Monday Mourning

“I haven’t seen you stage a nutty like that since you caught Pete screwing the travel agent.”

“It was a Realtor.” I had to smile. “And she definitely had a fat ass.”

“Let me guess. We aren’t pleased with our phone message?”

“No. We aren’t.”

I summarized the tale of Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent’s calls.

“That brought out the Diva of Dachau?”

I didn’t respond.

“The nice lady is probably out buying her weekly Metamucil. She has called twice. She will call a third time.” Again, the patient schoolmarm. “If not, you have the number and you will reach her later. Or you must have resources downtown that can identify the listing that goes with that number. Hell, some everyman directory assistance systems will give you the name and address if you have a number.”

I could not mask my agitation.

“Anne, the woman said she knew who was dead and why. If she’s legit she can break this investigation wide open. Of course, she may not be legit. I’d like to talk to her before I set Claudel off on a false trail You’re right, I need to make some more efforts to talk to her myself. She called me, not the police.”

“I do have one other question.”

I raised my hands in a go-ahead gesture.

“How do you plan to button your jacket?”

I yanked off both gloves and pegged them at her.

For the second time that week I pulled into a pay lot in the old quarter. The sky was gunmetal, the air heavy with unborn snow.

“Bundle up,” I told Anne, zipping my parka.

“Where are we going?”

“Hôtel de Ville.”

“We’re booking a room?” Muffled through angora scarving.

“City Hall. It’s a four-block walk.”

Perched atop place Jacques-Cartier, Montreal’s City Hall is a Victorian extravagance in copper and stone. Built between 1872 and 1878, the place looks as though its designer didn’t quite know when to call it a day. Mansard roof? Très Parisien. Columns? Of course. Porticos? Bien sûr. Eaves, dormer windows, balconies, cupola, clock? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. And yes.

Though devastated by fire in 1922, Hôtel de Ville remained structurally sound, was rejuvenated, and today is a favorite with both natives and visitors, one of Montreal’s most charming landmarks.

“One would not confuse this with the Clover City Hall,” Anne said as we climbed the front steps.

I pointed to a balcony over the front door. “See that?”

Anne nodded.

“Charles de Gaulle made his famous or infamous Vive le Québec Libre speech from that balcony.”

“When?”

“Sixty-seven.”

“And?”

“The separatists liked it.”

Despite its modern status as a tourist attraction, Hôtel de Ville remains the city’s main administrative center. And the repository of the information I was seeking. I hoped.

Anne and I entered to the smell of radiator heat and wet wool. Across the lobby, a kiosk offered Renseignements. Information.

A woman looked up when I approached. She was about twenty, with towering blonde hair that added inches to her height.

The woman stifled a yawn as I explained what I wanted. Before I’d finished, she pointed to a wallboard listing offices and locations, her bony arm clattering with plastic bracelets.

“Accès Montréal,” she said.

“Merci,” I said.

“I think she could have been less interested,” Anne said, trailing me to the office directory. “But not without a heavy dose of Lithium.”

In the Access Montreal office we encountered an older, heavier, and decidedly friendlier version of Ms. Information. The woman greeted us in typical Montreal Franglais.

“Bonjour. Hi.”

I explained my objective in French.

The woman dropped chained glasses to her bosom and replied in English.

“If you have a civic address, I can look up the cadastral and lot numbers.”

I must have looked confused.

“The cadastral number describes the parcel of land. The important one is the lot number. With that you can research the history of the property at the Registre Foncier du Québec office in the Bureau d’Enregistrement.”

“Is that located here?”

“Palais de Justice. Second floor. Room 2.175.”

I jotted the address of the pizza parlor building and handed it across the counter.

“Shouldn’t be long.”

It wasn’t. In ten minutes the woman returned with the numbers. I thanked her, and Anne and I set off.

Montreal’s three courthouses lie just west of its City Hall. As we scurried along rue Notre-Dame, Anne’s eyes probed gallery, café, and boutique windows. She hung back to pat a horse, gushed over the beauty of the Château Ramezay, laughed at cars snowbanked in by plows.

Architecturally, City Hall and the modern courthouse have little in common aside from the fact that each is a building. Anne did not comment on the charm of the latter.

Before entering, I pulled out my cellular and tried Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent’s number.

Nope.

As on the day of my testimony, the courthouse was busy with lawyers, judges, journalists, security guards, and worried-looking people. The lobby was controlled confusion, each face looking like it would rather be elsewhere.