told him that. He wanted to come anyway. So I sent a patrol car.”
“That’s good.” Touton shook his head. “If it was me I’d’ve put a bag over his head.”
“If it was me I’d just shoot him,” Sloan said. “But that’s another story.”
“Good point. I hope you sent a couple of guys we can trust.”
Both men smiled. Sloan showed him the smashed glass display case in which an invaluable antique knife resided most days. The case was a couple of feet long, and, like the panelling in the elevator, made of a bright mahogany with polished brass trim. The broken glass was thick and scattered in pieces on the floor.
“Usually, during the day, the case is kept in Campbell’s office. On display. Even then, it’s locked, and secured to the desk it’s on, and the desk weighs a ton.”
Touton was thinking about something else as he took to examining the heavy door blown partially off its hinges. “Usually, there’d be people up here, right? If not in this office, on the floor. If not on the floor, then in the building. Night shift workers. Cleaners. Lawyers preparing a case. People working overtime on a big project. That sort of thing.”
“That’s right.”
“So if this is some sort of big-time heist—”
“Which it is.”
“—then the bad guys took advantage of the riot to break in …”
“I believe that,” Sloan agreed.
“ … then how did they know there’d be a riot?”
“I believe that, too,” Sloan contested, one step ahead of him.
“You believe what?” Sloan was making no sense.
“Somebody might have started the riot in order to steal the Cartier Dagger.”
This was news. Touton had assumed that, in the coming weeks, numerous commentators would be taking a stab at explaining the riot. The frustration of hockey fans, the fury of the French who felt victimized yet again by the English, the social upheaval of a nation wrestling with its postwar restraints, the wrath of the poor—the rationale would be discussed and debated, yet no one was likely to suggest that the entire matter had been a ploy to blow the doors off a vault.
Recovering, Touton said, “Tell me about the knife.”
“An old relic owned by Sun Life. It’s worth millions. For once, ‘priceless’ is a word that fits. Originally, it belonged to Jacques Cartier himself—some Indian gave it to him. It’s on loan to Campbell for his work at Nuremberg, but just on loan, because, like I said, it’s worth millions—or more. He can keep it here as long as he’s NHL president.”
“What’s in it for him?”
“He gets to look at it whenever he wants, I guess. It’s a handsome knife.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“When? Where?” Touton drilled him.
“Tonight. Across the street in the park. The dagger is stuck in the heart of a murder victim. Up to the hilt, right through the breastplate. It’s still there right now.”
Touton looked at Sloan. His own excitement was rising, and he wanted to suppress it. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said slowly.
“Come across with me. See for yourself.”
“Lead the way.” Touton pulled his hat lower, indicating that he was headed outside, but also that he meant business.
Before they could manage the foray, Clarence Campbell got off the elevator. He was still in the company of the three women with whom he had attended the game, one of whom had received more than her share of tomato splatter. Apparently, the three were not about to leave his side anytime soon, nor would they consent to being left alone by themselves. They were spinsters, and he was a bachelor in need of their care in this, his darkest hour.
The hockey league president held his fedora at his left side, his right hand in his coat pocket. A relaxed posture. Only wisps of hair covered his pate, and his face sagged into his jowls. He had a stout middle. He did not seem to be the sort of man to be keeping the company of three women, but one was his sister and all three were
“That’s good.” Touton shook his head. “If it was me I’d’ve put a bag over his head.”
“If it was me I’d just shoot him,” Sloan said. “But that’s another story.”
“Good point. I hope you sent a couple of guys we can trust.”
Both men smiled. Sloan showed him the smashed glass display case in which an invaluable antique knife resided most days. The case was a couple of feet long, and, like the panelling in the elevator, made of a bright mahogany with polished brass trim. The broken glass was thick and scattered in pieces on the floor.
“Usually, during the day, the case is kept in Campbell’s office. On display. Even then, it’s locked, and secured to the desk it’s on, and the desk weighs a ton.”
Touton was thinking about something else as he took to examining the heavy door blown partially off its hinges. “Usually, there’d be people up here, right? If not in this office, on the floor. If not on the floor, then in the building. Night shift workers. Cleaners. Lawyers preparing a case. People working overtime on a big project. That sort of thing.”
“That’s right.”
“So if this is some sort of big-time heist—”
“Which it is.”
“—then the bad guys took advantage of the riot to break in …”
“I believe that,” Sloan agreed.
“ … then how did they know there’d be a riot?”
“I believe that, too,” Sloan contested, one step ahead of him.
“You believe what?” Sloan was making no sense.
“Somebody might have started the riot in order to steal the Cartier Dagger.”
This was news. Touton had assumed that, in the coming weeks, numerous commentators would be taking a stab at explaining the riot. The frustration of hockey fans, the fury of the French who felt victimized yet again by the English, the social upheaval of a nation wrestling with its postwar restraints, the wrath of the poor—the rationale would be discussed and debated, yet no one was likely to suggest that the entire matter had been a ploy to blow the doors off a vault.
Recovering, Touton said, “Tell me about the knife.”
“An old relic owned by Sun Life. It’s worth millions. For once, ‘priceless’ is a word that fits. Originally, it belonged to Jacques Cartier himself—some Indian gave it to him. It’s on loan to Campbell for his work at Nuremberg, but just on loan, because, like I said, it’s worth millions—or more. He can keep it here as long as he’s NHL president.”
“What’s in it for him?”
“He gets to look at it whenever he wants, I guess. It’s a handsome knife.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“When? Where?” Touton drilled him.
“Tonight. Across the street in the park. The dagger is stuck in the heart of a murder victim. Up to the hilt, right through the breastplate. It’s still there right now.”
Touton looked at Sloan. His own excitement was rising, and he wanted to suppress it. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said slowly.
“Come across with me. See for yourself.”
“Lead the way.” Touton pulled his hat lower, indicating that he was headed outside, but also that he meant business.
Before they could manage the foray, Clarence Campbell got off the elevator. He was still in the company of the three women with whom he had attended the game, one of whom had received more than her share of tomato splatter. Apparently, the three were not about to leave his side anytime soon, nor would they consent to being left alone by themselves. They were spinsters, and he was a bachelor in need of their care in this, his darkest hour.
The hockey league president held his fedora at his left side, his right hand in his coat pocket. A relaxed posture. Only wisps of hair covered his pate, and his face sagged into his jowls. He had a stout middle. He did not seem to be the sort of man to be keeping the company of three women, but one was his sister and all three were
Similar Books
