A Vintage End

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  It was an order, not a request and Burke obeyed. As he approached the bench, he had a powerful sense of déjà vu. It was like he was back a year ago in the Nice police station, asking questions about the deaths of two men and then two more men.

  As he waited, Burke thought he should have brought Madame Benoit along. No one would likely try to intimidate an old woman although Burke knew if someone did, it wouldn’t work with Madame Benoit. He expected she was usually the smartest person in any room she was in; it was just that she didn’t advertise and most people probably wouldn’t care to notice.

  The security door beside the front counter opened and a slender, well-groomed man in his late 20s came out. He marched over to Burke.

  “I am Inspector Julien Sauvageot. I understand you have some information about one of the victims found during yesterday’s storm,” he said.

  Burke stood. They were about the same height. Neither man reached out to shake hands.

  Burke began his spiel about the dead cyclist and noticed the policeman’s gaze never wavered. Then the inspector held up a hand, stopping Burke.

  “You better come with me,” he said.

  He led Burke back through the security door. Next, he got Burke to unload his pockets and the two went through a metal detector. After that, it was down a short hallway and into a fair-sized open room filled with a dozen desks, most of them unoccupied. Sauvageot took Burke to one in a far corner and motioned for Burke to sit down in the single chair facing the desk. Sauvageot then sat is his own chair.

  “Now, please continue,” the policeman said.

  And Burke did, relating what he had told the front-desk officer but with more detail. As he talked, Sauvageot took the occasional note.

  Before he had gone to the police station, Burke had thought the police would dismiss him as some kind of dumb blogger or eccentric. Or maybe even as the perpetrator coming in to check on how the police were faring with the death.

  This young officer was taking him seriously.

  When Burke was finished, Sauvageot leaned back, studying him.

  “You have some interesting observations,” the policeman said.

  Burke shrugged. And then he thought Sauvageot might upgrade “interesting” if Burke provided him with Madame Benoit’s theories involving the other two deaths during yesterday’s storm.

  “Are you going to write about your theory?” Sauvageot asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Burke said and it was true. “I’m a blogger, not a journalist.”

  “But you’re curious about what happened,” Sauvageot said.

  “That’s true.”

  “Go through your theory again, please,” the inspector said.

  So, Burke did. As he related his ideas, he couldn’t help notice Sauvageot had put aside his notebook and was just studying Burke.

  Burke wasn’t sure if his visit to the police station was going to turn out to be a good idea.

  He offered a final thought: “If you think I’m a nut job, it might be helpful to know I have been involved in helping other police investigations. You could contact Inspector Jean-Pierre Fortin in Nice. He can vouch for me.”

  Sauvageot wrote down Fortin’s name.

  “So, once more, why are you here in Arles, Monsieur Burke?” he said.

  “For the vintage bicycle race on Saturday,” Burke said. “I’m riding it and I’m also doing a couple of blogs about it for my boss.”

  Sauvageot took down details about Burke’s “boss.” Then he asked where Burke was staying in Arles. Burke provided the information.

  There was a long pause. Burke thought Sauvageot was considering how to handle what he had been told.

  Burke figured it was time to be assertive and so he asked if the police believed the death of the cyclist was an accident or something else.

  “We’re still examining the situation,” Sauvageot replied.

  “And what about the other two deaths? Are you looking at them as accidents?” Burke asked.

  Sauvageot leaned forward onto his desk. “And do you have some theories about those deaths as well?” he asked.

  Burke paused. Should he provide Madame Benoit’s ideas? If he did, would he put himself into the frame as a possible killer? Or would Sauvageot think Burke was just a crank trying to play detective?

  Then he recognized that his pause to think told Sauvageot that he did indeed have some theories.

  So, without using Madame Benoit’s name, Burke provided her thoughts about the deaths of the widower and the homeless man.

  When Burke was done, the detective excused himself and went to an unoccupied desk in the far side of the room. There, he took out his cellphone and punched in some numbers. Sauvageot must have reached the person he wanted because he talked for almost five minutes. Then he ended the call and walked back to his own desk.

  “I just talked to your Inspector Jean-Pierre Fortin in Nice,” Sauvageot said. “As it happens, I have worked with him on a case or two where we had a common interest.”

  Burke waited.

  “I told him who was sitting at my desk and you know what he told me about you?” Sauvageot said.

  Burke shook his head.

  “He said you can be a pain in the ass, but you’re a very intuitive man who should be taken seriously – and who might end up helping us,” Sauvageot said. “He told me what you did for those investigations in his area and then he said once again that you can be a pain in the ass.”

  Burke would never have described himself as being “very intuitive”; a better description might have been “nosy.”

  He decided to push Sauvageot again.

  “So, are you treating the death of the so-called cyclist as an accident?” Burke said.

  “Ah, there’s that pain-in-the-ass character trait that Fortin told me about,” Sauvageot said. He seemed to relax a bit. “I will only tell you that an autopsy is being conducted and we will be interested in the results.”

  “So you’re considering the death as foul play,” Burke said.

  “We’re only doing what we need to do,” the officer replied.

  “And are you considering the other two deaths as suspicious as well?”

  Sauvageot paused and Burke knew at that moment that the other two dead men were considered to be victims of misfortune during a sudden, terrible storm.

  “We’re being careful in our examination of the scenes,” Sauvageot said.

  Burke sensed the police might not have been “careful” before, but would likely be from now. Or maybe he was giving himself too much credit.

  “Now, Monsieur Burke, please give me your theories again,” Sauvageot said. “It’s just for clarity.”

  Burke complied, wondering as he talked if he was about to get involved once more in a police investigation. It looked possible.

  And then he had the strange sense that the death of the fake cyclist might be connected to the stunts surrounding the vintage bike races sponsored by Bosco Yablonski. He had no facts to make that link, just a gut feeling.

  Burke thought that maybe he was indeed becoming “more intuitive.”

  Chapter 23

  After visiting the police station, Burke walked to the headquarters of the vintage race. If anything, the place was even busier than during his previous visit. Burke spotted Philippe Durant, the race manager he had met before, and went toward him.

  “Monsieur Durant, do you remember me?” Burke said.

  “I do, Monsieur Burke,” he said. “You had some questions for me the other day.”

  “I’m just wondering what the plans are for the race on Saturday,” Burke said. “Are you still going to hold it?”

  “The storm has provided us with new challenges, but we’re definitely going ahead.”

  “Any changes to the route?”

  “We’re shortening it by about 25 kilometres due to some flooding in the Saint-Gilles and Fontvieille areas,” Durant said.

  Burke asked if there had been any pressure to cancel the race or, fo
r that matter, to continue to hold it whatever the conditions.

  “The sponsors, the race organizers and the various communities involved have all been in talks and we unanimously decided we should go ahead,” Durant said. “We’ve shortened the route, dropping Saint-Gilles and Fontvieille because of the flooding, but the people in those communities understand.”

  “Have you heard if people are dropping out of the race?” Burke wondered.

  “We’ve had phone calls and emails from participants wondering about the status of the event, but, right now, it seems everyone still wants to race even if it’s going to be cooler and a little wet,” Durant said.

  “What about the police?” Burke asked. “Have you talked to them about the changes?”

  “We told them we were keeping to our plans except for a slight re-routing of the course,” Durant said. “They had no issue with that.”

  Durant frowned. Then he scanned the room and Burke knew he was almost out of time with the organizer.

  “Any additional security being added?” Burke asked.

  Durant looked puzzled. “Why should there be?” he said.

  “Just wondering,” Burke said.

  “Well, we aren’t adding any more security,” Durant said.

  “But what about the possibility of another action against Bosco Yablonski? Isn’t that reason enough for extra security?”

  “Our security is sufficient,” Durant replied. “I don’t know if Monsieur Yablonski is doing anything at his end about additional security for himself.”

  Burke felt Durant knew what Yablonski was doing about his personal security, but he opted not to pursue it. Instead, he asked if there was a revised map of the route. Durant led him to a nearby desk and handed him a hard copy of the new course.

  “Now, Monsieur Burke, I’m extremely busy so if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work,” Durant said. “If you have more questions, there’ll be a news conference at the city hall tomorrow morning at 10.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away.

  Burke had tossed out the question about additional security because he had wondered if anyone was linking any of the three deaths from the day before to the upcoming vintage race. He didn’t know if there was a connection, but he was curious if others thought there might be. His question to Durant had been a longshot, but worth a try. Durant’s response indicated he saw no connection. And it seemed the police still didn’t either.

  Outside, Burke looked at the map. With the changes, it would be a short event, taking no more than four hours for everyone to be done. He expected most would be finished within three hours since the route was flat. The steepest climb was over the bridge between Beaucaire and Tarascon, and that was short and easy.

  Burke tucked away the map and decided it was time for lunch. Since the sun had popped through the clouds, he expected he’d eat outside if the tables were set up at his favourite café in Place Voltaire.

  A few minutes later, he was sitting at an outside table, a pastis before him. He checked his phone and saw a text from Hélène. She told him she loved him and added she was busy with the upcoming wedding celebrations planned for the café. She added she had heard about the three deaths in Arles and hoped Burke was staying safe. Burke replied he was fine and the race was going ahead. He wished her good luck on the wedding and added he loved her, too.

  Then he saw an email from Olivier Richard saying Burke should show up at the entrance to the Lyon prison at 11 a.m. on Tuesday to collect Claude. He reminded Burke to have some photo identification with him. The lawyer asked Burke to confirm he received the email and to either text or email when he had Claude with him.

  Burke sent back an email saying he had Claude’s release under control. And he did, although it would be a busy few days. After the vintage race, he’d stay that night in Arles, keeping busy by writing a new blog and maybe a column. Then he’d return to Villeneuve-Loubet because, on Monday evening, he had the TV sports show. As soon as it ended, he intended to drive part way to Lyon. The entire distance was more than 470 kilometres and it would be too much to do on the morning before Claude was released. So, he’d knock off 200 kilometres after the panel show, find some inexpensive hotel for the night and then get up early for the remainder of the trip to Lyon the next day. The return trip could be handled after he collected Claude; it would make for a long day, but the enticement of home for both of them would help them handle the kilometres.

  “Bonne journée,” came a slightly familiar voice to his side.

  It belonged to the Englishman he had met the previous day at the same café. His partner stood beside him.

  Burke smiled and wished them a good day.

  “We had such a good meal here before that we decided to return,” the woman said.

  Burke asked if they’d like to join him. The couple exchanged a glance, thanked him and accepted his offer.

  “I’m Ginny and this is my husband Peter,” the woman said, reaching out to shake hands.

  Burke shook hands with her and then with her husband. A moment later the server from the previous day was beside them and took their order for a carafe of rosé.

  Burke asked if they had managed to get into Saturday’s bike race.

  “We did,” Peter said. “I didn’t think we would, but they were more than happy to accept us.”

  “We even talked to one of the main sponsors, that Bosco Yablonski,” Ginny added.

  Burke was surprised Yablonski had shown up at the race office. But then again, maybe it wasn’t so surprising since he was the main impetus behind the four races and seemed a hands-on type of person.

  “He told us ‘The more, the merrier’ when we asked if we could participate,” Peter said. “He wasn’t too friendly, but he was helpful.”

  “Did Yablonski have other people with him at the headquarters?” Burke asked.

  “He had several large men around him, probably bodyguards,” Peter said. “There was also a tall woman talking to him every couple of minutes.”

  “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of Monsieur Yablonski’s men,” Ginny said. “They frightened me a little. To be honest, he did, too.”

  “How did you meet Monsieur Yablonski?” Burke said.

  “He overheard us asking if it was too late to get into the race,” Ginny said. “One of the race people started to tell us it was past the deadline, but then Monsieur Yablonski intervened and sorted it out for us. No one argued with him.”

  The server came and took their orders, switching from French to respectable English for Burke’s new friends.

  When she left, Burke asked if they had managed to secure a couple of older bikes for the race. They had, adding Burke’s tip had proven a good one since the bike shop welcomed them enthusiastically and had machines that fit them well. Peter’s was a 10-speed from the early 1960s while Ginny managed to rent a slighter newer three-speed model in superb condition.

  Burke asked if the couple had been caught in the rainstorm.

  They said they had just returned to their hotel when the rain came.

  “But to hear three people died during that storm was terrible,” Ginny said. “I guess it was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  There it was again, the ‘wrong place, wrong time’ theory. Burke had doubts about its accuracy in these circumstances, but didn’t say it. Instead, he told them he was blogging about the event and asked if he could quote them. They were fine with the request.

  They chatted a few minutes more and then their meals came. Burke had ordered mussels in a curry sauce while Peter had opted for a duck breast with an orange salad while Ginny had gone for a crustless quiche with shallots and sun-dried tomatoes.

  “The food here is superb,” Peter declared after a couple of bites. “You’d never know it from the look of the café, but this place is wonderful for anyone who likes good cooking.”

  “It’s the same with Arles in general,” Ginny said. “It looks a little worn on
the outside, but it has so much to offer. There are so many interesting things to see and all the people seem so nice.”

  Except for the person who killed the fake cyclist, Burke thought. And maybe the one, or ones, who murdered the old widower and the homeless man.

  Chapter 24

  After lunch, Burke agreed to get together after Saturday’s race with Peter and Ginny for a drink and a meal. They were pleasant people and good company. He’d have to file a blog immediately after the race, but that wouldn’t take too long and there wouldn’t be any need to rush to a café since no decent operation would consider serving a meal between 2 p.m. and 8 p.m.

  Back at Madame Benoit’s chambre d’hôte, Burke told his landlady what the police had said. He also described what had happened at the race headquarters and with his lunch companions.

  Madame Benoit listened attentively, nodding a few times as Burke related his information.

  “I’ve given these last 24 hours much thought, Paul,” Madame said. “I’ve also spent a little time making some calls to friends and I have the strong suspicion that people in Arles are not convinced that all three deaths yesterday were accidents. I know we French are a suspicious race, but the people in this community seem truly nervous about what might happen next. I had one friend who said the storm was indeed dreadful, but three people drowning was about two too many for the conditions. I have no doubt she’s right.”

  Just then the doorbell rang and Madame welcomed new customers. Burke excused himself and went to his room. Without any plans for the rest of the day, he opted to do some research.

  He began by digging again into Bosco Yablonski’s past, but found out nothing he didn’t already know. He had the sense that information about the man was limited and probably by design by Yablonski. The tycoon had little trouble being in public, but guarded details about his life with some fervor and definitely with success since media reports were sparing with information.

  That made the suggestions about Yablonski’s link to the Second World War all the more puzzling.