A Vintage End

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “Lemaire certainly thinks it’s becoming one and I can’t disagree with him,” Antoine said. “It’s one thing to have a little scene with skeletons in old German war uniforms. It’s another to burn someone in effigy and bomb that person’s limousine. And when that person is a business tycoon, the story gets even bigger.”

  “Are the other media treating it the same?”

  “Give me a moment to take a look, Paul,” Antoine said.

  As Antoine searched, Burke wondered why the car bombing hadn’t occurred in sync with the burning of Yablonski in effigy, but then he figured it would have created too much chaos. Two major events at the same time would have panicked people even more; it was better to have events follow each other for maximum impact if the intent was to embarrass Bosco Yablonski as much as possible. Either way, Burke felt there was little doubt that at least two individuals had been responsible for the actions. A single person couldn’t have pulled them off; the logistics would have been too demanding.

  Burke understood why Sauvageot had asked Yablonski if his limo driver had followed any kind of routine since the individuals responsible for the car bombing needed to know where his driver usually parked the limo and if anyone stayed with the vehicle. It was more proof that the people after Yablonski were careful with their planning.

  And yet, Burke thought, the Arles actions were dramatically different from those in Saint-Raphaël and Nice. There was a dangerous quality about these recent ones.

  “Lots of media are all over the Arles story,” Antoine said. “It’s even gone onto a couple of websites of national newspapers. Sleepy little Arles is in the big time – for the wrong reasons.”

  “And I expect the social media world is popping with videos and photos?” Burke said.

  “I’m looking at a couple of social media platforms and they’re bursting with all kinds of related posts.”

  “Antoine, do you know if the city of Arles has any videocams?” Burke asked, knowing he should have checked that information before the race.

  “It doesn’t,” Antoine said. “I looked a little while ago. The city isn’t big enough. By the way, keep the videos coming. They’re helping us get a lot of hits on our website.”

  “OK.”

  “You might also be interested to know that L’Equipment Technologique Inc. does indeed connect to Yablonski. I checked a few minutes after I heard about Yablonski being burned in effigy and about the banner linking him to that company. It’s a subsidiary of one of his companies. And one of the major products that L’Equipment Technologique Inc. provides is munitions.”

  Burke was surprised that Antoine, despite his terrific computer skills, had found the connection so quickly. He would have guessed that Yablonski would have wanted any ties to a munitions company to be downplayed or hidden since controversies continued to swirl around arms and munitions companies.

  “You found that information quickly,” Burke said.

  “A couple of Google searches and I had it.”

  “So anyone looking through Yablonski’s various companies probably wouldn’t have had much trouble seeing the connection, right?”

  “Correct.”

  Burke wondered if Yablonski didn’t care who knew what he owned.

  “Do you have a full picture of all of Yablonski’s business dealings?” Burke asked.

  “I can’t say right now because I haven’t gone beyond some superficial research,” Antoine said. “He clearly has a variety of different businesses, but they might just be the tip of the iceberg.”

  Burke thought for a moment.

  “Are you going to ask me to check into all his business holdings?” Antoine said.

  “I know you’re busy, Antoine,” Burke said.

  “So the answer is, yes, you want me to do it,” Antoine said with a theatrical sigh.

  “But only if you have the time and desire,” Burke said.

  “Enough, you’re killing me, Paul,” Antoine said. “I’ll do what I can when I can.”

  They ended the call a few moments later with Burke promising to send in more photos and video plus any new information he learned.

  Standing on the sidewalk, Burke thought about what had happened in the Old Town of Arles and he became convinced that the fourth and final race would be the wildest yet – if there was one after all this mess.

  Burke decided to talk to the race organizers.

  And he wanted more information from Julien Sauvageot.

  First, though, he needed to dump his bike for the rest of the day and get into some non-cycling clothes. The hours ahead would be busy.

  Chapter 37

  After a quick shower and change of clothes, Burke was heading for the front door of his chambre d’hôte when he heard the couple from Normandy come out of the sitting room.

  “Were you close to the car bombing, Monsieur?” the woman asked.

  Burke told them he had been within two blocks and had gone to see it for himself.

  “The news reports say no one has been arrested yet,” the man said.

  Burke nodded.

  “Madame Benoit told us you were involved somehow in solving those murders last year that were connected to the Tour de France,” the woman said.

  “I wrote a few blogs about it,” Burke said, preferring a little anonymity.

  The woman frowned, not seeming to accept his diminished role in the TDF deaths. She asked if he was checking into the bombing in Arles – and the other actions involving Bosco Yablonski.

  “I might do a blog or two about it for my newspaper chain,” Burke admitted.

  Madame Benoit then walked into the hallway, smiled and asked Burke to join her in her office. He agreed, noticing the Normandy couple seem a little disappointed that he was ending their discussion.

  “I am glad you’re safe,” Madame said, once her office door was shut. “Did you see the limousine explode?”

  “I was two blocks away, but I saw the aftermath,” he said.

  “I heard no one was injured and no other damage was done,” Madame said. “Very fortunate – except for the owner of the limousine, Monsieur Yablonski, yes?”

  Burke nodded.

  “So, someone just wanted to make a statement,” Madame continued. “And I think that individual must have some experience with car bombs to limit the damage.”

  Burke could see Madame’s mind turning over scenarios as she spoke. He waited for her to add something.

  “I would think this will make the police a little more enthusiastic about finding who has targeted Bosco Yablonski,” Madame said. “The pranks have now taken on a deadly quality – if they hadn’t already.”

  Burke knew where she was going.

  “The interesting question is whether the police believe there’s a link between today’s events and those three deaths we had during the storm,” she said.

  Burke had reached that point as well.

  “If you talk to the police again today, would you ask them one question for me?” Madame said.

  Burke agreed.

  “Ask them why an elderly widower with arthritis would go outside for a walk during a torrential downpour with his dog who hated water,” Madame said.

  Burke recalled the old man who had been found dead near the canal with his pet dog beside him.

  “How did you know about the arthritis?” Burke asked.

  “Paul, if you are elderly, there’s a strong chance you have arthritis, but, to be accurate, I made a few phone calls and reached a friend who knew the gentleman a little bit. She told me.”

  Burke was glad his landlady had stopped him before he had gone out. Now he had a little more ammunition.

  He also had a small theory about where the anti-Yablonski protestors might be found. And he wanted to test it on the flics.

  Chapter 38

  Before he dealt with the police, Burke wanted to know if there would be a fourth vintage race as originally planned. He expected the car bombing might have been enough to prompt the organizers to cance
l the event planned for Vaison-la-Romaine an hour north of Arles.

  So, 20 minutes later, Burke was back in the headquarters for the vintage race. He had expected the place to be bustling and filled with journalists probing for new developments. After all, a limo belonging to the main sponsor had just been blown up. And Yablonski had been burned in effigy.

  In short, it had been a bad day for Yablonski and the race.

  However, the large room was almost vacant with only a half dozen people working on computers. No one was talking.

  One of them was the woman who had helped him before.

  He walked up and asked how she was doing.

  “I remember you,” she said. “Well, I’m fine, but it has been a terrible day.”

  Burke agreed.

  “I hope the police catch the madman who did it,” she said.

  Burke wasn’t sure if she was alluding to the burning-in-effigy matter or the car bombing.

  “Do you know if the race scheduled for Vaison-la-Romaine is still going ahead after today’s events?” he asked.

  “The race manager told us just a little while ago that it would happen,” she said.

  “Despite today?” Burke said.

  She shrugged.

  “Have the police been in here since the race ended?” he asked.

  “I think one man came in who might have been with the police, but I can’t be sure since he wasn’t wearing a uniform,” she said.

  Burke described Julien Sauvageot.

  “That’s him,” she said.

  “How long did he stay?”

  “Maybe 10 minutes. He just talked to Monsieur Durant over in the corner there and then he left.”

  “Philippe Durant?” Burke asked, wanting to make sure it was the race manager he had chatted with earlier in the week.

  “Yes, Monsieur Durant.”

  Burke wondered if Durant was around, but the woman told him Durant had left shortly after Sauvageot had departed.

  He wanted to talk to Durant.

  “Will he be back here soon?”

  The woman frowned and Burke could see her patience was wearing thin.

  “I doubt it,” she said. “We’ll be closing within 30 minutes and then the race staff will start to prepare for the trip to Vaison-la-Romaine. It’s all packing up and lifting. Nothing that a race manager would consider helping with.”

  Her disdain for Durant was obvious. It was almost a match for her growing annoyance with Burke.

  So he thanked her and left.

  It was time to try Sauvageot in person. Or someone else working on the car bombing and other incidents involving the race.

  Chapter 39

  Burke returned to the car-bomb site. The crowd was gone except for a handful of people watching the cordoned-off area being examined by four individuals dressed in all-white outfits, looking as if they had just stepped out of a science fiction film. Two of the four were on their knees, almost burrowing their faces into the scorched concrete around the destroyed limo. A huge, lone uniformed policeman, looking totally bored, watched them and then checked out any new visitors to the scene. When he saw Burke, he spent an extra few seconds registering Burke’s face.

  Burke responded by walking over to the policeman, introducing himself and asking where Julien Sauvageot was.

  “I don’t know,” the policeman said, towering over Burke by several inches.

  Burke asked if Sauvageot would be returning to the scene. The cop said he didn’t know. Burke asked if Sauvageot was leading the investigation into the car bombing. The policeman said he wasn’t sure.

  That was enough for Burke who thanked the flic for his time and left.

  Next stop was the Arles police station.

  It was quiet inside with just one uniformed officer chatting on a cellphone in a corner. Burke had expected lots of activity after the car bombing. Maybe Madame Benoit was wrong. Maybe the police didn’t really care about investigating what had occurred in the Old Town with Yablonski.

  When he approached the front counter, he saw the officer was the same one he had talked with before.

  “You’re looking for Inspector Sauvageot?” she said.

  “I am,” Burke said, adding a smile to help his odds.

  It didn’t work because the officer nodded and said Sauvageot was not available.

  “I just want to ask a couple of questions, that’s all,” Burke said.

  “He’s busy,” the officer said, grabbing some papers on the desk to indicate she was ending the conversation.

  “Would you please tell him Paul Burke was here?” Burke said.

  “Burke, yes, I have it,” the officer said and then turned to go to another desk.

  Burke noticed she hadn’t written down his name.

  Outside, Burke was going down the stairs when he spotted Julien Sauvageot coming around the corner in a rush. The policeman saw him at the same time and held out a warning hand.

  “I have no time, Monsieur Burke,” he said, taking the steps two at a time.

  Burke took a chance.

  “Why does an elderly widower with arthritis go outside for a walk during a huge storm and take his dog who hates water?” Burke asked remembering Madame Benoit’s question.

  Sauvageot hadn’t been expecting that question and, surprised, he stopped in mid stride. And then he stared at Burke.

  Burke could see the policeman understood the question and its implications. And that Sauvageot remembered their first conversation when Burke had suggested the three deaths during the storm were suspicious.

  Burke decided to ask another question.

  “And why doesn’t a homeless person seek refuge under nearby trees when it’s pouring?”

  Sauvageot approached Burke, his face starting to recover its initial surprise.

  “I remember our first conversation, Monsieur Burke,” Sauvageot said.

  “So, are you treating those deaths as suspicious?”

  “You mean as murders?” Sauvageot said.

  “Yes, murders,” Burke replied. “And are you seeing any connections to the vintage bike race and the car bombing of Yablonski’s limousine?”

  “I can’t disclose the details of our investigation to the media,” Sauvageot said.

  “That tells me you are treating the deaths as more than tragic accidents,” Burke said.

  Sauvageot didn’t respond.

  “So, do you have any idea about where the people taking these actions against Yablonski might be staying – or hiding?” Burke said.

  “Again, I can’t provide that kind of information, Monsieur,” Sauvageot said.

  The conversation reminded Burke of his meetings the previous year with Inspector Jean-Pierre Fortin in Nice. Maybe all police detectives were taught the same way to answer questions.

  “Well, since there have been no arrests, I guess you haven’t had any luck finding them,” Burke said.

  He could see Sauvageot bristle slightly at the comment. But the flic remained silent.

  “Well, I won’t waste any more of your time,” Burke said.

  He turned to go and then he stopped just as Sauvageot was about to go back up the stairs.

  “But I’m sure you’ve checked small, private campgrounds nearby that have lots of trees or bushes and are far from any houses,” Burke said. “And which are run by people who are a little lazy.”

  Then he started walking away.

  He had gone about five metres when he heard footsteps approaching from behind.

  “Why do you suggest a campground with trees and not near any residences?” Sauvageot said.

  Burke could see the policeman hadn’t thought about finding the perpetrators of the Yablonski stunts in such a place.

  “Just wondering out loud,” Burke said.

  Sauvageot nodded. He could see Burke’s game.

  “All right, you tell me why you mentioned a campground of that description and I’ll tell you where we are in general terms in our investigation,” Sauvageot said.


  “You go first,” Burke said, knowing he sounded like a kid in a schoolyard negotiating some kind of deal.

  Sauvageot paused, weighing the counter offer.

  “We believe those three deaths are suspicious and we believe at least two of them might have a connection,” Sauvageot finally said.

  “A connection? What does that mean?” Burke said.

  “They might have been done by the same individual or individuals,” Sauvageot said.

  “Is the death of the homeless man the one you’re not so sure about?”

  “That could have been the work of someone entirely different,” Sauvageot said. “Or it might have been just a freak accident unlike what you’re suggesting.”

  “What evidence makes you think about a connection between the other two?” Burke said.

  “That’s enough on my part,” Sauvageot said. “Now it’s your turn. Tell me what’s behind the campground theory.”

  Burke explained why he thought four people were involved and how they likely had bikes with them.

  “What makes you sure they are riding in the races?” Sauvageot asked.

  “Sometimes all of them ride in a race, other times just one or two actually compete,” Burke said. “By participating in a race, they’re anonymous, just a few more riders in a mass of cyclists.”

  “Keep going,” Sauvageot said.

  “Either way, they’ve needed a place to store those bikes. A hotel might provide parking for them, but a hotel also has more eyes around. The same applies with a chambre d’hôte. Besides their bikes, these individuals have lots of other gear and they don’t want anyone to notice. That means they need to be out of view as much as possible.”

  “What kind of gear?”

  “At least one laptop computer plus some other electronic devices that could be used to release a dummy body or hundreds of sheets of false currency,” Burke said. “By the way, how did that figure of Yablonski get released from the top of the Arena?”

  “This is not for public notice, right?” Sauvageot said.

  Burke didn’t like the stipulation, but he wanted to know so he agreed.

  “There was a small container with an electronic lock release that could be activated from a distance,” Sauvageot said. “There was a spring inside the box and, as soon as the outside door was open, it immediately pushed the dummy over the top wall. The dummy, which was connected to the container by a cable, had a small mechanism on it that could also be activated from a distance. As soon as someone pushed the button, the mechanism triggered a small incendiary device. And that’s how you get a dummy burned in effigy.”