Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Oh, Madame, you are so wise about daughters. My Bettina, she weeps in my arms when I tell her that I know she is in trouble and I must help her.” His eyes began to glisten. “She swears she did not know what he was doing. He told her he believed there were valuable artifacts hidden in the tunnel. Artifacts from the Revolution. He did not want them for money, he said, only for their—how do you say?—historical value.” Jean-Claude gave a heavy sigh, and I knew the rest was hard for him to say. “And he did make promises to her.”

  I believed we were getting at the truth. I kept working it out aloud. “He promised he would make a way for her to be an artist’s model in Paris if she’d just keep quiet about what he was doing.”

  “Yes, that is all she did—keep quiet! But when she heard about the missing sketches—this was after Monsieur Broussard came to Fontvieille—she is a clever girl, and she knew at once who had stolen the sketches.” He clasped his hands. “She wanted to tell Inspector Bouvier, but she was afraid he would not understand why she had kept quiet, as you say. She was—” he looked skyward as if he might find the word there.

  “An accessory,” I said.

  “It is true!” He gave a slight shrug. “And it is true she was afraid she would miss the chance to go to Paris. She was not willing to risk that.”

  I remembered seeing Bettina and Llorca smoking outside the hotel, hearing their soft laughter. Yes, Bettina had done a credible job of remaining in Llorca’s favor.

  “Now the spider draws her even more into his web by telling her that he must have one more night, and then they will go to Paris.” Now Llorca was a spider, maybe a more apt description than a pig. “All she must do is to be at Réception tonight.”

  “Has she always been at the front desk when he’s gone into the tunnel?” I asked.

  “Once, yes, many weeks ago,” Jean-Claude said, “the night she saw him enter the passage and followed him, but the other times? I think not.”

  Why was it necessary for Bettina to be at Réception, I wondered. It wasn’t a given that Louis or Jean-Claude would detect Llorca going into the tunnel if one of them was on the front desk. Bettina had seen Llorca by chance that first time when she went outside to smoke.

  “Maybe it’s just a way to get her more deeply involved in the scheme,” I mused out loud.

  “Yes! The spider draws her even more into his web!” Jean-Claude said again.

  “He said he must have one more night?”

  “That is what Bettina told me.”

  Paul was going back to Paris. The museum was closing. Whatever Llorca planned to steal tonight might not be detected for a while. That must be the reason tonight was the night.

  “The thing that shames me is that she could not tell her father of her trouble.” Jean-Claude blinked several times in rapid succession, and his voice wavered. “She has been so alone.”

  “She’s not alone anymore,” I said.

  “No, never again.” Jean-Claude’s words were stronger as he said, “And it is arranged to catch the thief. Bettina is taking the place of Louis tonight at Réception. I have already told Louis that he has worked too much in the night. So now we tell Inspector Bouvier, oui?”

  “Is Bettina ready to implicate herself?” I clarified. “Is she willing to admit her part in the scheme?”

  “She only wants it all to be over, Madame.” His eyes began to fill again. “Surely the good inspector will have mercy on a poor girl who was tricked by an evil man.”

  I didn’t think Bettina would be punished, but I couldn’t promise. “The best thing we can do for Bettina is to get proof. More than just her word.”

  “But her word is true. I know it!”

  “Don’t worry, Jean-Claude,” I said. “Let me do some thinking, but in the meantime, it’s good that you’ve arranged for Bettina to be on duty tonight.”

  “Now I must go back to my work. Merci, Madame, merci! I can never thank you enough.”

  I hoped he’d still thank me after tonight. As I started to close the door behind him, he said, “You will contact Inspector Bouvier, oui?”

  Inspector Bouvier had warned me: Leave the solving of crimes to la police. I should call him. I must call. I would.

  “My first call is going to be to Monsieur Broussard,” I said.

  Knowing Paul was with Llorca this evening, I wanted to give him a heads-up, but when I had to leave a message, I simply said, “Thanks for your help today, Paul. I’ll just talk with you after dinner. As promised,” I added.

  On our last night in Fontvieille, Alex and I invited Millie to join us for dinner, and we walked to a tiny restaurant, almost in sight of the hotel, called Lou Clavel. Twelve tables, much conversation and laughter among locals, the best ratatouille yet—authentic Provençal dining.

  Walking to the restaurant in the cool, breezy evening was pleasant, as always, but by the time we were returning, my side was sore enough and stiff enough to slow my walking considerably. Alex frowned at me. “Is something wrong, Jordan?”

  I had to lie, just one of those little white lies. “I was prowling around the amphitheater and stumbled on the steps to the tower. Might have pulled something, but it’s not serious.”

  I couldn’t look at Alex or at Millie, either.

  “Was Paul with you?” Alex asked.

  “That was before I met up with Paul,” I said, and I finally did make eye contact, as I was telling the truth on that point. Afraid Alex would ask for specifics, I chattered on. “Can you believe we’re all spending our last night here? Hasn’t the time flown?”

  “No and yes.” Alex suddenly yawned, a manufactured yawn if ever I saw—or heard—one. “I should probably turn in early tonight,” he said. “How about you ladies?”

  “Packing,” Millie said.

  “Me, too,” I said.

  “Exactly,” he said with a wry smile.

  Millie came to my room after Alex had gone into his. She slipped inside, wanting to know, “What was that all about?”

  “Oh, Alex probably assumes I have a rendezvous with Paul Broussard, and it’s just as well that he thinks so.”

  “And why would he think that?”

  “I saw Paul today in Arles.” I moved a stack of folded clothes from a chair to my bed and motioned for Millie to sit. “Quite a day in Arles.”

  Millie listened with open mouth as I told how I was nearly abducted at the amphitheater. The part where Paul came to the rescue made Millie gasp, her hands flying to her face. “It’s like one of those romance novels!” she said. I had not pegged her as a reader of romance novels, but, on further reflection, it made sense.

  “And there’s more,” I said, reporting what Jean-Claude had said about Llorca’s plan tonight.

  Now Millie was bursting with the anticipation of catching Llorca. “What do you need me to do? Watch from my window, to see when he goes into the tunnel?”

  “Yes, and if it’s all right, I’ll come to your room and watch, too,” I said.

  “Nobody will believe what I did on my vacation!” she said.

  “Don’t be so sure it’s all going to be tied up with a bow tonight,” I said.

  “Why not? Sounds like a sure thing. You said Llorca told Bettina exactly what he was going to do. You don’t think she’s lying, do you?”

  “No, I think she’s telling the truth, but why does he want her on the front desk?” I shook my head hard, as if I might get rid of the cobwebs. “I think we’re missing something.”

  Millie stood up, pensive for a moment, and then walked to the door. “I guess we’ll know soon enough.”

  “Yes.” I stood, too. “In the meantime, I’m going to pack.”

  “The other times Llorca went into the tunnel—and I’m willing to say he was the ghost—it was two A.M. You want to aim for the same time?”

  “Maybe a little earlier,” I said.

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll be up,” Millie said. “I’ll make tea.”

  CHAPTER 40
/>   * * *

  We’d had an early dinner, by Provençal standards. It was not quite ten o’clock. Paul might still be dining with Llorca, or finishing up their business. Truth be told, I was nervous about having that heart-to-heart with Paul. Knowing I had to clear things in my own mind before leaving Fontvieille, knowing also that Paul had to be informed about Llorca and the tunnel, I told myself I should wait until ten o’clock. In the meantime, I called Drew.

  “Jordie!” he said, with his typical exuberance, and then he lowered his voice. “You caught me in a golf cart, at the Savannah Club.”

  “I won’t keep you then.” I apologized for not calling back sooner. “Too much going on.”

  “Hey, you shouldn’t have to mix business with your pleasure,” he said.

  What was this?

  “In all honesty,” I started, “I haven’t had a chance to even think about that property—”

  He interrupted. “Oh, forget that. It sounded great when the realtor told me about it over lunch, but when the martinis wore off . . .” He chuckled. “Maybe it took a little longer than that, but I’ve done some number-crunching, and it’s not such a hot deal. I told you, sweetheart,” he said, and I could tell he was turning away from the phone.

  “What did you say?”

  “Oh, I was just saying something to Lila. She’s the realtor for Dodd & Chamberlain. Don’t worry. She’s not mad at me.” I could hear the flirty smile in his voice.

  So much for not mixing business and pleasure.

  “Hey, we’re coming up on the ninth hole. Gotta run. But I’m glad you called. Glad everything’s perfect in the sunny south of France.”

  I wasn’t sure how I’d given that impression.

  When Paul answered his cell on the third ring, he sounded a little uncertain. Charming, but not sure how charming to be.

  “Is it a bad time to talk?” I asked.

  “Never a bad time to talk with you, Jordan.” Now that was the voice that made me smile.

  “Are you still at dinner?”

  “I’m just leaving.” He gave the name of a restaurant I didn’t recognize. Such a small town, Fontvieille, to support so many fine restaurants. I could stay two more weeks, and I might not get around to all of them.

  “And Monsieur Llorca?”

  “I was saying bonsoir to him when you rang.”

  “Are you coming back to the hotel?”

  “Yes.” He gave that warm, rich laugh of his. “What is this all about, Jordan? You sound so mysterious.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be cryptic.”

  “That is a better word,” he said.

  “Maybe I could meet you in town?”

  “Ari is bringing around the car,” he said. “I can be at the hotel in five minutes, and we’ll go wherever you wish.”

  “Some place where we can talk.”

  “Yes.” I could imagine what he didn’t say: You keep talking about talking.

  The little bistro had live music, and the tables were filled close to the stage. Fortunately for us, since we weren’t there for the music, there were several empty tables near the back wall. The music was not overpowering but was loud enough to provide a kind of cover. We spoke comfortably in our normal voices, without concern that we would disturb others—or that they’d eavesdrop.

  “Wine or coffee?” Paul asked.

  I asked him to choose a glass of red for me. He spoke to the waiter. Whatever he had selected for us would be lovely.

  “You have something to tell me, Jordan?” Right to the point. Weary, I imagined, of trying to guess what was on my mind since I first mentioned that we should talk.

  “Something important has come up. About the missing sketches.” The personal topic would have to wait.

  “Yes?” All at once, all business.

  I must have given him an ear full, because he didn’t say anything for a minute. I could almost see how the wheels of his brain were turning, processing the information. Then he said, “I’ll be damned.”

  “Llorca had a nearly foolproof scheme,” I said. “Bettina was the only flaw in it, and he dealt with her by promising he’d get her to Paris, help her become an artist’s model.”

  “A brilliant scheme.” Paul shook his head. “I must say I had concerns about Llorca at first, but I’m truly astonished that he is so clever.” It was the first time I’d heard Paul speak of the curator in any way except the very formal Monsieur Llorca.

  Still musing, Paul said, “He had access to every work in the museum—some pieces too large to move through a tunnel, I imagine, but think of all the paintings he could have stolen! He might have taken any painting, any time.”

  “Maybe he will, tonight,” I said.

  The waiter arrived with our wine. Exquisite, as I had expected. I realized the band was playing “Hotel California,” singing in French. I thought about the appeal of American music, about Elvis, about Barry Blake. And then about the man in Arles—the name Jef Cauvin had stuck with me—and the glint in his eyes when he asked, Do you want to fly?

  Paul’s voice drew me back. “Llorca was able to divert suspicion from himself by taking the sketch book after we posted guards inside and outside the building. The guards could swear that Llorca and I left the building together that night. Mon Dieu! My head is spinning!”

  “Mine has been spinning for a while.” I raised the glass to my lips.

  “You’re sure he’s planning another robbery tonight?”

  “Jean-Claude thinks so.”

  With an air of distraction, Paul regarded the dark red liquid in his glass. “Jean-Claude told you, Bettina told him, Llorca told Bettina . . .” He let his voice trail off on a note of doubt.

  “It’s all we have,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said, the word packed with more confidence. “It’s time to put this matter in the hands of Inspector Bouvier.”

  “Someone at the police station should be able to reach him tonight,” I said.

  Paul took out his phone. “I can reach him.”

  “He will meet us at the police municipale,” Paul said, after the conversation with Inspector Bouvier, in French, of course. Next time I visited a foreign country, I’d try harder to learn the language. “It will be a few minutes. He’s just had dinner in Arles.”

  “Arles—well!” I thought of Inspector Castanier, and perhaps Paul did, too—or he might have known something he didn’t share with me. Amusement played in his eyes and in the corners of his mouth.

  The musicians started in on what had to be a French folk song. “An eclectic repertoire,” I remarked.

  “I think they are quite talented.”

  “I agree.”

  Paul leaned toward me. “Is something else troubling you, Jordan?” He studied me, still with that warm, amused expression, but I caught the guarded tone. As if he expected me to go into deep waters now, yet he didn’t imagine anything too murky at the bottom. It was the last night we’d be together, alone like this—probably ever. A wiser woman wouldn’t ruin it, bringing up secrets from decades past. A wiser woman would seize the moment. Jean-Claude had said I was wise about daughters, but in the case of men, nobody ever accused me of being wise.

  “Paul,” I said, just as he said, “Jordan—”

  “Please.” He gestured for me to go first. “Tell me what is in your heart.”

  “Oh!” came from my lips, a little moan. How could I say what was in my heart? But how could I not? “I know I made a mistake, not trusting you . . .” and the rest came in a rush. “But everything got so complicated after that night in Paris. I didn’t know what to believe. Then you had to go and save my life.”

  Cool and composed I was not. The waiter headed toward our table, then turned away without a word, no doubt eager to remove himself from the tension that had seeped into the air.

  “Forgive me. I don’t understand,” Paul said, his voice so level, he could have been discussing a business transaction. “The night in Paris . . . did I miss something? Did I do s
omething I should not have done?”

  “You didn’t do anything that night except be wonderful.” My true voice, in spite of myself. “It was later that I heard about your . . . activities . . . with your brother, a long time ago.”

  A shadow came into his face, a sudden profound transformation.

  There it was. Nothing to do but go with it. “I never really believed you were involved in stealing the sketches from the Château, but after I knew your brother had been convicted of art theft, and you were in business with him . . .” I raised my palms in a helpless gesture. That was exactly how I felt. Helpless.

  Paul sipped his wine. I was amazed at how unruffled he was. The thought crossed my mind that maybe he didn’t care enough to be angry at me or disappointed in me.

  “I certainly didn’t go looking for the information,” I said. “It just came up when Alex was in the library. Please understand, Paul . . .Alex likes you. Neither of us knew what to make of the international art theft.”

  Paul remained reflective. Holding his glass, he looked at the wine as he spoke. “Let me tell you about the activities that trouble you so.You may know that during the Occupation, many valuables were confiscated by the Third Reich. Valuables of all sorts: jewels, artifacts, and art. I grew up hearing unspeakable stories. I was very idealistic. So was my brother, Philippe.”

  His words carried no discernible emotion, yet I could sense that they were hard to speak.

  Paul and Philippe dealt in art, and in the course of their business, he explained, they were able to discover some of the art that had been stolen by the Nazis. “Over time, we returned many works of art to their owners, or to their families. Much of that art eventually went to museums. You understand, Jordan, that those pieces never belonged to the Germans.” His eyes were intense now, as they met mine.

  “You stole them back—and your brother served time in prison,” I said.

  I felt his complete focus, like heat concentrated on one spot. “Perhaps it is not as black and white as you make it. Philippe and I . . . we suffered no pangs of conscience for returning to a number of families what was rightfully theirs. We did not do it for money. We were in a position to provide the service, and we did because we believed it was the right thing.”