a very good reason, Sam thought.

Paul sat opposite Meg Ballard and asked her a few routine questions. Her answers were smooth and unhesitating. Yes, she was horrified by Charlie’s death; she and her husband had been friends of his for years. No, she had no idea who might have done it. Of course she remembered where she’d been at the time of the murder — asleep in her room at the Winthrop, and Bob had been there, too. No, she had no scientific training, but she was a gardener — she’d even written a couple of books on the subject, and she knew very well what deadly nightshade was.

“You know Jane Linton quite well, don’t you?” Sam interrupted at one point. “How do you get on with her?”

“Oh, God! Do I have to tell you? I’m sure she’s already had terrible things to say about Bob and me. I was so glad when Charlie decided to divorce her. He was a lovely man and deserved someone much better.”

“That’s true!” Simon broke in. “Everyone loved Charlie. He’s been so good to me. A wonderful man — and he understood me so well. He was going to talk to Dad about this West Point thing, and he —”

Meg Ballard’s voice cut in like an ice pick. “That’s all right, sweetie, the policemen don’t need a testimonial. They’ve both done their homework, I’m sure.” She gave Paul and Sam a wry smile. “It’s my husband’s wish that Simon attend West Point, as his grandfather did. Simon, quite understandably, has other ideas. Really, gentlemen, couldn’t my son be excused from this?”

“Christ, Mother! You never trust me!”

Simon flopped on the couch and put his hands over his eyes.

Paul Berthelet stood up abruptly. “That’s all right, Mrs. Ballard. It’s natural that your son would be upset. You knew Dr. Linton very well, didn’t you, Simon?”

“He was like a father to me.”

Meg Ballard pressed her lips together. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“Did he ever speak about feeling threatened by anyone, Simon?” Sam put in.

Simon jumped to his feet, stood still, and seemed to be searching his memory. After a few seconds he declared, “Charlie? No, he was the most supremely confident man I’ve ever met.”

There was a silence, then Sam asked, “What kind of financial connection do you have with Arbor Vitae, Mrs. Ballard?”

“I have no financial interest in the company, except through my husband. I’m not really that interested in corporations, Mr. Montcalm — is that really your name, by the way? How terribly odd and charming. No, all I care about in that line is the prompt arrival of my monthly cheque from my trust fund.”

“That’s all you’ve ever cared about, Mother,” her son said.

Meg Ballard blanched a little, then with a laugh, strode across the room and threw her arms around her son. “You’re a wicked boy and you know it.”

Paul caught Sam’s attention with a look that said let’s get out of here quickly and talk about this pair.

Sam nodded.

To Mrs. Ballard, Paul explained politely, “Well, we have a busy schedule, Madam. If you’ll excuse us. I want your husband to call me as soon as he returns. Here’s the number. Goodbye to both of you, and thanks.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Ballard,” Sam added. “You, too, Simon.”

“Always nice to meet a famous name,” Simon said, and giggled a little. “And nice to meet you, Inspector. There must be a Berthelet in a battle, back in history somewhere.”

“Lots of them,” Paul assured him.

The door closed behind them. Paul gave Sam a sour look, and muttered, “Unless I’m overreacting, a very nasty little boy. Luckily, we’ve already put a watch on him.”

“And a very cool and detached mama. Did you get the impression that she was trying to cover for him.”

“Sure she was. She’s a cool one, as you say, and she likes his gay charm — if that’s what it is — but she disapproves of something else. Maybe his connection with Charlie Linton. Or maybe he’s an addict, and that would worry her for sure, since she’s so buttoned up. She wouldn’t like the chaos. I don’t care how cool she is, that would bother her. I think he’s into cocaine — discreet use, early stages. What do you think?”

“Could be. He seemed very jumpy. And he did go a bit overboard on how wonderful Charlie Linton was. Come to think of it, Jane Linton didn’t like the Charlie–Simon axis either.”

“You know, old friend, it’s getting a bit complicated,” Paul said. “We may be in for a few twists and turns before we’re through.” He stopped in the hallway, pulled out his cellphone, and smiled: “And of course we both like it that way.”

Sam watched as Paul began to punch in numbers. One call, then another — conversations in rapid-fire sentences. Minutes later, he slipped the cell into his pocket and explained. “Listen, Sam, I should get over to headquarters. I’m curious to see what line McCarthy’s up to over there. He’ll probably already have complained about me having you on the case.” He laughed. “And by the way, I’ve just been told that Dr. Sergeant has gone over to the gallery. I guess nobody wants to wait around to talk to us. You were heading there to find Daniel, so you can take one of our cars. If you can find Dr. Sergeant, talk to her, size her up. I’ve read her statement, and I have a few questions, but I’ll wait for your take on her. And don’t forget that we have a dinner date with Ginette — it’ll be early, because of her concert. You’ve got my number if anything turns up.”

Sam found the police car outside, greeted the driver, and settled down in comfort. They headed along the Avenue René Lévesque, past ordinary, rather anonymous city shops selling food, furniture, hardware, or technology, past office buildings and garages, apartment houses, and many solid dwellings, without any breath of history to bring them to life. It was a scruffy, lively street that evoked a thousand other North American streets, and the sight of it relaxed him.

He thought of his father, who was such a typical Québécois in his love of the everyday modern pleasures: home gadgets, good cars, quick eats, travel, baseball and hockey, and who had at the same time a strong if repressed pride of language and race, a frank enjoyment of the senses, and a much-cherished private dream or vision.

His father’s dream, though, had led him badly astray. It was the old dream of the bountiful West, of the perfect climate, ease beside the ocean, never-ending sunshine, the vision of El Dorado. And it had taken him straight into the heart of a well-heeled suburban hell.

The police car came out on the Grand-Allée —broad, spacious, and confident, with its flashes of genteel tradition — and Sam thought, it’s summer now, and the weather is perfect, but the winter will come and scour the city. There will be Carnaval and warm feasts, and skating and skiing, but everyone will be aware of the bitter cold, of the relentless reality of the north. And maybe that’s good, our salvation even; maybe the dolce far niente is what kills you in the end.

“I’ll get off at Cartier,” he told the driver in French, who glanced at him in the rearview mirror and nodded. A sallow-faced, homely cop with big bushy eyebrows.

“Pardon, monsieur,” he said, as Sam opened the door and climbed out. “Is your name really Montcalm?”

“Oui, c’est vrai.”

“You should open a restaurant,” the cop said.

“Montcalm vaincu,” Sam reminded him. “I’d lose my shirt.”

Sam walked along the gravel path toward the museum. At the roundabout he took in the statue of General Wolfe, a sombre grey pile splattered with bird droppings. Not much of a memorial, Sam thought. History is a funny thing. Sometimes when you try too hard to celebrate it, you choke on it.

He paid at the desk, inquired about Daniel’s exhibition, and took the elevator up to the gallery. Three Native artists were having shows there and Sam wandered among the mini-galleries set up between temporary partitions, stopping only where it seemed essential to do so.

One artist had painted a large oil depicting a crazy, surreal dance of glue-sniffing children, and another evoking a beautiful northern wilderness, pristine except for a pile of wrecked and rusting machinery in the foreground. And there were several equally trenchant testimonials to the ruin of a culture: warrior’s shields made of old hubcaps, necklaces alternating beads and bottle caps, television aerials hung with imitations of sacred tribal symbols. Sam also recognized some Native images and icons: shamans, thunderbirds, magic animals, and sinister coiling serpents, some of these also compromised, and perhaps tarnished, by trivial objects that belonged to the modern world.

This was all a kind of prelude, however, for when he came at last to the space set aside for Daniel’s work, he stopped in his tracks. Right before his eyes, on the opposite wall, he recognized Daniel’s Atropa Belladonna, the controversial work Clara had described for him.

It was a huge construction, simple and bold, dominated by a giant nude female figure, a Caucasian woman whose effrontery made Sam think of a Helmut Newton power woman, or one of those late medieval German nude images, an Eve or a Magdalene who seemed to have been stripped by a Storm Trooper. This idea was reinforced by the skull she cradled against her belly and by the slightly torn academic gown that lay crumpled at her feet. Daniel’s nude was a bleached blonde with massive thighs, rough black pubic hair, big buttocks and breasts, and black boots — sexually appealing in the dominatrix mode, but hideously magnified and vulgarized. It seemed to Sam that he was looking at a kind of comic strip or caricature, influenced perhaps by some Diego Rivera mural, but without an equivalent subtlety.

Around this central image, the artist had pasted oversized multicoloured labels identifying reputedly dangerous substances produced by some of the major chemical manufacturers around the world. The company logos were all clearly visible, and these had the curious effect of creating auras or emanations of light similar to those associated with saints and holy icons in traditional art.

The whole construction was a fascinating death image, he decided, so good in its extreme way that it started a flicker of doubt in his mind about Daniel’s ultimate innocence.

Did it really have much artistic value? Sam was unsure, but it seemed, in this case, hardly to matter, so shocking was the unconcealed insolence of Daniel’s artistic gesture. He decided to take some time to inspect the other works distributed around the improvised viewing space.

He walked from artwork to artwork, falling into that focally introspective mood that seizes some gallery patrons: each picture would thrust its meaning toward him, and he would reach out his mind and senses and wrestle with what the artist had concocted. Sometimes in such excursions he understood everything at once; sometimes he was bored or baffled and walked away frustrated; sometimes he knew he’d have to return and work harder to understand an object or a picture that intrigued him.

Daniel’s work — mostly using tree imagery and tree products — was occasionally obvious, as the nude seemed to be, but all of it was clever and ironic, and a few pieces were amusing. Sam stood reading what purported to be a letter from Daniel’s uncle (written on birchbark) describing how his woodland village had sold some forest land to a large company and was enjoying the benefits of civilization: large-screen televisions, ATVs, snowmobiles, cellphones, microwave food, booze, and dope.

Just then, two male students entered the gallery space and began an animated dialogue, in French, about the Belladonna. Sam was straining to catch the drift of their rapid-fire talk when a nearby door marked PRIVATE swung open, and a thin blonde woman emerged. She fixed an uncertain, probing gaze on him, and advanced tentatively toward him.

“Are you Mr. Montcalm?”

“That’s right.”

“When I asked the way to this exhibition, one of the attendants asked for my name. I was a little surprised, to say the least. But a gallery official appeared and told me you were in the building and that I should try to connect with you. Apparently, the police contacted them and passed the message. I’m Anne Sergeant. Weren’t you supposed to be looking for me?”

Sam nodded and smiled. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Sergeant. Actually, I wanted to see the exhibition first. And I also wanted to see Daniel Summerways. I figured I could catch you either here or at the hotel. The police weren’t too happy that you didn’t wait for them.”

“That’s too bad. I have my own agenda. As for Summerways, I already asked. He isn’t here. And that’s fine with me. If he were, I’d have to tell him what I think of his art — and of his attitude to science.”

“I gather you’re not a fan.”

She gave him a scornful look. “I don’t like art that unfairly attacks intellectual progress, and pays no attention to functional beauty. There was enough of that kind of nonsense in the sixties. I can see you’re an intelligent policeman — or maybe not a policeman at all, by the way you refer to the force — that’s why I’m telling you this up front.”

“I’m a private detective from Ottawa, hired by Clara Kincaid, Daniel Summerways’ partner. I’m working with an old friend of mine, Inspector Berthelet of the Quebec police. Can we go somewhere and have a coffee?”