That Sleep of Death Read online

  After sitting down at a corner table, Gaston and I ordered coffee and continued the politico-conversational dance that we’d started when I told him about the bookstore’s name. All English- and French-speaking Quebeckers do this when they first meet. Each has to make sure that the other is not totally intolerant. Each has to make sure that the other understands that ethnic and cultural differences are something to be celebrated, and surmounted in the name of friendship. Once we get past all that, the phonics of Quebec politics, we usually discover more interesting things to talk about.

  Gaston, it turned out, was like me — more interested in broad policies than in local issues. He was interested in the justice system and I was interested in the politics that govern the cultural industries in Canada. We talked about politics and the police (but not the connection between the two — I sensed that he was much too conservative for that kind of speculation).

  He was one of two children of an upper-middle-class French-Canadian father and English-Canadian mother. That explained his fluency in both languages. His sister was a lawyer, as was his father. Gaston had begun law school at the Université d’Ottawa, as he was expected to do, but he had dropped out.

  “I was more interested in the application of law than in arguing about it. So I became a cop,” he said. He didn’t seem to want to talk about himself much. But I was curious.

  “Why didn’t you become a politician?”

  “I was too impatient for that, “he said. “And I don’t have the right outgoing personality.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever go back and finish your law degree?”

  “My parents keep hoping for that!” He shrugged his shoulders, looking a little uncomfortable at my questions. But then he relaxed, apparently realizing that my interest was genuine. “They think I’m sure to get tired of police work, and come back and join the family law firm.” Then he started to laugh. “They’ve been hoping for that more than fifteen years now. I’m not about to give up my career on the force.”

  “Families are like that,” I said. “Mine too, but in my case it was my grandfather. He wanted his grandchildren to become professionals. He didn’t specify what kind. He just wanted me not to be a cab driver like my father. It’s probably a good thing he didn’t live to see that I ended up as a bookseller. He would have considered it not much better than driving a cab. But I’ve never regretted it.”

  Over the next few months Gaston got into the habit of dropping by the store every two or three weeks to buy a new book. He was reading his way through Dickens at a steady pace. We’d always talk and fairly often we’d go around the corner for lunch or just a coffee. After a we had exhausted politics we moved on to a subject we both found more exciting: police work.

  I had never got over wanting to be one of the Hardy Boys and took unabashed pleasure in discussing his cases with him. He would tell me about his work with a novelist’s sense of the drama of murder. He rarely focused on the gory parts of the crime; he wasn’t much interested in the blood and guts of murder beyond what they provided as clues for solving the crime. He saw criminal investigation as a big puzzle, an intellectual challenge. In some cases he expressed more sympathy for the perpetrator than for the victim. “He beat her once too often and got what he deserved,” he said of man shot to death by his wife. Of a man who’d killed someone in a fight he commented, “you can only push a guy so far before he explodes,” or “people should be very careful when they drink.” He didn’t excuse the murderer, exactly, but he tried to understand how he reached the point of killing someone. But despite his sympathy he was relentless in his pursuit of the criminal.

  I loved those sessions. We could talk over his cases endlessly. He enjoyed laying out the puzzle for me and he was interested in my insights. On a couple of occasions he flattered me by telling me that my comments had helped him to bring a case to a successful conclusion.

  This emboldened me to take the next step, and I began to ask (nag, actually) to be allowed to accompany him on an investigation. He never said no but he always managed to put me off until later. “When a mystery more appropriate to your talents comes along,” he said (whatever that meant), “I’ll be sure to call on you.”

  As it turned out I discovered what should have been obvious: the easiest way to become involved in a police investigation is to become involved in a crime.

  chapter two

  Book retailing used to be a fairly simple profession. You ordered books; you sold books. Even the chain bookstores that appeared in the sixties and seventies didn’t change things very much. Some customers still preferred the pleasure of browsing in the local independent bookstore.

  But in the nineties the so-called superstores blew the old ways to bits. Now, to compete, bookstores have to be huge or at least combine books with a café or a cyber-café and lots of comfortable living-room furniture (I sometimes suspect that the superstores were invented by furniture companies).

  Jennifer and I dreamed up various schemes and services to attract and keep customers. One of her more successful ideas was providing some of our clients with credit and delivery services, mostly professors at the universities and lawyers who operated in the high-rises that surrounded us. They phone in an order and we deliver the books to their home or office, at their expense.

  I’m less enthusiastic than Jennifer about this system, because it’s too successful, and I’m always the one who has to go and collect the money. Most people pay with a credit card, but there are a few who use this service to return to the good old days of the nineteenth century. They refuse to give their credit card number out over the phone or protest that they don’t trust the mail.

  What they really want is a personal visit to settle their accounts. That is the part of the plan I dislike. It flatters them to get this personal service but it humiliates me. I have too much pride to play the role of a tradesman who comes to the back door, ledger book in hand. Jennifer always points out that the program pulls in decent money, keeps our customers happy, provides a service the chain superstores don’t, and I can just put up with it.

  So it was early on a beautiful warm Monday in mid-September that I made my way to McGill University to collect outstanding accounts from three English professors and one history professor. I decided to make the history department my first stop, because the man I had to see, Harold Hilliard, tended to be pretty efficient.

  I could at least start with someone I liked.

  Hilliard had long been one of my favourite clients. He was a high-maintenance customer who demanded and appreciated special attention. His taste in books was excellent — in many ways it mirrored my own. He was sophisticated without being arrogant and he knew what he wanted. What made me especially like him was that he never tried to tell me what books we absolutely had to have in the store. Too many people think everyone will be interested in what interests them.

  Professor Hilliard would appear regularly, wearing an expensive brown tweed jacket, and leave me a list of seven or eight books. The list would be neatly typed and it would always include his name, mailing address at McGill, and his office phone number. Booksellers are grateful for such attention to detail.

  “All of these books were reviewed in the last couple of years,” he would tell me and when I looked over the titles they would always include the best recent books in history, biography, literary criticism and — believe it or not — modern business practices. I didn’t understand the value of business books to a historian but that is what made Professor Hilliard such an interesting customer; his tastes were eclectic.

  I would pack up the books on his list that we had in stock, and special order the rest. When they came in, I’d take a walk over to his office

  On that bright September Monday I knew that if his records agreed with mine, and they always did, I’d be out of his office with a cheque for $519.96 within fifteen minutes. Some of his colleagues were not so organized. I heard the same excuses over and over: “How can it be that much? Are you certain?” “I
thought I returned that book.” “I’m sorry, I don’t have my my cheque book.” Or sour grapes: “It really wasn’t as good as the review said it would be.”

  Professor Hilliard’s office was big and comfortable. You have to be pretty senior or important to get an office like that. It was on the main floor of the history department, which itself occupied most of the southeast corner of the Elwitt Building.

  When I arrived the reception area was empty. Even the normally vigilant secretary/receptionist, Arlene Ford, was absent. Pleased that I wouldn’t have to waste time stating my name and my business to the other underlings, I marched right up to Hilliard’s office door and knocked.

  I didn’t get the customary “Come in,” in answer to my knock, but the door was ajar. I thought I would just peek in to see if there was any sign of Professor Hilliard. The door swung halfway open in response to my gentle push, but then it stopped. Something was blocking it. I put my head around the door to see what was in the way.

  I got the fright of my life.

  Professor Harold Hilliard was lying on the floor with his head in a pool of blood. I could only see him from the waist up; the rest of his body was behind the half-opened door but I was pretty sure he was dead. I read somewhere that when faced with a panic situation the normal human reaction is fight or flight. I did neither. There was no one around to fight with and I was frozen in the doorway and couldn’t have moved if I wanted to, and believe me, I wanted to. I don’t know how long I spent glued to the doorsill transfixed by the gruesome scene.

  The sound of a woman’s voice shouting, “What do you want?” and the angry click-clack of high-heeled shoes on the vinyl tile floor snapped me out of my daze and I turned to see who was screaming at me. It was Arlene, the department secretary. She was an elaborately turned bleached blonde about thirty-five, who favoured brilliant blue eyeshadow and a shellacked-looking French twist. Suspicious and unfriendly at the best of times, she was now marching down the hall toward me with outrage in her eyes. Clearly, she was not pleased to find me at Hilliard’s office door. She would be a lot less pleased if I didn’t stop her before she discovered the bloody scene for herself.

  “Wait a minute,” I said stepping toward her to block her entrance to the office. She gave me a mean look and reached past me to pull Hilliard’s office door closed. But as she did so she caught sight of the body and the blood.Then she screamed and recoiled, practically knocking me off my feet.

  She whirled around, grabbed me and tried to shove me up against the wall. “What have you done to him?” she yelped. Then she backed away from me toward the safety of her desk. Fight and flight.

  “Me?” I asked incredulously. “Nothing. I just found him.”

  Her eyes were drilling into me. I noticed that her black mascara was clumped on her lashes. “Stay right there. I’m calling security.”

  I decided staying right there was not really necessary and followed her back to the reception area. While she was on the phone I sat in one of the chairs in the waiting area and thought about the situation.

  I had spent enough time with Gaston Lernieux to know that it was important to give a clear and accurate description of events when reporting a crime. I knew that the police spent much of the early part of an investigation trying to sort out the vague and contradictory statements of witnesses. I did not want to be that kind of witness and I made careful mental notes, so that I could give a detailed, coherent statement to the police when they arrived. By that time it had occurred to me that in a few minutes I might be meeting my friend Gaston in unusual circumstances.

  Within less than two minutes of being summoned, three McGill security people came barrelling in through the big main doors. The self-important little guy in charge had a walkie-talkie in one hand, a cell phone in the other, and a pager clipped to his belt. He was prepared for any communication emergency, but I could not see if he carried a gun.

  “Miss Ford,” he said. He had a strong upper-class-twit-of-the-year British accent. “You say a dead body has been found?”

  The two uniformed security people remained at the door to the department to ensure that no one not authorized to do so entered.

  “He found the body,” the secretary said, pointing an accusing finger at me.

  The campus cop turned and took a couple of steps toward me so that he was almost standing on my feet.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. He was maybe five-six in his army boots, but so was Napoleon. He had a thick moustache and a Sixth Dragoon Fusiliers regimental tie. He carried “aggressive and efficient” to extremes.

  I stood up, which forced him to back up a pace or two. “Wiseman, Sam Wiseman. I came to see Professor Hilliard on a business matter and discovered him dead.” I didn’t like his officious manner, so I asked, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Julian Alexander. Head of security.”

  He turned back to Miss Ford and asked, “Have you ever seen this man before?”

  She looked at me warily. “He’s been here once or twice.”

  He stood at attention and barked at us as if we were a large group rather than just two people. “You are both witnesses to a serious crime and you will have to remain here until the police arrive. Until they get here I’m in charge.” I was pretty certain that he didn’t have to deal with murders on campus every day, but I still thought his act was a bit much. I guess we all deal with stress in different ways.

  I sat back down in one of the guest chairs and Miss Ford sat at her desk as Alexander called the police on his cell phone. He didn’t dial 911. He punched in a seven-digit number that must be known only to security people. He gave a brief description of the situation, said “yes” a couple of times, hung up and slipped the phone into his jacket pocket. On his walkie-talkie he informed someone in the security office that there had been a murder, instructed him to tell a couple of senior people of that fact and ordered him to treat this information as “extremely confidential.” My guess was it would be all over the campus in twenty minutes.

  “The police will be here in a moment or two. You will be required to give statements at that time.” He parked himself against a wall opposite my chair so that he could keep an eye on both me and Arlene Ford. We weren’t much in the way of suspects but we were all he had.

  As we waited for the cops to arrive I noticed that there were no professors around. It was just a little before nine-thirty and the only faculty member present was dead. Where were the others?

  It took the police about ten minutes to get there. When the two uniformed cops showed up Alexander immediately took them to a corner to give them his report. I watched the three of them talk and glance over at me and Arlene Ford. One of the cops then secured the scene with yellow plastic barrière-de-police tape.

  As I watched him do so I heard a familiar voice behind me. I was in luck. Gaston had been assigned to the case! I turned around to greet him and I’m embarrassed to report that I had a big smile on my face. I had finally become involved in a police investigation, and I was thrilled. At that moment I was happier at the possibility of being in the middle of a murder investigation than I was sad about the poor victim lying dead in his office.

  “Sam,” Gaston said, with a tone of surprise in his voice, and I quickly wiped the smile off my face. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “I was here to see Professor Hilliard. I discovered the body,” I told him, standing up as if I was making a formal report.

  “So,” he said, and the slightest trace of a smile flashed across his lips. “You may be able to help me with this matter. Once the scene of the crime is secure I’ll want to talk to you.” He motioned for the two uniformed cops to join him, and they went into Hilliard’s office. I took pleasure in the fact that he excluded the Alexander from their conversation. I could hear their low voices but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  A few minutes later he emerged, and went over to thank Julian Alexander for his help. The police would take over now, he explained. The security
chief looked so miffed that Gaston, thinking better of it, asked him to remain in the department as the senior representative of the university. Alexander was appeased at once. He arched his back, puffed out his chest and raised himself on the balls of his feet, so impressed was he with his own importance.

  Then Gaston came over to me. I’d been going over the details of what I had seen and I was ready with my report. Finally, the detective skills I had developed as a bookseller would be put to good use! Customers ask for that book they “heard about on the radio the other day, the one about the woman who fell in love and moved away. I think the author’s last name began with a B.” With those few skimpy clues a good bookseller will be able to narrow down the search and find the book that the customer wants. It takes clever questioning, an ability to absorb and retain details about lots of different books, intuition, and sometimes inspired guesswork.

  And I knew I was good at it. I told Gaston exactly what I’d seen, quickly and thoroughly, leaving nothing out. I was tempted to embellish my heroism in the few minutes after I discovered the body, but I had to report accurately that I had been frozen to the floor with shock. This was actually the only thing that had prevented me from stepping into Hilliard’s office and messing up the crime scene. I didn’t tell Gaston that.

  “Sam, it is important that you write up all that you have just told me,” Lemieux said when I finished my oral report.

  “I can do that,” I said looking around for a pen and pad. “If you can get me something to write on …”