“And no one, either today or earlier, saw anyone do this or set it up?” Burke said.
“No.”
“What about tracing the gear?” Burke asked.
“The serial numbers were rubbed off. Plus, there was a makeshift element to it. There were components from different items. It was quite sophisticated, though.”
Burke was impressed. The ones who concocted the plan to burn Yablonski in effigy knew they would get only one chance at it. And they had made it work perfectly without leaving a clue.
“Get back to your campground theory, Monsieur,” Sauvageot said.
Burke thought another moment about the equipment atop the Arena and then returned to Sauvageot’s request.
“With all that gear, they needed at least an oversized van or a couple of vans,” Burke said. “They also needed some space to operate. Once again, that eliminates a hotel or a chambre d’hôte or even a house rental. Too many snooping eyes. But a campground with not so many people would work. If they got a spot by trees or bushes that partly or fully hid them, they could do their preparations without too much expectation of being seen. And earlier, when they were planning their Saint-Raphaël stunt, they needed to keep a distance from others because they had two skeletons with them.”
“Which might have smelled bad since they were recently dug out of the ground and were still a little, shall we say, moist,” Sauvageot interjected.
“Unless someone had them on ice, so to speak,” Burke said. “One further point with those skeletons: I expect the van or vans were large enough to have a special compartment or hiding spot. Can you imagine if they got pulled over by some flic for speeding and the flic decided to check the back of the van? Two skeletons that were, as you said, ‘moist’ would be difficult to explain.”
“OK, I’ll accept that,” Sauvageot said. “Now tell me why a small campground.”
“Again, far fewer eyes,” Burke said.
“But why did you say the owners of the campground had to be lazy?”
“Lazy owners wouldn’t care to check if the group needed anything,” Burke said. “They wouldn’t go around cleaning up the campground or keeping the bushes and trees trimmed for attractiveness. They’d just take the money and stay away. Perfect for our group.”
“So, how did the group find such a campground?” Sauvageot said, looking like he knew how Burke would answer.
“They probably checked online to see what campgrounds were in the area and what the ratings were on websites such as TripAdvisor,” Burke said. “In fact, I’d wager that as soon as they heard about the routes for the vintage races, they went online, found just the right campgrounds and made reservations.”
“Which might have come as a surprise to the owners of a dumpy campground,” Sauvageot said.
“It probably did but money is money,” Burke said. “And lazy, take-the-money-and-run campground operators would also do something else that worked for our group.”
“Tell me,” Sauvageot said.
“They’d be happy to deal with just one person,” Burke said. “If they had to handle more requests from more people, they’d have to work harder.”
Sauvageot nodded.
“For the group, having one spokesperson meant the campground operators only knew one face, not four and that was good for keeping the identities of the group members unknown. If the campground operators got nosy, that would be bad luck for our group, but they weren’t banking on it. Again, I think they read reviews of the campground with a great deal of care.”
The more he spoke, the more Burke felt he was getting a sense about how the group operated. At the same time, he was surprised at how his thoughts were arranging themselves. He was indeed a different man from a year ago; it was like his brain had been jump-started by the incidents surrounding the previous year’s Tour de France.
Sauvageot frowned as he processed Burke’s theory.
“There’s no way they could have camped rough in this area,” Sauvageot added. “Every acre in the region is spoken for. If they had tried to sneak in someplace, someone would have noticed and likely notified us. And that might well have been the case with the first two races. So, I understand your argument about the campground.”
“And one more thing, Inspector. I think I know why no one has identified your dead cyclist from the storm,” Burke said.
“Explain that, please,” the policeman said.
“If the dead cyclist was a member of this group, and I think that was the case, the reason no one has been able to identify him is because he was from far outside this area and because no one in this region has really seen him. At the campground, he’d have been invisible because he likely wasn’t the spokesman with the campground operators. And to keep as anonymous as possible, I expect the group ate in their vans or in the countryside but never at a café or bistro. They didn’t want anyone to remember them. The only one who took on a public persona was the spokesman who probably did all the buying of groceries.”
“You’ve given this matter a lot of thought, Monsieur,” Sauvageot said.
“I’ve given it some thought,” Burke said, “but not enough to know who pulled the pranks and who fire-bombed Yablonski’s limo.”
“Inspector Fortin in Nice was right about you,” Sauvageot said. “I appreciate your ideas.”
Then the policeman spun on his heels and disappeared into the police building, leaving Burke wondering if he had helped the police or just confirmed some ideas.
He also wondered if he was right with his theory about the group and the campground.
Chapter 40
Burke walked around the Old Town, re-visiting the Arena where four police officers were now standing around looking bored. Then he returned once more to the site of the car bombing. Nothing had changed there since his last stop.
“Quite a day,” came a slightly familiar female voice over his shoulder.
Burke turned and saw Ginny and her husband Peter, Burke’s lunchtime companions from before.
They shook hands.
“No one expected what happened,” Burke admitted.
“My French is wobbly, but it seems most people on the streets are stunned by what’s happened to Bosco Yablonski,” Peter said.
Ginny nodded.
The couple explained how they had completed the race and were by the finish line when the dummy had appeared over the top wall of the Arena.
“That was shocking,” she said. “I’ve never seen anyone burned in effigy before.”
“I think some people were really scared what might happen next,” Peter added.
“And when the car bomb went off, it was terrifying,” Ginny said. “I can’t believe they’re going to have another race next week. I mean, it’s obvious something else will happen – unless the police catch who’s responsible.”
“And that doesn’t seem likely,” Peter said.
Burke asked if they would attend the final race in Vaison-la-Romaine.
Ginny laughed sheepishly. “Well, despite what I just said, I think we might,” she said. “It’s sort of like moths attracted to the flames.”
They chatted a few more minutes and then, with an agreement to have a drink if they all got to Vaison in a week, they parted.
Burke returned to his B and B where Madame Benoit called him into her office.
“Did you talk to the police and ask my question?” she said.
Burke related his conversation with Sauvageot to his landlady, noticing how Madame seemed intrigued by every new bit of information.
“So, they believe the homeless person’s death might be an accident or the work of someone else,” she said, more to herself than to Burke. “Well, I don’t think it was accidental, but it might be difficult to find whoever did it. There are more than a few people out there eager to victimize the homeless if they get the chance.”
Burke agreed.
“I see your work is already online,” she said, gesturing to the screen.
Burke sat besi
de her and she showed him his latest blog, courtesy of Lemaire, and some of his photos and videos.
“A couple of the videos of the limo bombing are going viral,” she added. “It seems a lot of people have noticed what happened today in our little community. In fact, the bombing and the burning in effigy are making the national news.”
Two clicks later, she was showing Burke the websites of two national newspapers, both featuring a photo of the limo burning.
“I wonder if the people behind these stunts are satisfied now,” Madame said, arching an eyebrow at Burke.
Burke wondered the same.
But still nothing damaging had come out about Yablonski which led Burke to think either the information was well hidden or the media didn’t care enough to look – or maybe there wasn’t anything there at all.
After a few minutes reviewing the day’s events with Madame, Burke excused himself. He had another blog to do.
And after he had fired it off to François Lemaire, he called Antoine Pastore at home.
“I don’t know anything more, Paul,” Antoine said by way of answering the phone.
“I understand,” Burke said.
“I will mention that those social media posts we talked about have been re-posted – a lot,” Antoine said. “People are paying attention. I’d even say they were expecting something to happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a real following on social media for what’s happening in these races. I hadn’t detected that before, but I’m seeing it now after what happened in Arles. There’s almost a cult-like quality building up.”
Burke asked if Antoine had seen any social media response from Yablonski or his people.
“Good question, but the answer is no,” Antoine said. “They’re not being proactive or reactive. For them, it’s sort of ‘business as usual.’”
“And there’s been nothing in the mainstream media linking Yablonski to profiteering and the Second World War?”
“Nothing that I’ve seen.”
Burke wished the anti-Yablonski people would just post what they had. But, as Antoine had said earlier, it was too risky, legally and now in other ways. So this strange game was going to continue.
They ended the call moments later.
Burke lay on his bed but he couldn’t relax; his mind swirled with the day’s images. Finally, he went out to his favourite Old Town café. He ordered the day’s special: red mullet with herbs. He normally wasn’t a fan of the fish, but he trusted the café. Done with new garlic, olives, chopped rosemary, bird’s eye chili and a sliced lemon, it proved delicious.
Yet it was a struggle to finish. His mind just wouldn’t move off the limo bombing, the burning of Yablonski in effigy and his conversation with Julien Sauvageot.
As a result, he skipped dessert and returned to his B and B.
And slept badly.
Chapter 41
The next morning after a quiet breakfast, Burke bid farewell to Madame Benoit who said she would alert him to any developments in the Arles’ murders in return for him divulging any new information he found. He happily agreed.
As he stood by the front door, Madame had one final comment.
“Paul, this whole affair with Monsieur Yablonski is about much more than trying to humiliate or even frighten someone,” she said. “This is about seeking justice. There is also anger and hatred and fear at play. Those are strong emotions. And dangerous ones.”
Burke considered her words.
“It isn’t going to stop here in Arles,” she continued.
Burke nodded.
“I know you’re going to Vaison-la-Romaine so you can be there to see how it ends,” Madame said.
“Yes, I plan to be there.”
“Then you must be careful, very careful.”
Burke promised he would.
Three hours later when he pulled into the old part of Villeneuve-Loubet, he felt instantly relaxed, the tumultuous last few days drifting away, at least for the moment, as he saw the familiar stone buildings and narrow, twisting lanes of the village.
Hélène was sipping a coffee with Plato at her feet when he opened the door to their apartment.
“Chéri, I’m so glad you’re home,” she said, springing to her feet and hugging him.
As they held each other, Plato waited patiently at their feet for his moment of attention.
Burke and Hélène caught up on the previous day with Hélène discussing how her wedding had been a rousing and very late-night success, lasting until 3 a.m. which meant she didn’t get to bed until almost 5 a.m. after cleaning up.
“There has also been a great deal of discussion about what happened in Arles yesterday,” she said. “They were even talking about it at the wedding reception.”
Burke asked what the consensus had been.
“Most of them thought it was terrible and not the kind of thing you see happening in Provence,” Hélène said. “I also got the sense that people think there’s something to those allegations against Yablonski, although no one had any specific ideas what they might involve.”
“Anything on the local news?” Burke asked.
“It’s been on the radio and TV. I expect it’s in the morning papers, too.”
They talked a while longer and then Hélène left to look after lunch at the café. Burke wandered down to Jean’s newsagent shop, taking Plato with him. The small dog pranced whenever he went on a walk. More than once, a villager spotted Burke and Plato, said hello to Burke and then rubbed Plato’s ears; the small dog was clearly more popular than Burke who was fine with that.
“I see you’re back from your adventures in Arles,” Jean said when Burke walked into his shop which had a couple of other customers browsing through postcards. Burke didn’t recognize them. Probably tourists.
He and Jean discussed the limo bombing and the burning of Yablonski in effigy. Burke gave some details about the deaths of the three men earlier in the week.
“I can see you’re cooking up one of your theories,” Jean said.
“I don’t know what to think,” Burke said.
The two tourists bought four cards and left.
“Are you going to ride in the final race in Vaison?” Jean asked.
“I am,” Burke replied. “My editor isn’t giving me much of a choice. Besides, I’m curious.”
“And what does Hélène say?”
“She doesn’t want me to go, but she isn’t telling me not to go. She just made me promise not to do anything foolish.”
“Good advice, especially for you, Paul,” Jean said.
They chatted a few more minutes and then Paul got up to leave. Plato came over for a few friendly rubs and then retreated to his bed.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you about the skeletons, Paul,” Jean said.
“The two skeletons from the Saint-Raphaël race?”
“I heard a news report that two small cemeteries are missing skeletons,” Jean said. “One cemetery is in the Alsace area and the other is in a village an hour north of Lyon. No one has been arrested and it seems no one saw the grave robbers.”
“Are the police saying the skeletons in Saint-Raphaël belong to those two cemeteries?”
“The report didn’t go that far,” Jean said. “But you have to think it’s too great a coincidence to be otherwise.”
Once again, Burke pondered what would motivate a small group of individuals to dig up two skeletons in two tiny communities and then drive hundreds of kilometres to the Mediterranean coast and leave them there on display.
What was he missing? And what was everyone else missing?
If Yablonski wasn’t a little frightened after the Arles incidents, maybe he should be, Burke thought.
Vaison-la-Romaine, as pretty a small town as any in southern France, could well become a dangerous place in a few days.
Chapter 42
The next day, before going to the TV studio for the panel show, Burke packed for an overnight stay someplace on the wa
y to Lyon and then he walked to the café to say goodbye to Hélène.
The café was starting to get busy, but Hélène managed to spend a minute with Burke.
“You must be careful, chéri,” she said as they hugged. “I don’t want to make any more hospital visits.”
Burke vowed to be smart and stay safe. He hoped he could uphold his promises.
The TV panel show that evening went without incident although there was considerable discussion about how sporting events, such as the vintage races, were being used more and more as venues for protests and political dissension.
After the show, Burke turned down an invitation from the sportswriter on the panel to go for a beer. He had the sense the sportswriter was more interested in getting some background on the Arles incidents than in relaxing post-program with a beer.
By the time Burke was out of Nice, it was almost 8 p.m. The sky was a cloudless dark blue and dotted by stars; it would be a glorious night for a drive, Burke thought.
And the kilometres sped by.
Burke listened to a couple of radio stations for any updates on the Arles race, the upcoming Vaison-la-Romaine event and the report on the two skeletons. The only information he heard involved the two skeletons and it just repeated what Jean had told him.
Skipping the mountain routes, Burke stayed on main roads and, when he got close to Avignon after 250 kilometres, he decided to call it a day. He was tired and he knew he had a full day ahead with driving the remaining 230 kilometres to Lyon, picking up Claude and then returning to Villeneuve-Loubet.
Burke didn’t mind staying in Avignon. The “City of the Popes” was one of his favourite mid-sized communities, alive with festivals and cafés, and marked with wonderful architecture from several centuries. It always looked beautiful, even on dreary days.
A Vintage End Page 18
