“I know who you mean. She left me her card. I have it here somewhere.” He scrabbled around in his various pockets and produced it after a prolonged search. He peered at it. “Here we are - Cesar Renoir.”
“That’s it.”
“A Lyons address and phone number.”
“Do you think she’s likely to go public about our excavations here?”
He shook his head. “Not according to what she told me. She didn’t seem that interested in what we were actually doing. She claims she’s a freelance. She’s got this job for the summer. She’s producing a guide book about the more obscure Cathar castles. She says her research has turned up precious little about le Bezu - just a few historical references and several local legends about the place. She seemed to be saying that she’d be grateful for any information we could give her.”
“Who are her employers?”
“According to this it’s the Languedoc newspaper group in Toulouse. They seem to have given her a free hand to go wherever she fancies.”
“She should have plenty of locations to look at. There must be dozens of Cathar strongholds in the area.”
“That’s right.” He stood back and folded his arms. “When I told her that whatever we found would be published later in the year, it seemed to satisfy her. She didn’t hang around asking lots of questions. I think she regarded it as lucky that we might be able to give her some additional information. She simply said she might pop back later to see whether we had anything more we could tell her. In any case the book won’t be published before the autumn.”
Jacqueline shrugged and turned away. “Nothing important. Well, that’s it for tonight, Jo. Let’s lock the gate and go for dinner.”
He followed her down the hillside in the gathering evening gloom. The path had been cleared and graded and was now much more easy to negotiate. It took less than ten minutes to reach the car and they headed back to Quillan in companionable silence.
- 7 -
Alain Hebert had taken a six-month lease on a holiday cottage on the outskirts of Rennes-les-Bains under his assumed name. He drove there in a small Citroen which had been contract-hired by a friend for the same period. He spent the first week calling in to local shops and bars and chatting with anyone who would listen to him in order to establish his credentials.
He was letting it be known that he was a writer researching the history of the Knights Templar in the region, with the intention of publishing a book on the subject in the next two years and enjoying a summer sabbatical from his job as a lecturer at one of the Paris universities - a story which had some approximation to the truth. He had postcards printed inviting anybody with suitable information to contact him. He felt this story would give him justification for taking walks around the area and especially up to the castle at le Bezu.
Back in Marseilles La Force had taken less than a week to come back and tell him they had accepted his proposal. They were working on the distribution system. They showed him the warehouse on the outskirts of the city where they would store the treasure. The premises was already the base for a business providing spare parts for car repairs all over Southern France. All sizes of vehicles delivered and collected goods at the warehouse. They could reverse vans inside, close the doors and leave them there overnight for loading and unloading. Because the car parts were valuable, the building was already surrounded by high fences and protected by a sophisticated security system. La Force was constructing an additional inside wall which would partition off part of the warehouse to provide a very safe store which nobody would suspect might hold a treasure of unique value. They had also shown him examples of forged paperwork to export items all over the world from the criminal-infested docks of Marseilles. He had been impressed by their efficiency, although he still had the feeling that Montlucon was only a front man.
In return for their efforts he had given them further evidence of his knowledge of mediaeval artefacts, their valuation and potential markets for the items of treasure which he expected to find. He believed he had convinced them that they would be wise to honour their agreement with him, because the twenty-five percent of the proceeds which he received would be more than recovered as a result of his specialist knowledge. Without releasing the exact location of the treasure, he had told them of his plans to spend the summer in Rennes-les-Bains.
All that remained after that was to arrange a suitable means of communication between Montlucon and himself. He had rejected their first proposal of the weasel-faced Mickey who had been his original, distasteful contact with their organisation. He pointed out that so obvious a petty crook would be an uncomfortable giveaway in an upper middle class area like Rennes-les-Bains. So they came back to him two days later with a much better contact - a journalist named Cesar Renoir. They told him that Renoir would contact him some time after his arrival at Rennes.
He had been sitting outside his rented cottage three days after taking up residence and enjoying the evening sun when he first saw a tall woman striding up the road towards him. He guessed she was in her early forties. She was slim and looked fit for her age. She was dressed in a grey linen shirt and dark blue, tight-fitting jeans. Her dark hair was drawn back in a tight ponytail and she wore very little make-up. However she was a striking woman.
She stopped in front of him and appraised him carefully.
“Alain Hebert?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I am Cesar Renoir.” She held out her hand.
He rose in surprise and took it. The handshake she gave him was firm.
“I was expecting a man,” he confessed.
“I know. The Christian name fools most people. When my father gave me the name I think it was because he was disappointed I wasn’t a boy. But I’ve been able to live up to it since - in my way.”
“Your father?”
“I believe you have already met him. He was that pathetic wreck you saw in Marseilles with half his face cut away. Camille Renoir used to be a force to be reckoned with but now he hides behind a self-important heap of crap called Montlucon.”
Alain decided not to commit himself to a comment at this stage. Instead he rose, offered his chair to her and went into the cottage to get another one for himself.
“Would you like a glass of wine?”
She accepted and he opened a bottle and brought two glasses which he set on a small table between them. They sat in almost companionable silence for a short while, looking at the view and sipping their drinks.
She looked at him. “You’ve only just arrived from Paris?”
“Three days ago.”
“I’ve been here nearly a week. I’m doing a series of articles for ‘l’Observateur’ on Cathar castles. I understand they intend to bring out a guide book later. It has given me a chance to look around.”
“That seems a good idea.”
“I’ve already visited four of the chateaux. I’ve been to see a nearby one today - one that nobody seems to know anything about - I suppose because it’s in a remote location. It’s called le Bezu.”
“Really?” He was aware of a quickening of his pulse and hoped it didn’t show on his face.
“Yes. It’s already swarming with archaeologists.” She had an infectious grin. “Well - six actually.”
“Oh, my god!” He couldn’t prevent the exclamation slipping out. “What are they doing there?”
“I don’t know - looking for some ancient remains of the Cathars, I believe. What do archaeologists ever look for? Old bones and pottery, it seems to me. But they’ve got a famous woman with them. Ever heard of Jacqueline Blontard?”
“The one in the television series?”
“That’s the one. Well, she’s leading this dig so I should think it’s reckoned to be quite important. I expect it’ll be her next series.” She suddenly caught the expression on his face. “Are you worried about having real archaeologists here?”
“Not the archaeologists. But I don’t particularly welcome the prospect of television c
rews swarming all over the area.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry. There are no television cameras around - at least, not yet. And they’re not interested in the Templars. They told me the tales linking le Bezu to the Templars are purest myth.”
“Who told you I was interested in the Templars?”
“My father, of course.” It seemed to him that there was a slight withdrawal of the good humour he had previously enjoyed. “You must understand, monsieur, that I am his closest confidante since my mother died. You don’t have any need to worry. I know how to keep a secret.” She tossed her hair back. ” Mon dieu, I’ve been told enough in my time.”
He ignored her attempts to reassure him. For now he was more interested in what was going on at le Bezu. “How long are they going to be there?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“I don’t know. The whole summer, I would say. These archaeologists do things by the season, don’t they? I can tell you they’re not likely to be gone in a fortnight.” She looked at him carefully. “Why? Is it important?”
He didn’t know her well enough yet to trust her, so he shook his head, trying to suggest it was irrelevant. “It’s just interesting when other researchers coincidentally turn up in the same area. But you say they’re only looking for Cathar remains?”
“So they tell me. Mind you, I haven’t got really close to any of the archaeologists yet.”
“Are they on the site all the time?”
“Most days, I think. I understand they’re staying at a hotel in Cuillan. That’s on the Limoux to Axat road.”
“I think we ought to find out some more about what they’re doing - how big an area they’re excavating; how long they are likely to be there - that sort of thing.”
She looked at him quizzically but didn’t question his interest, “I could drop in to the hotel for a drink one night, if you want me to.”
Hebert nodded. “That might be useful.”
“My cover would be perfect for quizzing them about what they’re doing - all back-up research for my series. I may even get myself invited up to inspect the dig.”
“That would be good. If you do visit the castle I would like to come with you.”
“It’s quite a scramble getting up to the castle. It’s on a very high ridge. Probably there used to be steps but they’ve disappeared now. I believe there are some ropes to hang on to but the climb is quite demanding.”
“I shall be quite all right, thank you,” he said stiffly, suddenly aware of his age.
There was an uncomfortable silence while he searched for a way to change the conversation. At last he said, “Forgive me but you don’t seem the same type of person as Montlucon or Mickey whatever-he’s-called.”
“I should hope not,” she burst out. “When I was growing up I believe I was a bit of a wild kid in the streets of Marseilles. But then my father decided he wanted me to be properly educated. So when I was ten he sent me to a convent school to turn me into a lady.” She shuddered. “Oh, I hated the discipline that those nuns imposed on me. But I admit they taught me how to behave. Then I went to university in Lyons to complete my education. It was the university which made me what I am.” She put her head on one side. “I am a real journalist, you know.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“So I won’t have any problems convincing people that I have a genuine right to be here. My current employment will also enable me to go just about anywhere without questions being asked.” She looked at him sceptically. “What about you? Don’t you think you stick out like a sore thumb?”
“I don’t have any problems.” Slightly nettled, he told her about his cover researching the Templars. “Like you, the story is close enough to the truth to stand close scrutiny. If anybody is suspicious enough to check with Paris they’ll be told the same story there.”
She pondered it for a while, her head on one side. “Yes,” she concluded. “I think you’ll do.”
“In fact,” he added, “the two of us fit together well. Nobody would think it suspicious if we met up from time to time to compare notes. It’s just the kind of thing that two researchers into similar projects might do.”
Her smile made her look most attractive. “Why not? Were you thinking of offering to take me to dinner tonight?”
“I would very much like to do that. Where are you staying?”
They exchanged addresses and mobile phone numbers and arranged to meet later. When she rose and left, Alain watched her depart down the road with her long, easy stride and found he was looking forward to the evening ahead with a cheerfulness which he hadn’t felt for a long time.
It was one evening several days later when Alain hurried to open the door in response to the urgent knocking. Standing outside in the pitch darkness was a breathless and somewhat dishevelled Cesar.
“What’s the matter?”
“Can I come in?”
“Of course.” He stood aside to let her through.
“I need a drink.” She ran her hands through her untidy hair. “A strong drink.”
“Cognac?”
“That’ll do for a start.”
He went to the cabinet, took out two brandy glasses. It worried him to see such a strong and self-confident woman appearing to be so distressed. He poured a large drink for her and a smaller one for himself. He came back and gave her the glass.
“Sit down.” He indicated the armchair he’d been occupying a few minutes before. She collapsed into the chair and took a gulp of the brandy. He bent over her and placed his hands on her shoulders. Despite their difference in age and background, he had grown fond of her in the last few days. During that time they had spent most of their evenings together and he had discovered a pleasure in personal contact which was completely different to his previously isolated life.
“Now, Cesar - what on earth’s the problem?”
She leaned back in the chair and took another slug of drink. She let out a shuddering sigh and began. “Well, as you know, following my chat with Jacqueline Blontard and her colleagues when it became apparent that they were hoping to explore the whole castle and stay there for the summer, we agreed that our plans needed a rethink.”
“Quite right.”
“So, as we discussed the other night, I got in touch with Marseilles to tell them the problem about the archaeologists up at le Bezu. I tried to speak to papa, but the only one I could get hold of was that gruesome little Montlucon.”
“I remember him.” Alain let go her shoulders and sat on the arm of the chair.
“Well - I was astonished. The man went almost incandescent with rage. He’s never spoken to me like that before. He seemed to blame us for the problem. He said it was up to us to get the archaeologists out of the place, and quickly. He said otherwise they would have to do something about it.” She paused for another drink.
“I told him what we had discussed - that it was best if we left the archaeologists to do their work and came back again in the autumn.”
She drank again and shook her head. “He said that was out of the question. Too much money had already been spent to wait that long. He seemed to be blaming me - blaming us for what had happened. He said everything had been arranged at their end and that we had let them down.”
“He seems to be getting a bit big for his boots,” said Alain. “Did you tell him that I specifically didn’t want any violence? If someone got hurt it would only result in a lot of unsuitable publicity. That would make it much more dangerous to continue here and try to make progress with getting the stuff out.”
“I told him all that but he didn’t want to listen. He said he’d give us a week to sort things out. He said that if we failed they would decide to take action at their end.”
“That’s just plain stupid.” Hebert swore, then stopped himself. “What did your father say in all this?”
“He wasn’t there. That’s what is worrying me. I asked where he was and all Montlucon would say was that he was out and he didn’t know when he would be
back.” She looked up at him. “I’m worried about him, Alain.”
He put his arm round her shoulders. “What do you think may have happened?”
She shook her head. “I just don’t know.”
“Your father’s the patron, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” She smiled weakly. “Well, he was. Suddenly I don’t know any more.”
The next second she was crying, racked by violent sobs. He hugged her to his chest, surprised at the sudden breakdown in her self-control. He felt the tears soaking his shirt. He mumbled something into her scented hair. For some silly reason he felt enormously happy. Nobody had ever asked for comfort from him before and it was a new experience for him to try to understand the feelings of another person.
“Cesar - why should there be a problem?” He stroked her hair. “Here - have another swig of brandy.”
She lifted her head and took another drink. She gulped it back and looked at him. “Oh, Alain! It seems to me as though everything is changing. I could feel the atmosphere over the phone. It was as though papa wasn’t there anymore.”
“It’s just Montlucon mouthing off while your father’s away. You’ve said yourself that the bloke is a heap of crap. He would never dare to act against your father.”
“He wouldn’t by himself.” She shook her head. “But now there’s all this money sloshing round, I wonder whether someone else has muscled in on the organisation now that papa is so much weaker than he used to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, there will have been dozens of the vultures circling when the news got out about this templar treasure. They will all want a chunk of the proceeds.” She added bitterly. “You didn’t realise what you were starting when you got in touch with Montlucon.”
“You mean there’s a fight going on between the various different factions in Marseilles?”
“That’s right. And papa’s right in the middle of it.” She shook her head again, her expression miserable. “The trouble is that he’s not the man he was. He lost a lot of kudos when they tried to assassinate him.”
Hebert’s mouth fell open. “They tried what?”
The Secret Of The Cathars (2011) Page 5
