Guy Verchères: The Red Door

An forgotten classic, restored and brought back to life — now available as in ebook.

For more than ten years, I’ve been exploring the strangest corners of the web to share stories of mystery, shadows, and the unexplained. Today marks a new step in that adventure: the publication of my first book, a project that means a great deal to me.
The Extraordinary Adventures of Guy Verchères: The Red Door
is a rare piece of Québec’s literary heritage, originally written by Paul Verchères.
I restored this detective novel with great care:
– modernized spelling
– revised layout
– cleaned and clarified text
– a professional presentation
The result?
A lively, witty, bold story rooted in old‑time Montréal… yet still just as delightful today.

What is The Red Door about?

Guy Verchères, elegant thief and “philanthropist of evil,” is an urban legend all by himself.
In this first adventure, we follow Pauline, his niece, caught in a tale of blackmail, secrets, passions, and threats.
A perfect blend of:
– vintage Québec humor
– detective intrigue
– colorful characters
– sharp, charming dialogue
– a retro atmosphere worthy of the old Police‑Journal
It’s a short, fast‑paced novel you can read in one sitting.

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Read the first chapter for free

To give you a taste, I’m offering the complete first chapter here.
If the universe appeals to you, you can dive into the full story by ordering the book.

The Red Door

CHAPTER I
PAULINE

Do you know my uncle? Well, yes, certainly. Political and social bigwigs know him just as the humblest and poorest of French Canadians do. However, he is particularly well known and hated by the police, all the police.

For my uncle is none other than Guy Verchères, the great philanthropist of evil, the thief, and a man beloved by our people, whose exploits are regularly recounted by “Police-Journal” and cause despair among the cops. Well, my uncle Guy has a habit of telling me:

— Little bundle of warmth, who’s your new “handsome” these days?

Because, you see, I am a great lover, a great lover of love’s ecstasies. But I am also a great lover of money. That’s why my uncle Guy once said:

— Pauline, you may take poor suitors, but I swear on the heads of my dear friends the police, that you will never take anyone other than a rich husband.

He was right, my uncle. I am going to marry in a few days a broomstick that came out of a refrigerator; but this chilly broomstick is worth five hundred thousand tomatoes, as they say in Westmount.

Herménégilde Marion is as much Saint-Jacques Street and Montreal Stock Exchange as one can be. He is a leader of money and men, but he lied if he thinks he will lead me, for example. He comes to try. He thinks he succeeded. But he royally missed his mark.

— Pauline, he said to me, you must immediately stop modeling for a postcard photographer. I don’t want my wife’s portrait in the pockets of all the soldiers. It’s scandalous.

Herménégilde stiffened like ten thousand broomsticks. I piously lowered my head and replied:

— I will obey you, my dear.

Because obviously, if I had myself photographed on postcards in a scandalous negligee, it’s because it pays. Since I won’t need that money after my marriage, it’s a pleasure to obey Herménégilde. My frigid fiancé then said:

— I’m leaving for New York tonight, Pauline.

— Oh! I said, I wanted you to come with me tonight to the party at Frascati’s…

— And who is Frascati, Pauline?

— But he’s my postcard photographer.

Herménégilde then stood up coldly and ordered:

— I forbid my wife from going to that scoundrel’s.

I almost jumped. How? This walking refrigerator wanted to impose on me, on me? That was too much. But I restrained myself just in time. Again, I piously lowered my eyes:

— I won’t go to Frascati’s, I said hypocritically.

Herménégilde left apparently satisfied. As soon as he left, which undoubtedly pleased my big black cat Tabou, he jumped on my lap.

— Huh? Tabou, I said, do you want to play a trick on this sentimental ice merchant?

— Meow, approved the cat.

— Well, it’s decided, you will guard the house, and I will go to Frascati’s. If he thinks I will embroider like Penelope while he’s in New York, he’s wrong, the walking North Pole.

At that moment, there was a knock on my apartment door.

My heart pounded.

Because I must confess that my conscience is not entirely clear about a certain act from my past.

I went to the door and opened it.

— A letter for you, Miss Verchères, said the elevator boy.

I shuddered. Was it the letter, the famous letter, the terrible letter? I unsealed it. Immediately, I looked at the signature and almost fainted. Yes, it was indeed the fatal missive. I read:

“My dear Pauline, My warmest congratulations. You are marrying money, big money. One word, just one: you might prefer to see me “sell” him a life insurance policy rather than anything else, a policy of one hundred thousand dollars. I will go see him tomorrow. If he says yes, everything will be « Gigolou » (1); but if he refuses, I will talk to him about a certain incident in our life together and the little baby that resulted from it. With proof, as you know.

Your former suitor,

Charlie.”

I looked at myself in the mirror and remembered my father on his deathbed. Indeed, I was pale as a corpse. There was a reason. I had death in my soul.

Charlie Cohen.

How much I had loved him! To the point of committing the irreparable mistake with him. He was unworthy of my love, the scoundrel. As soon as he knew my position, he left me like a dirty rag. I had begged, pleaded with him to marry me. But he had flatly refused.

Ah! why had I written him that heartbreaking letter in which I announced the upcoming birth of my baby?

When the little one died some time after birth, I thought I was free again. Alas, I hadn’t counted on Charlie Cohen, the racketeer, the criminal, the blackmailer. He had kept the fatal letter, and now he was using it to blackmail me. I murmured, discouraged:

— If Herménégilde learns of my mistake, he will ask for my engagement ring back. What to do?

No, I would not give in. I have a small revolver. And a permit to carry it. I was going to threaten Cohen with death. Maybe he would be scared and leave me alone.

I let out a small cry. I had just had an idea. My uncle Guy… Verchères the all-powerful, the one who always succeeded in the most daring enterprises… If I turned to him, he would help me, surely save me.

My face darkened. If I asked for his help, I would have to confess my mistake. I felt literally incapable of that. My uncle esteemed me so much that I didn’t want to lower myself in his esteem for anything in the world.

I thought… Yes, that was it. If I used a stratagem. But first, I had to hide Charlie Cohen’s letter. Because I didn’t want to destroy it; it could perhaps serve to prove his blackmail attempt in criminal courts.

I placed the cursed missive under the carpet of my boudoir table. Then I went to my phone and called my uncle Guy’s secret number. It was his historiographer Paul Verchères who answered. He was in good spirits as usual:

— Yes, little Pauline with green eyes, little heart of maple sugar, yes, he said, the famous Guy, your uncle, is here.

I heard him saying to our national thief and man of good deeds:

— It’s your chaste niece who wants to talk to you. Will you deign, oh Guy, to take over the telephone acoustic?

Then my uncle’s warm voice reached me:

— Hello, little Pauline, he said, how are you?

Immediately, I got to the heart of my subject:

— Uncle Guy, I need you. For one of my friends. Right away.

— Is she in trouble?

— Yes.

— Is the police after her?

— No, but the police should be after the one who is persecuting her.

Guy Verchères laughed:

— So for once, he said, I will work with the police. You still live at the same place, Pauline?

— Yes.

— Very well, I will be at your place in five minutes.

He was there in four. As soon as he entered, he scrutinized me for a long time. I felt uneasy and was always inclined to fix my gaze on the place where I had hidden the letter. Finally, my uncle asked me:

— Tell me, my little one.

I told him the story, putting it on the back of my imaginary friend.

— What is the name of the young girl and the name of the scoundrel? he asked.

— Oh! my uncle, I said, I cannot tell you that. I am bound by the most absolute secrecy.
He made a gesture of impatience:

— But, he said, I still cannot deal with this matter without knowing the names of the parties involved. What do you want from me, Pauline?

— Advice, my uncle.

— Explain yourself.

— My friend would like to know if, with the incriminating letter, she can have the blackmailer arrested without her future husband knowing.

My uncle immediately replied:

— I am afraid that it is impossible.

— How so?

— The accused will probably be released on bail and then he will make it his duty to denounce your friend to her future husband.

There was a long silence. Ah! the cursed letter, why couldn’t I stop looking at the place where it was hidden?

— My uncle, I said finally, I will communicate with my friend and insist that she allow me to reveal her name and that of the blackmailer to you.

— Very well, my little one.

Silently, he got up and, without a word, kissed me on the forehead. Then he left, giving me a look that I found both strange and ironic.

1: In French in the text. Expression sometimes used in colloquial language meaning: Perfect.

To read the rest:
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Why republish this novel?
Because our literary heritage is full of forgotten treasures.
Because Guy Verchères deserves to be rediscovered.
And because I love giving a second life to the stories that shaped our collective imagination.

Enjoy your reading… and welcome to the world of Guy Verchères.