“Or me,” Paul said, with a sideways glance.
“I will tell you everything. I promise. But please don’t let Alex know what just happened. Oh—there he is. Look. He can’t find me.” I raised my arm to wave, felt a stab in my side, and raised my other arm instead. Momentarily, Alex waved back and headed toward us.
“There you are, Jordan!” he said. “I couldn’t imagine where you went.”
“You know I have a short attention span. I wanted to look around on my own,” I said.
He glanced at Paul and said, “Exactly.”
“Good afternoon, Monsieur Carlyle,” Paul said. “I’m afraid I was selfish. Forgive me for taking her away?”
Alex made a gesture of dismissal. “I must tell you, my dear, that you missed an excellent tour,” he said, but amusement played in his eyes.
“Let’s call it a day, Alex,” I said.
I expected him to remind me that we had not seen Hôpital Van Gogh, but he said, “I have to admit, I’m not up for much more walking.”
And then my uncle astonished me by saying, “I don’t mind driving back to Fontvieille alone, if you’d like to spend more time with Monsieur Broussard—on our last day in Provence.” He exchanged a knowing look with Paul. “I just need a little help finding our car.”
CHAPTER 38
* * *
Viewed from the street, the gendarmerie in Arles appeared modern and efficient. Much larger than the small police municipale, as Inspector Bouvier had described the station in Fontvieille, this building was the same “sixties” style, with clean, straight lines, flat roof, bars on windows. Paul’s driver pulled the Mer-cedes into the parking lot and let us out a few steps from the door. Paul was hardly ever alone. Though the drive to the gendarmerie was not more than ten minutes, it would have provided an opportunity to give Paul some background if we’d had some privacy. As yet he had no idea why the man and woman who fled in the black sedan had tried to kidnap me. Surely he wondered. He might even question in his own mind how I could possibly be involved with such people. But here he was, remaining by my side. By all indications, he was not afraid to trust me.
I didn’t let myself go any further with that thought.
The officer just inside the main entrance told us Inspector Castanier was waiting. A female detective who barely came up to my shoulders, the inspector met us in the doorway of an office which may or may not have been hers, for her name was neither on the door nor on a nameplate on the desk. She was young and attractive, as were most of the women I’d met in Provence, with the exception of Madame Duvall at the library. She even managed to look stylish in her navy suit and white blouse, which was probably standard attire.Though she handled herself in a professional manner, I had to wonder how much experience she had.
No one had suggested that Paul would need to leave in order for me to give my statement, but I hadn’t gone in with Felicity when she gave her statement. When the inspector indicated the single chair across from the desk, I said, “Is it all right for Monsieur Broussard to stay with me?”
“Of course, Madame. Monsieur is most welcome.” The pretty young woman cast a glance at Paul that might have been just the tiniest bit unprofessional. At the same moment, a uniformed officer brought in two folding chairs. “And Inspector Bouvier—he will be here bientôt,” Inspector Castanier continued.
I gave Paul a questioning look. His sidelong glance managed to seem playful, even in this situation. “Yes, I called Inspector Bouvier.You have said how fond you are of him, and I knew he would want to know what happened today.”
“We—all of us in the region—cooperate to catch the criminals,” said Inspector Castanier.
The officer who had delivered the chairs returned with cups of steaming tea just as Inspector Bouvier arrived, red-faced, sweating, breathing hard, as if he had jogged the ten kilometers from Fontvieille. Asked if he would care for tea, he said, “Diet Pepsi, s’il vous plâit.” Maybe he was trying to work on his weight or his blood sugar. As he dabbed his damp face with his white handkerchief, I couldn’t help thinking how much I’d grown to care about the people of Fontvieille that I would never see again.
“Now we begin,” Inspector Castanier announced, when Inspector Bouvier had his drink. She was seated behind the desk, obviously in charge, obviously ready to get down to business. Obviously Inspector Bouvier was there as a courtesy. Inspector Castanier took a small recording device from a desk drawer and explained the need for a record of the interview. “Tell us what happened at the amphitheater, Madame,” she said.
Not far into my account, I realized I had an important piece of evidence and produced my camera from my tote bag. “Here he is,” I said, handing the camera across the desk. “I took three or four photos of him.”
Inspector Castanier clicked through the shots, showing the man as he came closer to me, reaching out. “He was trying to rob you? He wanted your camera?” she asked.
“Oh no—there’s more to it than that,” I said. “But he tried to get the camera because—I’m sure he didn’t want me to have a picture of him.”
With a hint of frown lines etching into her brow, the young inspector handed the camera across the desk to Inspector Bouvier. He studied the photos, clicking back and forth, as his counterpart continued with questions. “Do you know the man?” she asked.
“Not exactly.”
“Have you ever seen him before?”
“Yes.”
Inspector Bouvier returned the camera to me, and I passed it to Paul.
“Pardon, Madame, but is this man in some way connected to the loss of your suitcase?” Inspector Bouvier asked, leaning toward me. “Or to the murder victim, Mr. Barry Blake?”
“Yes!” Then I amended my answer, toning it down. “That is, I’m quite sure he’s connected. He’s been following me. And the driver was a woman I saw arguing with Barry Blake in Paris.”
Inspector Bouvier regarded the younger detective with a smile that I interpreted as paternal. “Perhaps Madame Mayfair should give her statement in her own way. From the beginning. Oui?”
Inspector Castanier gave a slight nod. “Please continue, Madame.” She was hard to read. If she’d said, Hold on! I’m incharge here, who could blame her? More than likely she was considering Inspector Bouvier’s prior knowledge of what purported to be a long, convoluted story. His cooperation would be useful. While his face was expressive, with those deep blue eyes and the mouth that twisted in amusement or irony, her face remained impassive.
I shifted in my chair and glanced at Paul, who returned a quick, encouraging smile. Where to begin? In the Atlanta Airport? In 1956 when the tape was made?
“On the way to Provence, I lost my suitcase,” I said.
For half an hour or longer, I covered the pertinent events since leaving my suitcase on the train in Brussels. The information I had from Kyle took me back to the Atlanta airport when he had stowed the tape in my luggage—and farther back, as I explained how Barry came to have the tape. Neither detective interrupted or showed any reaction as I told the convoluted tale until I came to the part where Felicity confirmed that Barry was the hit-and-run driver who had killed the cowboy in Paris.
“Madame, you did not tell me you had learned the identity of that driver,” Inspector Bouvier said, in a voice that was not so loud as it was sharp-edged.
“I didn’t know until last night. I was going to tell you—tell you everything after I returned from Arles today. Didn’t Felicity come to the police station this morning? She promised she would!”
My voice had slid to a high, plaintive note, like a schoolgirl who hadn’t done her homework. Inspector Bouvier’s displeasure, evident in the slight narrowing of his eyes, made me anxious to give excuses, but there was not a good excuse to offer. Had I really expected Felicity to follow through on her promise? Why hadn’t I called the inspector the moment I left Felicity last night? Instead, I’d spent most of the night in a tunnel and had tried to help Jean-Claude with his domestic problems. I’d f
ocused on trying to prove Gerard Llorca had stolen the sketches from the Château de Montauban.Too much. Too much was swirling in my brain.
“Jordan, are you all right?” It was Paul’s voice, and I realized I was pressing my temples with my fingers.
“It’s just been . . . a lot. I’m sorry.”
“Do you need a moment?” Inspector Castanier asked.
“No, I want to finish.” I thought about it, as I took a sip of tea. “I’m just not sure there’s anything else to tell.”
The young inspector didn’t miss a beat. “The woman who was driving? You said you had seen her before?”
And we were off again. Now both inspectors had questions: When did you know ...?Why ...? How do you know ...? Please clarify, Madame. Inspector Bouvier kept coming back to the hit-and-run in Paris until every detail was on the table— from the call that the cowboy presumably made, asking about me, to the clothes Felicity had sent for me. I could only guess at the time each event had occurred. Finally the inspector must have realized that Felicity was the one he should be question-ing.Yes, I believed she was still at La Regalido, I said.
As the interview seemed to be winding down, the desk phone rang, and Inspector Castanier answered. She spoke in French, taking notes, and when she was finished, she and Inspector Bouvier carried on a short exchange. I noted a slight lift of Paul’s eyebrows as he listened. I wished I’d spent more time working on my French before the trip.
Then Inspector Castanier sent for a young man who took my camera in order to copy the photos of my would-be kidnapper. “Vite,” she said. I knew that word, and I hoped that her instructions to do it quickly meant our interview was coming to an end.
Inspector Bouvier asked how much longer I would be in Fontvieille. He assumed a regretful look when I told him I’d be leaving tomorrow. “It is unfortunate that these things have happened to you in Provence. But you can be sure we will spare no effort to find and punish those who would do you harm,” he said. It sounded like a stock phrase, but I thanked him.
“Where is the tape now, Madame?” asked Inspector Castanier.
I tried to be brief, though it was hard to give a short answer.
The younger inspector dismissed us when I had my camera back. “Merci,” she said. “You have been most helpful. Please do be careful, Madame.”
Inspector Bouvier kissed the youthful hand of Inspector Castanier and after a whispered exchange with her that appeared more personal than professional, and not at all paternal, he walked out with us. “I agree that you have provided useful information, Madame,” he said, “but you must leave the solving of crimes to la police. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” I said, turning away from his steely glare.
Paul and I settled into the back seat of his silver Mercedes, and the driver moved into traffic, heading out of Arles toward Fontvieille. Fatigue made my body ache. Paul’s eyes betrayed his weariness, as well.
Even his voice sounded tired. “I could not have imagined all the things you said. I knew about the murder of your friend’s husband, yes, but not that you were in danger.” He shook his head. “All of this while you have been on holiday.”
“All in all, it’s been an extraordinary holiday,” I said. “Unforgettable.”
“Unforgettable. Yes, I would think so,” he said with a little laugh.
I didn’t say more. We needed the light moment.
“Back there with the detectives, what was that telephone call about?” I asked, a kilometer or two later.
“The black sedan has been found but not the man and woman,” Paul said. “The car was traced to Antonio DeMarco in Nice.”
“Antonio,” I echoed. “The collector.”
“It seems obvious that the two who tried to abduct you worked for DeMarco. Inspector Bouvier mentioned a name, Jef Cauvin. A small-time crook, you would call him. The photo you took will confirm.” Paul pursed his lips, as if deciding whether to continue. Just as I was about to fill in the silence, he said, “I know something of Antonio DeMarco. He has been a collector of art and antiquities for many, many years. I did not know he collected such things as this tape, but I know that if a thing becomes his heart’s desire, he will go to great lengths to obtain it.”
I didn’t speak. I was barely breathing. Was Paul about to divulge his own activities, his and his brother’s, the art theft for which his brother went to prison? Could they have conspired with Antonio DeMarco? I wanted to hear and I didn’t.
“DeMarco is a clever one. He has managed to stay one step ahead of the authorities, but perhaps this time he will not,” Paul said.
“How did you know him?” I heard myself asking.
“It is a complicated story. One complicated story is enough for one day,” he said with a wry smile.
“But tomorrow I’ll be gone,” I said.
“As will I.” He gave me a long, earnest look. “It is unfortunate.” I waited for him to continue, but when he spoke again, it was to ask what time I planned to depart in the morning.
“Early. Alex and I want to reach Marseilles in time to look around,” I said, giving up on the other topic. “What time are you flying to Paris?”
“Not too early. I’ll spend the morning at the museum,” he said. “We are closing, you know, for a time. Monsieur Llorca and I have much to discuss tonight and tomorrow.”
It was tempting to mention my misgivings about Llorca, but Paul had been right about complicated stories. That one could wait.
He didn’t mention that he’d offered Alex and me seats on his plane. I hadn’t expected him to make the offer again. One of the things I’d learned about Paul Broussard was that he didn’t take rejection lightly.
“Would you have any time to talk? Later tonight?” I asked.
He spent a moment studying me before saying, “Jordan Mayfair, you are an exasperating woman.” Then he laughed softly, took my hand, and kissed my fingers. “You asked me the same question yesterday, and my answer is the same that I gave then. But I leave it to you.”
As we approached Fontvieille, he spoke to his driver, and a minute later we were at the Château. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked me. “Monsieur Llorca and I have a conference call with a gallery owner in Paris. We have much to discuss over dinner.” No doubt it was true, and I had taken up enough of his afternoon. The Château was on the way to L’hôtel du Soleil. But it was also a good exit for Monsieur Broussard.
“We will talk later tonight?” he said, with a smile that revealed nothing.
CHAPTER 39
* * *
I couldn’t have missed the excitement in Jean-Claude’s face as he handed me my key and a message. Something was up, but he was too busy for anything but pleasantries. The lobby was crowded with a tour group, checking in. I threaded my way through the new crop of guests, with all of their luggage, and headed upstairs.
Again, I had turned off my phone, this time when I’d gone to the gendarmerie. On the way to my room, I read the lengthy message from Adnan Kemal, ostensibly in Bettina’s legible handwriting. Mr. Kemal regretted that my suitcase was still in Brussels. He apologized for the oversight by his staff during his absence. Because of my schedule, he was sending the suitcase to my home address in Savannah, Georgia, USA.
I sighed, hoping he had taken down my street address correctly.
I let myself into my room, turned on my cell phone and saw, first, the number that had to be Mr. Kemal’s before he’d tried the hotel. There were missed calls from Drew and Catherine, as well. I knew I’d been remiss in returning Catherine’s calls, so I stretched out on the bed and called her cell. When she didn’t answer, I tried her dorm room. Her roommate answered.
Either Emily was delighted to hear from me or she was just in exceptionally high spirits. She had a string of questions about Provence. Then I asked, “How are things at Emory?”
“Good,” she said. “It was kind of rough at first, but everything’s fine now. If it hadn’t been for Catherine, I don’t know what I wo
uld’ve done!”
Well!
Catherine came on the line then and said she’d made an 86 in chemistry, where the highest grade was an 89.Yes, she’d been in contact with her brother. She and Emily were supposed to get pizza with Michael tonight.Yes, he had taken care of getting my SUV fixed.
“Will you really be home Monday?” she said. “I can’t believe it’s been two weeks.”
Well!
My brother would surely be glad to hear from me. I was trying to remember what crisis was in progress the last time I’d spoken to Drew, when Jean-Claude knocked on my door.
“It is arranged,” he whispered, as I cracked the door. I decided I’d better let him in. He repeated, “All is arranged for tonight. Bettina has talked to the pig Llorca.” He made a face of disgust, as he always did when he said the word pig.
I caught my breath. “Bettina contacted Gerard Llorca?”
“No! It was the other way. He called her to say he will enter the passage tonight, as he has done before. Now we must tell Inspector Bouvier, yes?”
I raised my hand in a halting gesture. “Please, from the beginning,” I said, as I had said to Kyle, as Inspector Bouvier had said to me. “Would you like to sit down, Jean-Claude?”
“I must hurry. I must get back to Réception,” he said. “But tonight is the night. He told Bettina he must have one more night.”
“From the beginning,” I said again.
“Yes, I understand. This is how my Bettina explained to me. Some months ago she is working at Réception one night, and takes a break, outside the dining room. She sees this man going into the old part of the hotel. She follows him, and he enters into the tunnel. I did not know this, Madame. Not until today when I talked to Bettina—when I listened— as you advised.”
Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery) Page 27
