Giles Blunt - The Delicate Storm

Stan Cardinal had a huge copper squirrel in his front yard, an ancient weather vane he’d salvaged years ago. The fog lent it a nightmarish cast. Cardinal made a careful U-turn and pulled into the drive.

‘Give me a call tomorrow and we’ll get you to the cardiologist. If I can’t do it, Catherine will be happy to – Hold on.’ His cellphone was buzzing.

‘Cardinal, where are you?’ It was Duty Sergeant Mary Flower. ‘We got a 10–47 at Main and MacPherson and we need everyone we’ve got.’

‘I’m on it.’ He clicked off the phone. ‘Gotta run,’ he said to Stan. ‘Call Catherine later and let her know what time tomorrow.’

‘Major crisis, is it? Another one of your domestics, I bet.’

‘Actually, it’s a bank robbery.’

The Federal Trust was right downtown, on Main Street – a low, red brick structure that made no attempt to blend in with the century-old buildings that surrounded it. Cardinal didn’t bank there, but he remembered going inside with his father as a kid. By the time he pulled up in front, there were already three black-and-whites parked at crazy angles in the street and on the sidewalk.

Ken Szelagy, the size of a grizzly bear and by his own description a mad Hungarian, was at the door, jabbering into his cellphone. He raised a hand as Cardinal approached. ‘Guy’s long gone. We’re trying to get access to the security tape right now. Gonna be fun looking for him in this pea soup, eh?’

‘Anybody hurt?’

‘Nope. Shaken up some, though.’

‘Delorme inside?’

‘Yeah. She’s got things pretty much under control.’

Lise Delorme, in addition to being a first-class detective, had a calm, reasonable manner that was a real asset in dealing with the public. She had compelling physical qualities, too, but right now it was that reasonable manner that counted. Cardinal had handled several bank robberies, and usually it meant a scene of excitement verging on hysteria. But Delorme had got all the employees sitting quietly at their desks, waiting to be interviewed. Cardinal found her talking to the manager in his glass-fronted office.

The manager himself hadn’t seen anything of the robbery but led them to the young teller who just minutes before had been looking at the barrel of a gun. Cardinal let Delorme ask the questions.

‘He was wearing a scarf over his face,’ the teller said. ‘A plaid scarf. He had it pulled up like an outlaw, you know, in a western. It all happened so fast.’

‘What about his voice?’ Delorme said. ‘What did he sound like?’

‘I never heard his voice. He didn’t say anything – at least, I don’t think so. He just stood there staring at me and passed a note over the counter. It was terrifying.’

‘Do you still have that note?’

She shook her head. ‘He took it with him.’

Cardinal glanced around. There was a balled-up piece of paper at his feet. He picked it up and opened it by the edges, trying to preserve any fingerprints. There was typing on one side, and on the other, printed in pencil with idiosyncratic spelling: Don’t make a sound or I’ll shot. Don’t press any alarms or I’ll shot. Hand over all the money in your droor.

‘I emptied the top drawer and put it in a manila envelope. That’s what we’re supposed to do in this situation, we’re just supposed to do what they ask. He shoved the money in his knapsack.’

‘What colour was the knapsack?’

‘Red.’

‘Are you sure he said nothing at all?’ Delorme said. ‘I’m sure it happened very quickly, but try and think back.’

‘He said, “Just do it.” Something like that. Oh, and “Hurry up.”’

‘Did he have an accent?’ Delorme asked. ‘English? French Canadian?’ Her own accent was light French Canadian. The only time Cardinal noticed it was when she was angry.

‘I was so terrified he was going to shoot me, I didn’t notice.’

‘Oh my God,’ Cardinal said, staring at the other side of the note. ‘It’s Wudky.’ He stepped away from the counter and gestured for Delorme to follow.

‘What the hell is a Wudky?’ she wanted to know. Delorme had worked the mostly white-collar arena of Special Investigations for six years before moving to CID. There were gaps in her knowledge of the local fauna.

‘WDC – or Wudky – short for World’s Dumbest Criminal. Wudky is Robert Henry Hewitt.’

‘You’re saying you know this Hewitt’s the guy?’

Cardinal handed her the note. ‘Hold it by the edge, there.’

Delorme peered at both sides of the note, then caught her breath. ‘It’s an old arrest warrant. The guy writes a holdup note on the back of his own arrest warrant? I don’t believe it.’

‘You don’t win the title of World’s Dumbest Criminal by half-measures. Robert Henry Hewitt is a real champ, and I happen to know where he lives.’

‘Well, so do I. It’s right here on his holdup note.’

Robert Henry Hewitt lived in the basement apartment of a miniature, rundown house tucked into the crevasse of a rock cut behind Ojibwa Secondary School. Cardinal stopped the car in a grey swirl of fog. They could just make out the row of dented garbage cans at the end of the driveway. ‘Looks like we beat him home.’

‘If he isn’t home by now, what makes you think he’s coming?’

Cardinal shrugged. ‘It’s the dumbest thing I can think of.’

‘What kind of car does he drive?’

‘Orange Toyota, about a hundred years old. Even the spackling is rusty.’

They heard the car approach before they saw it – a disembodied collection of sound effects for the Tin Man. Then it clattered past them, a dangling exhaust pipe scraping the sidewalk as it pulled into the driveway.

‘Open your door,’ Cardinal said. ‘Let’s be ready to move.’

‘But he’s armed,’ Delorme said. ‘Shouldn’t we call for backup?’ She looked at him, those earnest brown eyes sizing him up. Cardinal thought about Delorme’s eyes more often than he would have liked.

‘Technically, yes. On the other hand, I know Robert. We’re not in a hell of a lot of danger.’

The Toyota’s one good tail light dimmed and went out.

Cardinal and Delorme got out of the car and left the doors open so as not to make a sound. Stepping carefully on the wet pavement, they moved in on the Toyota.

The driver, a small man with frizzy ginger hair and a plaid scarf around his neck, got out and opened the trunk. He pulled out a bulging plastic FoodMart bag, slung a red knapsack over his shoulder and slammed the trunk shut with his elbow.

‘Robert Henry Hewitt?’

He dropped the knapsack and the groceries and started to run, but Cardinal caught hold of his jacket and the two of them fell to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. Then Cardinal hauled him up, and Algonquin Bay’s master thief found himself face down against the trunk of the Toyota, feet spread wide behind him.

‘If he moves, spank him,’ Cardinal said, and patted him down. He pulled a pistol from a jacket pocket. ‘Goodness me. A firearm.’

‘That there is a toy,’ Hewitt said. ‘I wasn’t gonna hurt nobody.’

‘Wasn’t gonna hurt nobody where?’

‘At the bank, for Chrissake.’

‘Robert, what do I say to you every time I see you?’

Wudky turned to look over his shoulder. When he recognized Cardinal, he grinned, showing splayed front teeth in appalling condition. ‘Oh, hi! How you doing? I was just thinking about you, eh?’

‘Robert? What do I say to you? Every time I see you.’

Wudky thought for a moment. ‘You say, “Stay out of trouble, Robert.”’

‘Nobody listens to me, Sergeant Delorme,’ Cardinal said. ‘It’s a real problem. Check the knapsack there. I’d say we have probable cause.’