Night Probe! - Cussler Clive. Страница 20

"Where did all this take place?"

"A radius of fifty miles around the present city of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan."

"Surely Roubaix was arrested as a prime suspect?"

"The mounties didn't work as fast in the nineteenth century as we do now," McComb admitted. "By the time Roubaix was tied to the crimes, he had fled into the virgin forests of the Northwest Territory and didn't turn up again until Riel's rebellion in eighteen eighty-five."

"The revolt by the descendants of French traders and Indians," said Villon, recalling his history.

"Metis, they were called. Louis Riel was their leader. Roubaix oined Riel's forces and enshrined himself in Canadian legend as our most prolific killer.

"What about the time he was missing?"

"Six years," McComb replied. "Nothing recorded. There was a rash of unsolved killings attributed to him, but no solid evidence or eyewitness accounts. only a pattern that hinted of the Roubaix touch.

"A pattern?"

"Yes, all the victims were done in by injuries inflicted to the throat," said McComb. "Mostly from strangulation. Roubaix had turned away from the messy use of a knife. No great fuss was made at the time. People had a different set of moral codes then. They looked upon a scourge who eliminated undesirables as a community benefactor."

"I seem to remember he became a legend by killing a number of Mounties during Riel's rebellion."

"Thirteen, to be exact."

"Roubaix must have been a very strong man."

"Not really," replied McComb. "Actually he was described as frail of build and rather sickly. A doctor who attended him before his execution testified that Roubaix was tackled by consumption-what we now call tuberculosis."

"How was it possible for such a weakling to overpower men who were trained for physical combat?" asked Villon.

"Roubaix used a garrote made from rawhide not much thicker than a wire. A nasty weapon that cut halfway into his victim's throat. Caught them unaware, usually when they were asleep. Your reputation is well known in body-building circles, Mr. Villon, but I daresay your own wife could choke you away if she slipped Roubaix's garrote around your neck some night in bed."

"You talk as if the garrote still exists."

"It does," said McComb. "We have it on display in the criminal section of the Mountie museum, if you care to view it. Like some other mass killers who cherished a favorite murder weapon, Roubaix lavished loving care on his garrote. The wooden hand grips that attach to the thong are intricately carved in the shape of timber wolvesl It's really quite a piece of craftsmanship."

"Perhaps I'll have a look at it when my schedule permits," said Villon without enthusiasm. He pondered a moment, trying to make sense out of Sarveux's instructions to Danielle in the hospital. It didn't add up. A riddle of ciphers. Villon took a flyer on another tack. "If you had to describe Roubaix's case, how would you sum it up in a single sentence?"

"I'm not sure I know what you're after," said McComb.

"Let me put it another way. What was Max Roubaix?"

There was silence for a few moments. Villon could almost hear the gears turn in McComb's head. Finally the Mountie said, "I guess you could call him a homicidal maniac with a fetish for the stranglehold."

Villon tensed and then relaxed again. "Thank you, superintendent."

"If there is anything else…..."

"No, you've done me a service, and I'm grateful."

Villon slowly replaced the receiver. He looked into space, focusing on the impression of a sickly man twisting a garrote. The stunned expression of incomprehension on the face of the prey. A final glimpse before the bulging eyes turned sightless.

Sarveux's delirious ravings to Danielle suddenly began to make a shred of sense.

Sarveux lay in the hospital bed and nodded as Deputy Prime Minister Malcolm Hunt was ushered into his hospital room. He smiled. "It was good of you to come, Malcolm. I'm well aware of the hell you're going through with the House of Commons."

Out of habit, Hunt held out his hand, but quickly withdrew it on seeing the salve-coated arms of the Prime Minister.

"Pull up a chair and get comfortable," Sarveux said graciously. "Smoke if you care to."

"The effects of my pipe might lose me the medical vote come next election," Hunt smiled. "Thank you, but I'd better pass."

Sarveux came straight to the point. "I have talked with the director of air safety. He assures me that the tragedy at James Bay was no accident."

Hunt's face whitened suddenly. "How can he be positive?"

"A piece of engine cowling was found a half mile beyond the runway," Sarveux explained. "Analysis showed fragments embedded in it that matched a type of rocket used by the army's Argo ground-to-air launcher. An inventory at the Val Jalbert Arsenal discovered two were missing, along with several warheads."

"Good lord." Hunt's voice trembled. "That means all those people on your aircraft were murdered."

"The evidence points in that direction," Sarveux said placidly.

"The Free Quebec Society," said Hunt, turning angry. "I can think of no one else who could be responsible."

"I agree, but their guilt may never be proved."

"Why not?" asked Hunt. "The FQS are either out of touch with reality or complete idiots to think they could get away with it. The Mounties will never permit the terrorists behind a crime of such magnitude to escape unpunished. As a radical movement they are finished."

"Do not be too optimistic, old friend. My attempted assassination does not fall into the same category as the bombings, kidnappings and slayings of the last forty years. Those were carried out by political amateurs, belonging to FQS cells, who were apprehended and convicted. The slaughter at James Bay was conceived and directed by professionals. That much is known by the fact they left no trace of their existence. The best guess by the chief commissioner of the Mounties is that they were hired from outside the country."

Hunt's eyes were steady. "The FQS terrorists might yet push us into a state of civil war."

"That must not come to pass," Sarveux said quietly. "I will not allow it."

"It was you who threatened the use of troops to keep the separatists in line."

Sarveux smiled a dry smile. "A bluff. You are the first to know. I never intended a military occupation of Quebec. Repression of a hostile people would solve nothing."

Hunt reached in his pocket. "I believe I'll have that pipe now."

"Please do."

The two men sat silent while the deputy prime minister puffed his briar bowl to life. Finally he blew a blue cloud toward the ceiling.

"So what happens now?" asked Hunt.

"The Canada we know will disintegrate while we stand helpless to prevent it," answered Sarveux sadly. "A totally independent Quebec was inevitable from the start. Sovereignty association was merely a half-assed measure. Now Alberta wants to go it alone. Ontario and British Columbia are making rumblings about nationhood."

"You fought a good fight to keep us together, Charles. No one can deny you that."

"A mistake," said Sarveux. "Instead of a delaying action, you and I, the party, the nation, should have, planned for it. Too late; we are faced with a Canada divided forever."