Gaetan's Secret

         What would it feel like to keep a secret? 

    I mean to really keep it.  Not just to give the notion lip service followed by the well-intentioned divulgence, if only to one person, this truly clandestine tidbit…but to sincerely and utterly take it to your grave, where the only person that would ever know would be you?

    It can’t be that hard, thought Gaetan Rouchard, pondering the phenomenon through an early morning fog from his loft apartment in Montreal, Quebec.  It couldn’t be…not really.  Not for an old stalwart like him, who had been able to keep the juiciest secrets of his many friends over the years.  It had never fazed him, that weakness that most men felt when in the possession of a secret…that compulsion to tell.  He was stronger than that; in fact he had trained himself to be.  It was the only way he could hope to become the man he wanted to be…. the man capable of keeping the biggest secrets one on this earth could hope to contain. 

    Like, for instance, the current location of The Lugaze Diamond.

    He found it odd that the robbery hadn’t fazed him.  The actual heist had been well planned of course, mapped out to the smallest detail…he even smiled at the fact that another man, who had not even been in the region at the time of the robbery now sat in prison, sentence pending, as the man truly responsible for the heist lounged in an apartment off Lemond street, contemplating his imminent departure for the Caribbean and all the luxurious amenities that awaited him. 

    But still, something perplexed him…something distant.  He couldn’t place it…it was like…
         
    His momentary introspection was interrupted by a knock at the door.  He opens it; his long-time friend Mary is at the door, a small package under her left arm.  He invites her in.

“Gaetan,” she exclaims.  “You’re like a ghost…. you’re impossible to get a hold of.”

    She’s lovely, he thinks.  Always has been secretly infatuated with her.  “Impossible?”  He says.  “You ever hear of leaving a message?”

“Oh, Gaetan!”  She gushes.  “You know I don’t do messages.”  She heaves her coat off her shoulders and lets it rest on an armchair.  Light motes of snow flicker from the collar to the floor.  She turns, hands spread in a curious gesture.  “Where have you been these past weeks??”

    Hmm…how about the Anthropological Museum of Montreal, my dear? He thinks.  How about absconding with a diamond the size of my fist?  It’s right in the other room…you want to see it??  She would too…like to see it that is.  Aside from the criminal implications, she has always had a perverse proclivity for diamonds.  She would be inestimably impressed.  Maybe I could show her…maybe- No.  Too risky.  No one must know, he reminds himself.  Absolute secrecy.  “Nothing much,” he responds.  “You know how crazy my life gets, running here and there form one courthouse to the next.”  He is a criminal prosecutor.  The irony to end all ironies.

    And then the impossible happens.  It starts with the innocent movement of her lips; perhaps it was the way the ruby-colored lipstick seemed to enforce the movement of those luscious pearls, or the way she ran her hand teasingly down the back of his neck as they joked on the sofa over a glass of wine…but he wakes up several hours later, naked, laying beside her, the long locks from her red hair weaving intricate patterns over her smooth breasts.  He admires her neck, the smoothness of it…the grace.  He eyes the dresser nervously. 

    It would look so good on that neck, he thinks.  The porcelain white necklace ending in a decadent blue sapphire pendant.  It would make her look like a million bucks.  Actually, he snickers, it would make her look like 20 million bucks and some change, but whose counting.  Maybe I could just…. NO!  He scolds himself.  Stupid, just stupid, Gaetan.  What’s the point of pulling off the perfect heist just to spoil it with puerile male showmanship?  What’s the point of ruining the perfect crime?

    And this is when it hits him. 

    Those words:  The Perfect Crime.

    Truly, it was the perfect crime.  But was it really?  Something troubled him, something from his collegiate years…some asinine riddle…a philosophy class.  If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it still make a noise??  Does it, he thinks.  Does it indeed.

    Cool it Gaetan, he reproaches.  But he realizes now what that little incessant annoyance from earlier really represented…the lack of a witness.  Because without someone else to view his little achievement, there came no glory.  And now, laying beside this beautiful Canadian goddess whom all he had to do in order to give her the world was to open a dresser drawer three inches, all he could do was kiss her feebly and caress her cheek in the darkness.

    When she left he was alone.  Alone with his guilt.  He paced mercilessly, running his fingers through his hair.  Keep cool, he scolded himself.  Take a walk.  Cool down.

    He exits the lobby of his apartment complex, entering the streets beyond.  A fresh coat of snow covers the roads, and he sees the bustling of the city’s denizens as they went about their lives.  Pathetic lives.  They had no idea of the treasure that now lay in his possession…how great he was.  He would never have to work again.  After tonight, he would become a God. 

    He checks his watch, a Dresden, from Switzerland. Very expensive. Walking along, he marvels at all the material possessions that his criminal endeavors have been able to afford him. He thought of all the people who have to work for a living. What a repulsive concept. To get up, day in and day out, punching a clock so as to bring home but ample enough pittance to allow the pitiable lifestyle to continue on, ad naseum, et infinitem. He relished his freedom, his zeal. He attempted to calm himself; he had not been a stranger to plunder, yet found all his other heists rendered mere cat-burglaries compared to his achievement as of late. He tried to think of the greats: Thomas De’Loray and his superb art heist in Quebec; Delray McCabe, the marvelous absconder of bearer bonds from the Toronto Dominion. Both great men- and both systematically rotting in their respective dungeons, defeated not by the authorities but their ego. Defeated for they had not been able to accomplish a task superior to their heist- to keep their mouths shut. Thinking of these greats, he found himself inescapably smiling, though, for all their efforts combined had not been as clever, as succinct and as flawless as his execution of the Lugaze heist. And he had gotten away with it.

    He checks his watch again: almost four o’clock. He found he was getting nervous, and a little discontent. His buyer was arriving this afternoon from London. Just a few short hours, and this experiment called struggling would be but a memory. Twenty million dollars in untraceable bills awaited, as did a plane to take him to his destination. He would miss Montreal, for it had been his home for many years, however the thought of sitting on the beach drinking Caribbean rum and smoking cigars while his dividends earned interest in an offshore account erased this pathetic longing from his memory. Grow up, he thought…you must remain strong today, must remain on your game.

    He stops into Janelle’s, a coffee shop he liked to frequent. He knew most of the patron’s, and in fact had been coming here for some time. He orders a double espresso, fishing through his pockets for change. He laughs, thinking of the concept of change. Never again, he thought, would he have to scrape for change to get a coffee. Ha! Never again would he have to scrounge for anything, save the last sip of liquor at the bottom of his glass. He could practically taste the beach- and the women, he thought. More women than he would be able to acquire in a lifetime- all within his reach. Just a few more hours.

“Rouchard, what have you been up to, you devil.”

    He looks and sees Reed Timmons, a paralegal in his office. He is dressed in a three-piece suit, an obnoxiously bright red tie hanging from neck. He was always coming up to Gaetan, picking his brain on the latest opinions from the Supreme Court, or the ‘Old Folks Home,’ as he called it. These old judges, all they had were opinions…opinions on this case or that, opinions in writing and opinions aloud. He couldn’t stand the judges, they were such pompous didactics.  But no more, he thought! After tonight, he was free.

“I’ve been around,” he said.

“Did you hear the news?! Oh my, it’s so exciting Rouchard. Hey, maybe if you’re lucky you’ll get to prosecute. Oh, but I don’t even know if the poor sod did it, but whoever knows such things. We’ll have to find out…”

“Timmons, slow down. What are you talking about?”

“You must have heard about the arrest last weekend. Oh, I know you were on vacation, but still…”

    Yes, he thought, I’ve heard. For Timmons could only be referring to the unlucky sap who now sat behind bars, looking out through his cell constantly with tortured eyes, pleading with the guards to release him for a crime he certainly didn’t commit. Not that they’ll ever find out; the evidence he had placed against that poor lad was so cleverly accomplished as to remain virtually foolproof- that is save his own confession of the deed. And he laughed, looking at Timmons, and his innocent stupidity. Vacation. Yes indeed. If by vacation he means crawling on my hands and knees, patiently waiting and bypassing a state of the art security system, carefully placing a stone worth more than the hope diamond into a satchel and carefully and surreptitiously slipping away into the night.

“I’ve heard Timmons. The man’s in jail, correct?”

“Indeed. Such a dastardly thing. Who would do such a thing? Pilfering such a gem. Well it’s to be expected, I suppose. But the office is troubled; so am I. I simply doesn’t add up.”

“Why is that?” Rouchard responded, guided by little save morbid curiosity.

“The man doesn’t have the damned thing- or if he does he won’t give it up. He portrays pure innocence, and won’t break from his wretched protestations. What are we to do?”

“If he won’t confess, Timmons…well, there’s something for that I suppose. I hear he was found with the burglar’s tools, correct? There’s hardly a way out of that. I suppose it’s but a matter of time before he cracks, and gives it up.”

“Oh, your certainly right. Just so strange. Why protest the inevitable? Why play games with the Law?”

“Who knows Timmons?" He sipped his espresso, feeling the warm liquid slide down the back of his throat. But then he noticed that he was squeezing the cup hard, suddenly a nervous wreck. Timmons, the simpleton, but an arms length away, blabbering about a man sitting in jail for a crime that I committed. All this talk of his framed friend began to stir in him that irrational, jealous tingle in the back of his throat. To his absolute detriment, he longed to grab Timmons by the throat, drag him to his loft, shoving his face into that drawer and shouting “There Timmons, damn you! I did it- I blagged that precious gem, it was me!” He reproached himself, questioning why it was this hard. The desire to do himself harm, to let someone in on his lonely secret was quickly becoming too much to bear. And though he certainly wouldn’t be there to prosecute that fool, wouldn’t even be there for his arraignment, he suddenly realized he must leave this café now, lest it be to his peril.

    When he returned to his apartment he shut the door, fastening both deadbolts, testing the door as though doubting its security. He looked out the window. People walked briskly by in the fading snowy afternoon, oblivious souls walking by a master of crime. A thought suddenly occurred to him and he ran to the bedroom, ripping the dresser drawer out, reaching in back of it for his famed prize. Gracious! It was still there. No one had taken it; no one suspected. He grabbed the necklace, walking back over to the window. He peered out the window sheepishly, testing its limits; no one walked by now, and he held the end of the necklace up to it, tauntingly, as though this boyish demonstration would quell the inimical desire to burst through the door, hit the streets and streak through the crowd, holding the pendant in his hands, it’s million dollar chain lagging behind him, shouting to all whom would listen: “My name is Gaetan Rouchard, and I stole this gem, while all you lay in your beds, waiting to go to your simple jobs. Hark, for this is what greatness resembles!”

    He tried to catch his breath. What a circumstance; he had heard rumors of this kind of phenomenon, but only rumors. Truthfully, outside of Poe’s pitiable loser who had cracked under pressure, just as he was about to succeed in his grisly crime while the police sat by, unawares, he had not heard of this kind of stolid, wretched pain. As great as was his desire to cash in, and to depart from this life to a better, was his desire for recognition. He had made history, yet had no commendation. How it would feel, had Columbus landed on that great American soil, only to barricade himself and his secret, so that his name would fail to reach the history books- that it would fail to matter!

    The phone rings. Broken from his stupor, saved from his thoughts, he rushes over, lifting the receiver. “Hello.”

“Gaetan,” a voice speaks. “We need you to come to the office. There’s a stirring we need to attend to…regarding LeMere, we…”

    He listened to the words, letting them trail off. Yes, he would gladly come to the office and tend to that simpleton LeMere, who sat rotting in prison, feebly pleading for his liberation. That he would not abate his pleas, that he would not accept his fate, bothered not Rouchard. He would indeed attend to him; it would, perhaps give him the opportunity to squash two problems at once: to satisfy himself that he had indeed remained under suspicion, and to perhaps gloat to this imbecilic commoner his hushed and torturous deed.

    Entering the jail, he was gripped by an enormous glow. In all his years as the assistant prosecutor, he had seldom set foot into these grimy, wretched, final destinations of these utter disappointments. Men who couldn’t do it, couldn’t pull it off. He walked by, admiring the stark contrast in freedom versus captivity…of success versus failure. He found Andre LeMere hunkered in the corner, sunk on the ground, his head pressed against the wall.

“Andre LeMere,” he said.

    The man struggled up, finding his strength and grasped the bars, brought to life by a fresh face. “There’s been a horrible mistake,” he emphasized. “I am innocent.”

“So I’ve heard,” Gaetan exclaimed. “You’ve been making quite a bit of noise of late, haven’t you.” He paused. “My name is Gaetan Rouchard. Do you recognize me? Do you know who I am?”

“No sir…” He trailed off. Good, he thought. The one remaining doubt, that his brief entry into this man’s apartment may have been glimpsed, was now but a dying memory to be washed away.

“Sir,” LeMere entreated. “I am innocent. You must let me free. You must.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” he said. “For you see, I am the Assistant Prosecutor, and we don’t take kindly to Jewel thieves…especially ones foolish enough to get caught.”

“I didn’t!” He gasped. “Sir, I am but a simple mechanic. In no shape or form could I have pulled off such a crime. I’ve never stolen anything in my life. I don’t even have the diamond!”

“I am sure of it,” Gaetan said. He stared at the man, who seemed all but defeated. A simple shock very well may have killed him, so was the frailty of his spirit. His hand reached into his coat pocket, landing on something round- something firm. The necklace! Oh posh- in his hurriedness to leave his loft and attend to this man he had stuffed it in his pocket rather than return it to his drawer. Had he done it on purpose? He supposed he had; and now, beyond control, beyond restraint he found himself facing LeMere again, a smile across his face.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, I’m quite sure you don’t have the diamond Andre, or that you would ever have the cunning to pull off such deed. You see, you’re here because I deemed it necessary. You’re here because of me.”

“Sir?” Genuine panic now adorned LeMere’s face. The panic remained, and threatened to soar as Rouchard brought the necklace out of his pocket and dangled it before the frightened man as a therapist dangles a pocket watch before the hypnotized patient.

“You!” He said. “It was you!”

“Indeed it was, friend. And now that you know I must thank you for your part in the heist. For without you as patsy, I may not have been able to elude suspicion for the deed. You’ve been of inestimable importance. And think of it as a bonus; I will be rich and free, that is presupposed…but now you’ll be famous. You’ll get all the fame, all the notoriety that comes from a crime such as this. A crime, as I’m sure we both well know friend, which you would never have been able to muster.”

“No!” He cried. “Guards! Guards!” Gaetan walked away, exiting the hallway, listening to the man’s cries, knowing full well that they would be addressed, and that they would be ignored. A petty criminal in his day, LeMere was not the pure innocent he proclaimed, but rather the perfect scapegoat. No one would believe that he, Gaetan Rouchard, Assistant Prosecutor, now walked the halls with The Lugaze Diamond stashed, in all places, the pocket of his Ulster.

“Rouchard,” a voice called. He turned; it was the Inspector, Jacques Martin, coming up to accost him quietly.

“Martin, good fellow,” he said. “That man is troubled. If I were you, and for the serenity of your men, I would leave him in solitude, lest he jaws on day and night in support of his innocence.”

    Martin laughed. “You’ve got a sense of humour, haven’t you Rouchard?” He paused. “You do know what the man is claiming…that you are the culprit and have the Diamond in your possession.”

“I imagine he would say that. It’s no bother…you know how these criminal types are when they are confronted with consequences. I imagine he’d say the Pope himself had thieved the Spear of Destiny, should it free him from the dreadful cage!”

    Martin laughed. “Yes, I imagine.” He paused, grabbing Gaetan lightly by the arm. “But what a curious sort. And cunning. To think, that less than a week ago, while we were asleep, and while you were on vacation, that man worked. How clever, and how thorough he must have been to elude suspicion. That Museum, and its security…”
         
    They walked on while Gaetan squeezed his fists tightly in his pockets as the Inspector moaned on. ‘Clever,’ ‘thorough,’ he thought. LeMere’s a peasant. A nothing. The fact that he had revealed himself to LeMere, though satisfying, in no way worked as a substitute for his own ego. The Inspector went on…”his patience must have been inestimable…having the stolidness of a master craftsman as he skillfully removed that gem from under our very noses…”

    Gaetan squeezed harder, trying to block out the Inspector’s appraisal of that poor, simple goon that sat in the cage. His heart was racing, not with fear but spite; with each laudable adjective that fell from his mouth, Gatean’s heart raced; slowly at first, but then faster…faster as each affronting word hurt his ears…faster still, the sweat building up on his forehead at each instance of LeMere’s triumph over himself. It was I, not that stool, which pulled that job. The thought of LeMere’s simple cries haunted his thoughts: “Sir, I am but a simple mechanic. In no shape or form could I have pulled off such a crime!”- yet this utterance intertwined with the inspector’s words: ”What incalculable patience he must have had- what craft.” He couldn’t breathe. His crime, his perfect theft right under the noses of the entire city, being attributed to the likes of a man who wouldn’t have the nerve to broach the idea much less bring it to completion! He could now feel within him a rising crescendo, the shrill, piercing sound of his dying spirit. Sweat pouring from his face, his heart pounding like a tom-tom, he faced the Inspector, throwing him forcefully against the wall, shutting him up.

“Gaetan, are you alright, I-“

“Shut up you fool!” He shouted. “Stop blabbering on about that dullard LeMere. Look at him, withering away in that monkey’s cage, hunkered in the corner like a schoolchild who reached his hand into mother’s cookie jar. Do you think that imbecile would have the patience, the skill, or the cunning to sneak into the Anthropological Museum of Montreal, past its security and guards and into the Diamond Exhibit to make off with that gem? The mere planning would take months, I tell you. The inestimable patience the likes of which that sewer rat couldn’t muster in a thousand lifetimes!” He paused, catching his breath, completing his fateful, inevitable diatribe: “It was I, Martin, who robbed the gem, I who framed that complete non-compis mentis for the deed, and it is I who have it here, now, in my possession! Arrest me you fool, throw the wrist cuffs on; throw me in that cell which he occupies, just so long as you cease lauding that simpleton for the work of a master, and give credit where credit is due!”

    The newspapers, in a desire to keep the subject quiet, said nothing of Gaetan Rouchard, or of the liberation of Andre LeMere. It would look too shoddy, and too irresponsible should the police become implicated in a conspiracy like that. No one was to know that the wrong man was arrested, and the proper culprit discovered under the watch of fluke confession. Likewise no one, save a few individuals, was aware of the return of The Lugaze Diamond under strict supervision. The exhibit was closed for a few days, the museum claiming ‘light construction.’ The gem was returned; in fact, it was if it had never left. No one in the town was wiser, except one lone man sitting in a cell, awaiting trial, for what the police department would long after call ‘The almost perfect crime.’ Gaetan Rouchard would long be remembered, however not grouped in his lonely, winning corner, but rather with the likes of Thomas De’Loray and Delray McCabe. His fame was short lived- it was only a matter of time before he was no longer mentioned.

    Likewise, no one mentioned- or perhaps even noticed- a lonely stranger that arrived on the eve of Rouchard’s arrest, a man clad in top coat and hat, who was none other than Gaetan’s London contract. No one saw him arrive, and no one saw him leave- carrying in his stead not the diamond he had came for, but a leather briefcase still concealing twenty million untraceable dollars, quickly leaving Montreal and heading back to London, empty handed.

    What would it feel like to keep a secret? Not just to give the notion lip service, but to truly and utter keep a secret- to take it to your grave? Unfortunately, for Gaetan Rouchard, he would never know.