“Hm-m. What did you find out?”
“I did what you told me; I checked with McGill and found that Mlle. Montjean attended on a full scholarship.”
“I see.” This is only part of the answer LaPointe is looking for. As he walked through back streets of the Main toward his apartment last night, he was pestered with the question of how a girl from the streets, a chippy’s daughter, managed to get the schooling that transformed her into a sophisticated, if bent and tormented, young woman. If she had been Jewish or Chinese, he would understand, but the French Canadian culture does not contain this instinctive awe for education. “How did she come by the scholarship?”
“Well, she was an intelligent student. Did well in entrance tests. Super IQ. And to a certain degree, the scholarship was a foregone conclusion.”
“How come?”
“She attended Ste. Catherine’s Academy. I remember the Ste. Kate girls from when I was in college. They’re prepped specifically for the entrance exams. Most of them get scholarships. Not that that’s any saving of money for their parents. It costs more to send a girl to Ste. Kate’s than to any university in the world.”
“I see.”
“You want me to check out Ste. Catherine’s?”
“No, I’ll do it.” LaPointe wads up the coffee cup and misses the wastebasket with it.
Guttmann pulls his old bentwood chair from the wall and sits on it backwards, his chin on his arms. “How did it go last night? Did it turn out to be true that she never met the American, MacHenry?”
“No. She met him.” LaPointe involuntarily lays his hand over the five-year diary he has been scanning with a feeling of reluctance, invasion.
“Then why did she deny it?”
“He gave her a phony name. She probably read about his death in the papers without knowing who it was.”
“How about that? She’s quite a… quite a woman, isn’t she?”
“In what way?”
“Well, you know. The way she’s got it all together. Her business, her life. All under control. I admire that. And the way she talks about sex—frank, healthy, not coy, not embarrassed. She’s got it all put together.”
“You’d make a great social worker, son; the way you can size people up at a glance.”
“We’ll have a chance to find out about that.” Guttmann rubs the tip of his nose with his thumb knuckle. “I’ve… ah… sent in my resignation, effective in two months.” He glances up to see what effect this news has on the Lieutenant None.
“Jeanne and I talked it over all last night. We’ve decided that I’m not cut out to be a cop.”
“Does that mean you’ve got too much of something? Or too little?”
“Both, I guess. If I’m going to help people, me, I want to do it from their side of the fence.”
LaPointe smiles at the “me, I” construction. His French was better when they met… but more bogus. “From the way you talk it sounds like you and your Jeanne are getting married.”
“You know, that’s a funny thing, sir. We’ve never actually talked about marriage. We’ve talked about how children should be brought up. We’ve talked about how when you design a house you should put the bathroom above the kitchen to save on plumbing. But never actually about marriage. And now it’s sort of too late to propose to her. We’ve sort of passed that moment and gone on to bigger things.” Guttmann smiles comfortably and shakes his head over the way their romance is going. People in love always imagine they’re interesting. He rises from his chair. “Well, sir. I’ve got to get going. I report this afternoon out at St. Jean de Dieu. I’ll be doing my last two months on the east side.”
“Be careful. It can be rough for a Roundhead out there.”
Guttmann tucks down the corners of his mouth and shrugs. “After being around you, maybe I can pass.” If the chair weren’t in the way, he might shake hands with the Lieutenant.
But the chair is in the way.
“Well, see you around, sir.”
LaPointe nods. “Yes, see you around.”
A few minutes after Guttmann leaves, it occurs to LaPointe that he never learned the kid’s first name.
“Lieutenant LaPointe?” Sister Marie-Therese enters the waiting room with a crisp rustle of her blue habit. She shakes hands firmly, realizing that uncertain pressures are vulnerable to interpretation. “You surprise me, Lieutenant. I expected an army officer.” She smiles at him interrogatively, with the poise that is the signature of Ste. Catherine girls.
“I’m police, Sister.”
“Ah.” Meaning nothing.
As LaPointe explains that he is interested in one of their ex-students, Sister Marie-Therese listens politely, her face a mask of bland benevolence framed by a wide-winged wimple of perfect whiteness.
“I see,” she says when he has finished. “Well, of course Ste. Catherine’s is always eager to be a good citizen of Montreal, but I am afraid. Lieutenant, that our rules forbid any disclosure of our students’ affairs. I am sure you understand.” Her manner is gentle, her intention adamant.
“It isn’t the young lady we’re interested in. Not directly.”
“Nevertheless…” She shows her palms, revealing herself to be helpless in the face of absolute rules.
“I considered getting a warrant, Sister. But since there were no criminal charges against the young lady, I thought it might be better to avoid what the newspapers might consider a nasty business.”
The smile does not desert the nun’s lips, but she lowers her eyes and blinks once. There are no wrinkles in her dry, almost powdery forehead. The face shows no signs of age, and none of youth.
“Still,” LaPointe says, taking up his overcoat, “I understand your position. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
She lifts a hand toward his arm, but she does not touch him. “You say that Mlle. Montjean is not implicated in anything… unpleasant?”
“I said that she was not facing criminal charges.”
“I see. Well, perhaps Ste. Catherine’s could serve her best by cooperating with you. Will you follow me, please, Lieutenant?”
As they pass along a dark-paneled hall, he walks through air set in motion by the nun’s habit, and he picks up a faint scent of soap and bread. He wonders if there is a Glory Hole here, and little girls working off punishment
Two teen-aged girls dash around a corner, but arrest their run with comic abruptness when they see Sister Marie-Therese, and assume a sedate walk, side by side in their identical blue uniforms with SCA embroidered on bibs that bulge slightly with developing, unexplained breasts. In passing, they mutter, “Good morning, Sister.” The nun nods her head, her expression neutral. But as the girls pass LaPointe they make identical tight-jawed grimaces and suck air in through their lower teeth. They’ll get it later for running in the halls. Young ladies do not run. Not at Ste. Catherine’s.
The Sister opens a tall oak door and stands aside to allow LaPointe to enter her office first. She does not close the door after them. As principal, she often has to meet male parents without the company of another nun, but never in rooms with closed doors.
The whole atmosphere of Ste. Catherine’s Academy vibrates with sex unperformed.
With a businesslike rustle of her long skirts, she passes behind her desk and opens a middle file drawer. “You say Mlle. Montjean came to us twenty years ago?”
“About that. I don’t know the exact date.”
“That would be before I held my present position.” She looks up from leafing through the files. “Although it certainly would not be before I came here.” A careful denial that she is claiming youth. “In fact, Lieutenant, I am a Ste. Catherine girl myself.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Except for my girlhood and my years at university, I have lived all my life here. I was a teacher long
