The Marble Mask Read online

  We resumed our places around Lacombe’s round table, Chauvin sitting so close to Lacombe their legs were almost touching.

  “Jacques does not speak English,” Gilles explained, “so I’m afraid you have to listen to me. It will be very slow. I have tried this before. But is that okay?”

  I glanced at Paul and nodded. He cleared his throat. “I could give it a shot, if you’d like. I speak a little French.”

  Lacombe smiled broadly and winked at us. “Ah. You were keeping a secret on us.”

  “I doubt that,” I answered, “given how well you speak English. But if you ever get stumped or would like to speak in French to us, I’m sure Paul wouldn’t mind helping out.”

  Lacombe waved his hand dismissively, as I’d thought he would. “No, no. It is no problem. I need to have practice. So,” he then added with emphasis, “let us go into Jacques’s brain. I think it would be good if I translate into French for him and Paul can then translate into English for you. Okay?”

  I glanced at Gary Smith, who was in fact our team leader, but he merely nodded at me to continue. “Mr. Chauvin,” I began, “we really need as much information as possible at this point. Could you start by giving us a little history about the Deschamps family?”

  Chauvin listened carefully to Lacombe and responded through Paul. “They go way back. I don’t know where they come from originally, but it was Jean who made them what they are today. As a young man, he smuggled booze into the U.S. during Prohibition. It was a big business all over Canada, of course, but it was particularly good just south of here, since the RCMP didn’t cover this part of the border too well. I don’t know why—maybe because this area was pretty wild and far from places like Montreal, given the bad roads. But Jean had a knack for it, too. He was ambitious, clever, and very, very nasty. Most people in that business just did it to make ends meet. Jean was out to create an empire. He started by carrying bottles across on his back, all by himself, then moved on to cars, then trucks. He even had some of them rigged with smoke pots, to blind whoever was giving chase. Very soon, he had almost every member of his family involved, and he was expanding from pure smuggling into warehousing, importing illegal goods, loan sharking, murder. As the twenties got wilder, he began supplying drugs through contacts he established in the Orient—the South American supply line didn’t exist back then, and Canada was still considered part of the British Empire, as was Hong Kong. One big tribe where contraband was concerned.

  “Anyway, by the Depression, Deschamps was sitting on a pot of money but with nowhere to hide it. If he ever had any, those might be called his tough years, since not only was the economy bad, but the authorities had finally taken an interest in him and were making things difficult. But he made up for it with a vengeance during the Second World War. That’s when he became respectable, producing goods for the war effort, sacrificing all for king and country, including putting two sons into uniform, one of whom was killed. In fact, he turned a big pile of illegal cash into a really big fortune, buying up factories and controlling the flow of materials. By the end, he was one of the region’s heroes and would have qualified for a knighthood if he hadn’t been a crook—and hadn’t created a new rebel image as an independent, damn-the-British, free Québecois.

  “None of which mattered in the long run, anyway, because shortly after the war ended, he disappeared.”

  I leaned forward, opened the file Lacombe had left on the tabletop, and extracted the old photograph of Jean Deschamps. “Is this him?” I asked.

  The old man’s face creased into a thoughtful smile. “Yes, at the top of his form.”

  Gary Smith had been taking notes throughout Chauvin’s long discourse and now looked up to ask, “What was the thinking at the time he disappeared?”

  Chauvin replaced the picture and sat back. “We didn’t know what to make of it. It wasn’t a here-today, gone-tomorrow type of thing. We only gradually became aware of his absence and of Marcel’s being the one calling the shots.”

  “Marcel?” Gary asked.

  “His son. His younger son, actually. Antoine had been killed in Italy around 1943 or ’44. He was the one we thought would inherit the business, although I don’t know how he could have improved on Marcel. There’s a cold-hearted son of a bitch.”

  I returned to Gary’s question. “Surely you asked around once you noticed Jean hadn’t been seen in a while?”

  “Of course,” Chauvin answered through Paul. “But we got different stories from everyone we asked. He’d become a recluse, enjoying the second half of his life in religious contemplation; he’d been killed by the opposition or by his own people in an unsuccessful power struggle; he’d been executed by Marcel in a very successful power struggle. You pick a theory, we heard it at least five times. But we had no body, no proof of a crime. So we did all we could—we dealt with reality and stopped chasing ghosts.”

  “You asked Marcel?”

  “Yes. He said the Old Man had retreated to a religious life.” Chauvin smiled. “Maybe he knew more than all of us about that.”

  “You think he murdered his father?”

  The smile faded as he gave that serious thought. “At the time, it didn’t make any more sense than the retreat story. Marcel and Antoine were close to their father. It was one of the reasons the gang worked so well, because the family did, too. Antoine was the eldest and the heir apparent, but we never thought Marcel had a problem with that. He had his own responsibilities. It wasn’t like he’d been relegated to washing cars out back. The feeling was that the operation would be so big after the war that the two sons would work together as equals with their father.”

  “So how did Marcel manage?” Gary asked.

  “He had Pierre Guidry to help him,” Chauvin said simply, “and Gaston Picard.”

  “Guidry is the family second-in-command,” Lacombe explained. “Apparently he helped guide Marcel in the early days, teaching him the ropes. Picard’s the family lawyer—pretty old now.”

  Chauvin looked confused and asked for a translation. Then he shook his head vehemently. “No, no. Guidry and Marcel helped each other out. After all, they’re about the same age now. Guidry was never the Old Man’s advisor. That was Picard. Guidry was a chauffeur and a bodyguard—a kid from the streets who Jean Deschamps virtually adopted as his own. Guidry was almost as much part of the family as the two boys, and he filled a gap for Marcel after Antoine died, only as a slightly younger brother, which suited Marcel better. It was a good fit, too.”

  “But until Jean died,” I said, “Marcel may not have been washing cars, but it sounds like Pierre was.”

  Again, Chauvin disagreed. “You had to have known them back then. To call Pierre Guidry a chauffeur/bodyguard misses what he meant to the others. That was his job, sure, but he was family.”

  I had no choice but to grant him his insider’s knowledge, although I found his comments raised more questions than answers.

  Gary moved on. “How ’bout the opposition you mentioned? What did that consist of?”

  “They’re the ones we finally concluded killed Jean,” our guest admitted. “At least the majority did. And it does make sense. Deschamps wasn’t the only one to come out of the war rich, or the only one to see big potential in the postwar crime business. The U.S. was suddenly top dog in the world, hungry and ambitious, and we were right next door. There were criminal power struggles happening all over Canada. The Deschamps had some real problems keeping control—everybody was scrapping for a piece of it, from little guys to the more organized types.”

  “So who made your top-five list of suspects?” Gary persisted.

  Chauvin laughed. “Suspects for what? We didn’t have a body, and the family hadn’t reported a death. What I’m telling you never left the bull-session stage.”

  And wasn’t treated too seriously in any case, I thought. Whether it was because they were overworked, undertrained, apathetic, or corrupt, the cops back then apparently thought the death of any crook—for any reason—was s
imple good riddance. Not a reason to launch a major investigation.

  I retreated a couple of steps. “You said Deschamps’s business was very dependent on the United States. Do you know if he ever traveled or owned property there? In Stowe, for example?”

  “We know he used to go there, especially in the early days when he was smuggling. As for owning property…” Chauvin shrugged. “We didn’t keep track of that, but it’s likely. It makes sense to keep money outside the country. But he probably would have used fake names anyhow.”

  There was a long pause while we considered what we’d learned.

  “Mr. Chauvin,” I finally asked, “when did you retire?”

  “Nineteen sixty-two.”

  “In the years following Jean’s disappearance, as you and your colleagues worked against the Deschamps family, did you notice any cracks developing in their structure? Any indications that things weren’t quite as tightly run as they had been under Jean?”

  “No. Like I said, Marcel was a natural. Maybe he was twenty-one when he took over—really young—but his old man would’ve been proud. He kept things running, he changed with the times, he made deals with people like the Angels. The operation should have died with the founder. Instead, it only got bigger.”

  “Which made you personally suspect, with hindsight, that Marcel killed his father instead of the competition,” I suggested. “Do you think he was helped by Guidry and/or Picard?”

  Chauvin shook his head. “Guidry rode Marcel’s coattails. He wasn’t smart enough to do more. And Picard’s position never changed, so for him there was no advantage in killing Jean.”

  I still couldn’t shake the idea that two second fiddles had gained top ranking with Jean’s sudden disappearance.

  “How about some of the old-timers, retired like yourself?” I asked. “Could you recommend someone in or near the family who might be willing to talk to us?”

  I’d expected him to say no. Instead, he reflected a moment and then said, “Lucien Pelletier. He’s about my age. That would take you to a few years before the war. He’s not related by blood, but he worked pretty closely with Jean.”

  “Why would he talk to us?”

  “He’s been out of the business for forty-five years. I don’t think Marcel liked him much and moved him out. There haven’t been any connections since, I don’t think. He’s just an old man with memories now.” Jacques Chauvin smiled and added, “Like me.”

  · · ·

  I got up from the table after Chauvin left and crossed to the window to admire the view of the metal warehouse.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Lacombe said, closing the door on our guest. “Was that of help?”

  “Not much,” Gary admitted. “Thanks for setting it up, though.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “We learned a bit about the family dynamics. It’s a start, anyhow. Maybe we ought to ask you, Gilles, what if anything you want to do about this?”

  Lacombe sat back down thoughtfully as Gary Smith shot me a quick hard look. “The Deschamps family is a very big deal for us,” he said. “Especially if the conflict between the Angels and the Rock Machine takes place. It would be nice to have a …” he glanced at Paul Spraiger. “Pince-à-levier?”

  “Crowbar,” Spraiger explained.

  “Yes. A crowbar we could use to get more inside. I would like to explore the situation. In fact, I would like to make a task force, since we are several jurisdictions. This way, we would all know what is happening.”

  Gary was visibly in need of getting something off his chest. “Can I ask a question?”

  We all looked at him silently.

  “I know I’m the odd guy out here—the small-town cop who’s never been across the border. But this is my department’s case,” he looked straight at me, “unless that support role pitch you gave us was a crock.”

  I shook my head. “Nope—that was straight.”

  Lacombe smiled broadly, leaned forward, and patted Smith on the knee, catching him off guard. “I understand your worries,” he assured him. “You are feeling on the bottom of the totem. It is why I proposed the task force. You have a dead body, we have a crime family we are wanting to open up. I hope this way we all get a reward. I would like to invite everyone—someone from the Sherbrooke police, all of us here, and a procureur de la couronne to work with yours—a prosecutor. Also, if you are agreeable, a member of the RCMP. They would be interested in the federal offenses, like narcotics and smuggling. But only,” he repeated, “if that is no bother to you.”

  Lacombe paused to reflect and then added, “I am saying this because I do not wish the Deschamps to slip away. It is a very old murder that seems the most weak link, and I do not think we should place all the eggs in that one basket. A task force will approach from all angles. Am I saying this wrong?”

  Gary shook his head slowly. “No, I get the point.”

  I considered Gary’s seemingly small-minded objection in a wider context and said in part to help him out, “Rumor is the SQ and the RCMP don’t get along very well.”

  “There was a time, perhaps,” Lacombe conceded. “New attitudes are making it easier. But you are right—there is still some rubbing.”

  “What happens if we shut them out?” I asked for argument’s sake.

  “They will bang on the door. The name Deschamps is in their computers, too.”

  I looked at Gary Smith and raised my eyebrows inquiringly.

  “The more the merrier,” he said with a weak smile.

  Lacombe nodded, apparently satisfied. “Very good. Now, I would like to ask you more about what you found that brought you here.”

  Gary picked that up. “Not much—basically his driver’s license, his clothes, a ring from his finger, a few odds and ends from his wallet, and an autopsy report. I called my office to see if anything else had come up from the computer search we ordered, but so far there’s nothing to indicate he was ever in the United States, at least not legally.”

  “Which brings up an interesting point,” Paul Spraiger said. “Jacques Chauvin listed all the people who might’ve had it in for Jean, including some unnamed competitor. Who’s to say that competitor wasn’t an American? We’ve been assuming the body was dropped from a plane that flew in from Canada, but there’s nothing to prove that.”

  “Nothing is right,” added Gary. “The office also said that an analysis from the various radars covering the Stowe area over the last two months came up empty, meaning either there was no plane or it flew into the drop zone at under two thousand feet.”

  “Okay,” Paul said. “If we’re playing ‘what if,’ I was struck by the fact that Marcel reached the top over two conveniently dead people.”

  Lacombe looked startled. “You mean he had his brother killed in the war?”

  Gary merely shrugged, but I was impressed. It upped the ante on my own ruminations.

  “Chauvin said the two brothers got along—were slated to share the business,” Paul protested.

  “Maybe,” I said, “maybe not. Gary might have something—not necessarily that Antoine was murdered, but that his death changed what the Old Man had in mind. If something happened between Marcel and Jean after Antoine’s death that Marcel felt threatened his ascension, he might have had his father killed. It wouldn’t be the first time ambition was thicker than blood.”

  Paul voiced the obvious next step, easing away from too much hypothesizing: “Sounds like we ought to have a little walk down memory lane with Lucien Pelletier.”

  Chapter 9

  WE WERE BACK IN GILLES LACOMBE’S MINIVAN, joined this time by Rick Labatt—one of his intelligence officers. The Deschamps family’s current activities were one of Labatt’s pet projects, so while he couldn’t add much to Jacques Chauvin’s history lesson, he was eager to be part of Lacombe’s new task force and heading off to visit an old Deschamps associate like Lucien Pelletier.

  His English syntax was better and less accented than his boss’s. “I wish I could tell you that finding Je
an Deschamps fits a change in the family’s operations,” he said from the back seat. “But as far as we can tell, everything is running as usual.”

  “How good is your information?” I asked him.

  Labatt was young, wiry, and energetic, very expressive with his hands, but to that question, he gave but a rueful look. “You are right, of course,” he admitted. “It is not very good. The Deschamps are careful that way. We have never put anyone inside their organization. We watch, we listen when we can, we look at surveillance photos, but we don’t know very much. It is why I am excited about this happening with Jean.”

  “Do the Deschamps compete head-on with the Angels?” Paul asked.

  Labatt shook his head. “No, no. Well, maybe a little in the places where there is more room, like smuggling drugs. But locally, the Deschamps, for example, control all the auto theft. The Angels don’t do that. Also, there are bars that are run by one, where the members of the other do not go. It is very strictly followed.”

  “And you’ve never gotten close to nailing Marcel,” Gary stated.

  “That is correct. He is very protected. We nibble at the edges. We take down a chop shop here or there, capture a runner along the border, arrest a few prostitutes. But we can only go so far up the line. Then we run out of what the judge wants to see. We know who’s responsible, but we cannot prove it.”

  We had driven in the same general direction of the restaurant but then veered off into a neighborhood of upscale, tastefully appointed modern homes, each planted in the middle of a three-quarter acre lot, facing a sinewy street and looking new and artificial enough to have been made of plastic parts. Even the snow resembled powdered sugar.

  “There it is.” Lacombe pointed ahead to a house on a corner. “Chauvin told me Pelletier lives with his daughter, who doesn’t know his history. I will make up a story for her.”

  We got out of the van after Lacombe parked it on the street, looking like a hit squad ourselves, but I left it to Lacombe to spin his tall tale to the sixty-something woman who answered the door, and tried to appear as innocent as I could.