Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

  “Bettina had no reason to warn him,” I said. “She’s not holding out any hope that he can help her get to Paris, not now. The jig is up, whether Llorca gets caught or not.”

  “Jig?” Jean-Claude said.

  “What I mean is: It’s all over, the arrangement that Bettina had with Llorca. He may not know it yet, but Bettina knows it.”

  With sorrow etched on his face, Jean-Claude said, “It is my fault, the trouble Bettina has made for herself. I drove her away from me. I forced her to trust Gerard Llorca.”

  Inspector Bouvier regarded Jean-Claude with a measured look. “Monsieur, we must not think about what is done. We must think only about what can be done now to catch the thief.”

  As he spoke, the first familiar notes of Beethoven’s Fifth rang out. He grabbed his phone. His exchange with the caller was brief, but his anxious expression transformed into relief.

  “The security guards apprehended the thief as he entered the Château from the tunnel,” he said. As if on cue, Jean-Claude, Paul, and I stood up, anticipating the announcement.

  “But he is not Gerard Llorca,” the inspector said. “The guard who called was astonished. He said he had gone to school with the man.”

  “Please, Inspector, do not keep us waiting to hear!” Jean-Claude said, raising his hands.

  Inspector Bouvier gave him a mournful look. “I am sorry to tell you, Monsieur. The thief is your clerk, Louis.”

  The bored, dough-faced clerk at the hotel, our clever art thief? I was more stunned by the revelation than I should have been, given that Louis had followed Millie and me the first time we had explored the tunnel at L’hôtel du Soleil. To warn us, for our own safety, he’d said. Right.

  “But what happened to Llorca?” Jean-Claude said the name with distaste.

  “I do not know.” The inspector turned his attention to making calls, pacing the floor as he talked. Jean-Claude left the room. I assumed he wanted to tell Bettina the news. Paul and I were silent while Inspector Bouvier conducted his business. Paul had started pacing, too. I gathered up the empty cups and carried them to the sink, built into a counter in the corner.

  At last, the inspector put away his phone. “I must go,” he said, adding that he had dispatched two officers to the Château to take Louis into custody and he was heading to the police station. He had ordered the gendarme who was outside L’hôtel du Soleil to meet him at the station. I doubted he would have been so forthcoming with anyone else but Monsieur Broussard.

  “But what about Llorca?” I asked, just as Jean-Claude had done—with no good answer.

  “We have a suspect in custody,” the inspector said. “Perhaps he will give information about Monsieur Llorca—if the curator is involved.”

  “He is involved!” I said. “He told Bettina tonight was the night. He may be somewhere in the tunnels as we speak. You can’t stop looking for him!”

  Inspector Bouvier cut his eyes at Paul as if communicating something about my annoying tenacity. Then to me he said, “Is there anything else you can tell me, Madame? Any small thing you may have left out?”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything else that would help.”

  My stomach felt queasy, with anxiety and lack of sleep. I knew sleep was not an option. Even if I went to my room and my bed right now, my nerves were too jangly for sleep.

  Paul walked with the inspector to the door. As they conversed in French, I pressed my temples and willed myself to recall the passage, the claustrophobic space, the smothering darkness that had enveloped us. My heartbeat accelerated, and I felt the same clammy fear that I’d experienced in the tunnel, but I squeezed my eyes shut and kept forcing myself to remember.

  Paul closed the door behind the inspector. “I want Llorca as much as you do, Jordan. Perhaps even more. I do not like being betrayed.” Conned was the word, I thought.

  “I’m afraid Llorca will get away while all the attention is on Louis,” I said.

  “Is it possible that he found another entrance into the tunnel?”

  The question triggered a flash of memory. I sucked in a loud breath.

  “That’s it!” I rushed to the door. “I hope we can catch Inspector Bouvier.”

  “Do you know something about another entrance?”

  “The inspector was right.There is this one thing I had forgotten,” I said, remembering how the tunnel had split, how one dark passage had led to the right, how we’d chosen the left leg because it looked more traveled.

  “Do you know where this other passage leads?” Paul was right behind me.

  “I might know. L’hôtel du Soleil sits on an abandoned rock quarry. So does Montmajour Abbey.”

  CHAPTER 43

  * * *

  The rain had stopped.

  The inspector drove his Citroën like a New York cabbie through the dark, sleeping town proper, and gained more speed on the other side. I did a credible job keeping up with him. Paul was in the passenger seat. Apparently, Paul’s driver was a local who kept the Mercedes at his house, somewhere in Fontvieille. I had called, “Come with me!” as I ran to my car.

  “Where did you learn to drive like this?” Paul asked, with admiration in his voice.

  “Carpooling,” I said. He wouldn’t understand, as he’d never driven a station wagon full of neighborhood kids to school or Little League or ballet lessons, but there was no time to explain. We were heading up the hill to Montmajour Abbey.

  Before Millie and I had followed the tunnel to the Château de Montauban, we’d thought it might lead to Montmajour Abbey because of what the guide on Millie’s tour had said. Now it made sense to think the underground network connected both. I hadn’t given enough consideration to the split we’d encountered, when we’d chosen the passage that bent to the left. I’d been too excited about finding the entrance to the archives of the Château.

  The inspector slowed down on the winding road, along several hundred meters of stone wall. Montmajour Abbey, a huge, hulking building, lay ahead and up. The massive structure loomed dark and foreboding—and silent.

  Inspector Bouvier pulled to the side of the road, and I parked behind him. Another car stopped behind me, and a gendarme appeared. Wearing an olive green rain jacket, the young policeman was apparently the one who had pulled sentry duty at the hotel for the past few hours.

  An iron gate appeared to bar our entrance to the drive, no wider than a cart path, that wound onto the property. Paul and I got out of my car, closing our doors quietly. “Eerie,” I whispered. Above us, wispy clouds seemed to be scuttling through the night on an ominous mission. The inspector led the way; the young gendarme fell in behind him. Paul and I followed. To our right was the Abbey, its medieval tower rising high into the gray sky. To our left, a cliff overlooked a wide valley.

  Inspector Bouvier walked up to the gate, shining his flashlight. The gate, we realized now, was closed but not locked. The inspector shined the light on the ground. Something glinted.

  I moved closer and bent down next to Paul to see the padlock that someone must have broken with a heavy tool and hadn’t bothered to pick up. “We’re right, aren’t we?” I whispered. “Llorca’s here.”

  In answer, the inspector said, “This gate to the Abbey is always locked at night.” He pushed at the gate, and it opened with a small creaking sound. We walked along the cart path.

  And then we saw it, all of us at about the same time as we came to a curve in the path. In the edge of the trees, a dark van was parked. Inspector Bouvier was the one who spoke: “Voila!”

  From beneath his jacket, he produced a gun and gestured to the young gendarme, who drew his weapon, moving in close to the inspector. Inspector Bouvier raised his palm to us and said in a whisper that meant business: “Stay back!” He needn’t have worried about me. I was not inclined to follow, given that weapons were drawn.

  From our safe distance—I hoped—we watched the inspector and the gendarme approach the vehicle. Inspector Bouvier opened the door and peered ins
ide. No indication of movement. No noise. He spent a moment shining his flashlight into the van, examining the interior, before moving on toward the building, the young policeman close behind.

  “Wait here,” Paul said, and before I could answer, he was hurrying to look in the windows of the van. I didn’t obey this time. The vehicle seemed to pose no threat, would offer protection, in fact, if bullets started flying. I covered the fifty feet or so as quietly as I could. Paul was shaking his head. In the cargo space were not only three large paintings but luggage, as well. Llorca was prepared for flight.

  In the gray-dark, it was hard to see details, but Paul actually crawled inside the van and examined the paintings. “Pissarro,” he said, pointing to two paintings whose frames appeared to need repair. “The only works by him in our collection.” He turned another one to get a better look. “Mon Dieu!” he groaned. “This is an early Cezanne! No other painting in the museum is worth more.”

  Slowly, as if he carried a great weight, Paul climbed out of the van and closed the door. He grasped my hand. “Jordan, ma chérie, you have saved the museum.”

  “It’s not over yet,” I said. “Where is the entrance to the tunnel?”

  Paul let go of my hand, back to business. “And why did Llorca choose Montmajour Abbey instead of L’hôtel du Soleil?”

  “That, I think I can answer.” I explained how the opening into the tunnel at L’hôtel du Soleil, just large enough to crawl through, would not have allowed Llorca to bring out those large paintings. “Somehow he must have just found out that there was a larger entrance on these grounds—somewhere.”

  I remembered what Millie had said about her tour at Montmajour Abbey. One area was barricaded—she’d used that word—like a crime scene. The cellar, she’d said. They were reconstructing the cellar, which led to the tunnel.

  I peered from around the bumper of the van and saw that the young officer was moving toward the front of the Abbey. Inspector Bouvier was heading toward the rear, toward piles of rubble, evidence of excavation, barricaded by striped sawhorses. The beam of his flashlight illuminated the construction site.

  I knew where the entrance had to be, but I didn’t have a chance to explain.

  We heard coughing, saw movement in the yellow circle from Inspector Bouvier’s light, a figure emerging from the ground. Then noise, voices, a wooden door slamming, the gendarme’s feet pounding the rocky ground as he joined the inspector. And Paul—running toward them, ready to assist with his bare hands, no doubt. With the good guys in control, I ventured from the safety of the van and was close enough to hear Inspector Bouvier say, “Ah, Monsieur Llorca!”

  Gerard Llorca came out of the barricaded area, apparently complying with the inspector’s instructions, a giant portfolio strapped to his back. He was dressed in black pants and a black sweater, his white hair was as wild as always. Still coughing, he began to undo the straps of the portfolio. Inspector Bouvier moved in to examine the construction area, as the gendarme came closer, his weapon trained on Llorca.

  All of it took about a minute. In one fluid motion, Llorca flung the portfolio at the gendarme, who fell backwards, stumbling. His gun went flying. Paul made a dash for the portfolio, the gendarme scrambled for his weapon, and the inspector shouted something, pointing his gun at Llorca, who had headed for the van. I was astonished to see how the man sprinted! It took a minute for the young officer to get his bearings and begin to run. Llorca had already reached the van.

  Inspector Bouvier holstered his weapon. He appeared too calm.

  “Is he going to get away?” I cried out.

  “He will not get far,” Inspector Bouvier said, holding up a set of keys.

  Paul gave a wry smile. “I wondered if that was what you were doing when you looked inside the van.” The inspector shrugged, but his face shone with pride.

  Alex did not need to know the extent of my activities in regard to the missing art. He didn’t need to know I’d skulked in the underground or witnessed the arrest at Montmajour Abbey in the hour before dawn. I’d said as much to Inspector Bouvier as he’d stuffed himself into his little Citroën. I’d said so to Jean-Claude and Bettina and to Millie who had joined them, all holding their breaths, waiting for news, when we returned to the hotel. I said so to Paul as we lingered on the stairs a moment before giving up the night.

  “I will keep your little secret if you will have breakfast with me, our last morning in Provence,” he said.

  So at eight o’clock, bleary-eyed after what amounted to not much more than a long nap, I came downstairs to find Paul standing at the front desk with several bags around him. Jean-Claude, who probably hadn’t slept at all, was highly animated with Paul, one of the few who actually knew Bettina’s part in the scheme. “But Louis! Ah, it breaks my heart!” I heard him say, but I didn’t think he was too heartbroken about his clerk.

  Paul and I found a corner table in the sunroom, with that marvelous gentle light seeping through the canvas.What a magical place, Provence.

  Jean-Claude brought coffee and a basket of bread. “Bettina and I had much to talk about while we waited to hear the fate of Gerard Llorca.” Saying the name, he screwed up his face, as if he’d tasted a rotten egg. “She would like to go to university, I think. In janvier.”

  “In Paris?” I asked.

  “Oui. Perhaps it will be a good thing for her and for Mona, as well.” He sighed. “A father must let the birds go from the nest, yes?”

  “You must let me know if Bettina needs my assistance,” Paul said.

  “Ah, Monsieur, you have done so much already.” Ashadow crossed Jean-Claude’s expressive face. “You do not think the inspector will bring charges against Bettina, do you, Monsieur? Her cooperation has helped to bring the thieves to justice.”

  “Anything I can do on her behalf, I will,” Paul said.

  Somehow I believed that would cinch it.

  Our last extravagant breakfast in Provence was as wonderful as always, my appetite as healthy as always.

  I asked Paul if he’d been able to get any sleep. He confessed that he hadn’t slept at all. He’d been at the police station waiting for Llorca and Louis to be questioned. He didn’t say that Inspector Bouvier had given him a full report, but I gathered as much.

  “Llorca was reluctant, but Louis would not shut up,” Paul said. I had to smile, hearing Paul say shut up. Paul smiled back, that charming smile. “And all because of you, Jordan.”

  I shook my head. “If it hadn’t been for Millie O’Neill, I don’t think I would’ve been so nosey. She encouraged me.” I looked around and saw a few of the women from her group, but not Millie. The Germans were all settled at a table. Someone was reading aloud from a book. “You know, I was suspicious of some of the young men in that group.” I laughed. I was almost able to hear Alex saying “international intrigue.”

  “Ah, you should have asked me about them. I speak some German and I talked with their leader one day. They are a religious group, here on a ‘spiritual retreat.’ It is the Bible they have with them always.” He glanced toward the young man reading aloud.

  “I think I got carried away,” I said, just as the elderly woman with the Great Dane sat at a table across the room. “Maybe if I had just asked you—” I didn’t finish. The shine in his eyes made me believe I’d said enough. No more explanations or apologies. No more regrets. Maybe.

  Paul made it easy to move away from that thorny territory. He told me what he’d learned from the statements Louis and Llorca gave. “Louis had made an earlier trip from Montmajour Abbey to the Château, before the guards were alerted to watch the archives. He had already brought out the paintings that we saw in the van. He was supposed to make three trips during the night. The passage from the Abbey is much shorter than it is from L’hôtel du Soleil, did you know?”

  “I didn’t know,” I said.

  I could see he was enjoying having the upper hand this time.

  “Llorca was making only one trip in the tunnel. When he had gone some
distance and hadn’t met Louis, he began to fear something had gone wrong. So he turned back, to wait and see. That explains why there was nothing in the portfolio he had strapped to his back.”

  Maybe he intended to wait for Louis to come out safely, or maybe he intended to take the van and the three paintings and disappear, I thought.

  Llorca had been stealing from the museum for months and had sold off a number of the less significant works. “He had been interested in the network of tunnels under Fontvieille because he thought one might find valuable antiquities,” Paul said. “He had found old maps of the quarries at the library, and voila! He discovered the entrance at L’hôtel du Soleil and began to use the passage, some time ago.”

  “And Bettina figured out what he was doing, so he drew her into his scheme,” I added, reaching for another croissant.

  “Exactly. You will be interested to know that it was the same with Louis. Louis became aware of Llorca’s activities and, while Bettina simply wanted to go to Paris, Louis wanted money, and lots of it. So he became Llorca’s partner.” Paul sipped his coffee, looking thoughtful. “Louis knew about Bettina, but neither of the men said anything to indicate that Bettina knew about Louis.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” I said.

  Paul set down his coffee, leaning toward me. “You gave a good answer as to why the thieves used the entrance at Montmajour Abbey last night—this morning, I should say. Yes, they were able to remove larger works from that passage. But there is more. Louis told Llorca that you and Madame O’Neill had discovered the entrance at L’hôtel du Soleil. The prudent thing to do was to find another way. It seems Madame Duvall at the library was quite willing to help him in his examination of the maps.”

  “Madame Duvall! I don’t believe it!”

  “It is true. The reason she was so eager to help him— notwithstanding his great charm, of course—was that he told her I was stealing from the museum, and he believed I was using the tunnels.” Paul waited a moment to say, “This woman—an elderly woman, I believe—she has something against me. I do not know what. I have never met her.”