“Gentlemen,” he said, reaching out to shake Vanier’s hand and then Laurent’s. “Sit down, gentlemen, sit down. I’m always glad to help Montreal’s finest. Now, what can I do for you?”
Beaudoin exuded the good humour of a welcoming host, and wariness only broke through in the shortest of flashes. His short frame was carrying too much weight, and he sat down. They exchanged cards.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about the Holy Land Shelter,” said Vanier.
“The Holy Land Shelter? That’s police business?”
“We’re investigating the deaths on Christmas Eve and trying to understand the lives of the homeless. We’re just looking for background. You were heavily involved in the Shelter’s Board, and we thought you could give us some insight.”
“Well, yes, I was involved with the Shelter, but it was mostly legal and administrative work. I’m not really an expert on the homeless. All I know is that it’s a tough life.”
“You’d be surprised what can help in an investigation like this.”
“I suppose.”
“For instance, so much of the work is done by volunteers. What brings people in? What makes people leave? We’ve heard that there were big changes last year at the Shelter. I understand that most of the Board resigned. Why was that?
“Well, I can’t speak for the others but for myself, I was tired. Simple as that. Five years is a long time, and I needed a rest. And the Board needed fresh blood. There’s nothing wrong, is there?”
“I didn’t say there was a problem. We’re just interested in understanding how these places work. Just a little curious, that’s all.”
Beaudoin looked down at the business cards. “Chief Inspector, you must be a busy man, and these latest murders must be taking up a lot of your time. Are you working on those, Inspector, or are you just interested in the Shelter?”
“Maitre Beaudoin, I have the best job in the world. When something interests me I can look into it. Luckily, not everything interests me, so I have time to do my job. Right now, I am simply trying to understand what it means to be homeless in Montreal. How they live, where they go, who they have dealings with. So the Shelter is a good place to start, isn’t it? After all, it takes in, what, 300 people a night?”
“The Shelter does great work, Inspector. It fills a desperate need. I enjoyed my time there. You have no idea what kind of a feeling that gives you. It’s rare, especially in this business. I didn’t do hands-on work with the homeless, but I think what I did was helpful. In a lot of ways I miss it.”
“So why quit?”
“Like I said, five years is a long time. I needed a rest. And they probably needed a rest from me.”
“What about Father Drouin? Did he need a rest too?”
“Ah, Father Drouin. A great guy, a great human being. He could be difficult, but it’s because he’s so shy. It took me over a year to get to know him properly, but when you do, you can’t help but love him.”
“He got tired too?”
“Perhaps. Yes. He was tired too.” Beaudoin’s answers were slowing down, like he was trying to guess where Vanier was going. “It’s not easy you know, it can take a lot out of you. And he had other things to do. He’s very busy for a priest. He’s involved in a lot of things.”
“In all, seven of the ten members of the Board from last year are no longer there. That quite a turnover isn’t it? It must be difficult for the organization to survive that sort of …turmoil?”
Beaudoin looked uncomfortable, but before he could answer, the conference room door opened, and a tall gaunt man walked in. He was dressed to announce his importance, peacock style. He looked straight at Beaudoin, ignoring the policemen.
“Pascal, I heard that you were having a meeting with some policemen. I thought you might need some back-up,” he said with a humourless chuckle, then turned to the two officers, with a broad smile that stopped well below his eyes. “Gentlemen, I am so pleased to welcome you to my offices. I am Maitre Gordon Henderson,” he said, emphasizing the honorific title for Quebec lawyers.
Vanier and Laurent introduced themselves, and they exchanged cards with Henderson.
“What is it we can do for you? Are you selling tickets for the annual ball?”
“The annual ball is a thing of the past, but if it is ever revived, I’ll put you down for a table, shall I?”
“Absolutely.”
“We were here to speak to Maitre Beaudoin about his work with the Holy Land Shelter.”
“Well, there are no secrets in this office. We supported Pascal’s efforts to help the needy. He has a big heart. But you know how it is Inspector, business comes first. After five years, it was time for him to direct his efforts elsewhere. We live in a very competitive world, and there are limits to how much time can be wasted. We are all slaves to the billable hour; the clients are more demanding by the day.”
Beaudoin looked down at the table, scratching notes on a yellow pad.
“And talking of the almighty billable hour, Inspector, it would be more efficient if you would write down your questions to Pascal and send them to us. We would be happy to provide you with answers to any questions you might have. But right now, I need Pascal on a call to Japan that I promised would begin in five minutes,” said Henderson, looking at his watch.
Vanier took the cue, hoping he could come back some day with a good reason to question Henderson. He’d been thrown out of bars with more subtlety. The two policemen stood up and exchanged handshakes with the lawyers. Beaudoin left them at reception, but Henderson waited to see them leave. Vanier cast a goodbye smile at the receptionist, who gave him one of her own and a small wave.
“Fucking bastard,” said Vanier as the elevator doors closed.
3.45 PM
When the door closed on the departing policemen, Gordon Henderson walked into Beaudoin’s office.
“Pascal, why didn’t you tell me that you were meeting with police inspectors? I don’t like having to find out things like that from Julie.”
“Well, Mr. Henderson, they just called this morning and asked if I would have time to give him some background on the Holy Land Shelter for their investigation. They’re the ones on the Christmas Eve deaths. I didn’t think anything of it, they just wanted background information.”
“Just background information? Pascal, you know that the Shelter is a very sensitive file. We can’t go around discussing it with just anyone, and particularly not with policemen. We have a duty to our client. I really am disappointed, Pascal.”
Beaudoin swallowed. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have spoken to you first. It’s just … well, you’re right.”
“Just see that it doesn’t happen again. Now, where are you on the Blanchard letter? I need to send that out first thing tomorrow morning. Is it ready?”
“Almost, Mr. Henderson. Almost,” Beaudoin said. He hadn’t even started it. “It will be on your desk before you arrive in the morning,” he added, ruining not only his evening, but a good part of the night.
“Wonderful. I’ll leave you to it then,” Henderson said, and left.
Beaudoin pulled a file from the pile on his desk and began to focus on the problems of M. Blanchard, who wanted to double the size of his Westmount house over the objection of his neighbours and the city council. He began typing into the computer, drafting objections to the reasonable arguments of the city and the neighbours that the plans ignored the by-laws and the character of the neighborhood, and would be a palatial monument to bad taste. He would get to the threats against the individuals and the council later; it was always better to close with the threats. At 7.30 p.m., he stopped writing, picked up the phone and punched numbers.