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feel you thinking,” she said. “Pity you can’t walk at the same time.”
    â€œYou’re so funny. So answer the question.”
    â€œThe vault was under Dorchester Square,” she said patiently. “But the jewels were moved.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œBecause I’m a researcher. That’s what I do: I find out stuff like that. And I’m about to show you where they ended up,” she said, a current of impatience moving through her voice. “There were documents in London, that’s what started me on all this in the first place. Documents about them being afraid that Sun-Life was compromised. So, assuming that was right, ask yourself, Martine: who else had a decent vault at the time?”
    â€œI don’t know.” I was feeling a little irritable at her pedantic approach. Maybe academia does that to people. “Banks?”
    â€œBanks, sure. Good option. But also the Montréal Stock Exchange.” She put up a hand. “Don’t say it. They’re downtown now, yeah, but they used to be—”
    â€œâ€”at the Centaur Theatre!” I couldn’t help the interruption; this part of history, at least, I knew about. The Exchange was in a Beaux Arts–style building in the Old Port when, in 1969, the Front de Libération du Québec set off a bomb there (the Exchange apparently representing a bastion of Anglo-Canadian power), blowing out the northeast wall.
    Now the Exchange lived in one of Montréal’s highest modern buildings, and the English-language Centaur Theatre played where stocks were once exchanged. About five blocks from the Pointe-à-Callière museum, where the excavations were going on.
    â€œGot it in one,” said Patricia cheerfully. “Come on.”
    We proceeded in silence, which was fine with me: I really didn’t want to hear any more about recreational trespassing, since we were pretty much doing the same thing now and the thought of possible professional consequences should we be caught had started wending its way through my brain. I could already hear Jean-Luc denying any knowledge of anything I happened to have done at any time.… I walked straight into Patricia’s back. “Sorry.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” she said. “Look, we have to climb here onto that shelf … see it?” She moved the spotlight to an opening that was about shoulder height and seemed very, very dark. Probably filled with rats, too. “I can boost you up,” she said encouragingly.
    Okay, so I might not be twenty-three myself, but I wasn’t all that decrepit. “I’ll manage,” I said.
    â€œNot in those waders,” she said. “Come on. I’ll boost you, then you can give me a hand up.”
    â€œAll right.” Even with her help, I struggled, and ended up on my stomach on what felt to be a very narrow ledge. “You’re doing great,” she said. “Now, just give me a hand.”
    She was up surprisingly quickly. Okay, so maybe there is something about being twenty-three.
    We had to crouch to enter this tunnel, and as the light moved ahead of us I could see scurrying forms, shadows moving fast. I’d been right. We were right up against the river, after all, and the Old City has always had a rodent problem. I wasn’t as concerned about them as I was about ending up on my knees if this thing got any smaller. I’ve never been particularly aware of being claustrophobic, but there’s no time like the present to find out something new about oneself.
    â€œOver here.” It was clearly an accidental opening, without the fine brickwork that had been in evidence in all the other openings I’d seen so far, and I could see where high water had left debris drying around it; it hadn’t happened all that long ago. Patricia pushed me. “Go on.”
    She’d been right; it opened up onto a room. I swept my flashlight around: