I grasped the Mont Blanc pen in one hand and turned the doorknob quietly with the other. The guard was slumped in his chair. I made it almost to the stairwell before the guard jerked awake and shouted for me to stop. I bounded down the stairs ahead of him, but I knew he would catch up with me by the time I reached the ground floor. Use the pen! I told myself. After descending two flights, I stopped suddenly and turned back to face him. The pen was still heavy in my hand; I turned the safety.

He was almost on top of me when I pressed the gold trigger. A cloud of gas roared out of the barrel. It was louder than I expected. He fell back with a sudden scream and slumped on the stairwell. Amazing! It worked. I hoped he wasn’t dead. I left him there and continued down the stairs in my bathrobe, past the lobby floor to the basement.

At the bottom of the stairs there was a corridor leading to some shops and a door that led back toward the kitchen and service area. I raced through the door. A sleepy old waiter saw me run by in my white bathrobe and asked me in French if I needed anything. I kept running down the corridor, toward the loading dock at the back. As I reached the back door, another of Bézy’s men was entering the service area, screaming for me to stop.

I was in the alley now. My pursuer was behind me, coming fast. My last hope was the crazy exploding lighter Frank had given me. I reached into my pocket for it and turned the wheel—stared at it for a terrifying moment—and threw it toward him, falling to the ground and covering my eyes. The grenade made the sound of a Roman candle on the fourth of July—a loud pop! accompanied by a dazzling explosion of light.

“I can’t see!” screamed Bézy’s man. I raced down the alley and out onto Rue Drummond, which ran south from Sherbrooke toward the St. Lawrence River. I didn’t see anyone behind, but I knew they would be coming soon, in force. I removed the bathrobe and folded it over my arm.

I walked quickly toward the district known as Ste.-Catherine, which the guidebook had described as the center of Montreal’s night life. There were people on the streets, emerging from the bars and strip clubs. I needed to leave the area, quickly, and find somewhere safe to spend the night. Hotels were a bad idea. Bézy’s men would be notifying the police soon, and a ragged guest with no luggage would arouse suspicion even if they didn’t.