The Delicate Storm Read Free

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