A Vintage End

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “You must be tired,” Rousseau said when Burke opened the door and came in.

  “I am, but I’ve got something I need to check out,” Burke replied.

  He went straight to his laptop, turned it on, waited impatiently while it powered up and then he went online, quickly punching in a Google search.

  In a flash, he saw more than 12-million results.

  But two near the top caught his attention.

  He read them, losing himself to the details presented.

  “I never heard about that,” Rousseau said over Burke’s shoulder. “Horrible.”

  Burke glanced at his friend who was staring at the screen which told about a massacre of Canadian soldiers in June 1944, in the aftermath of the D-Day invasion.

  The story told about how 37 Canadians were taken prisoner by the 2nd Battalion of the 26th Panzer Grenadier Regiment. They were marched near a village called Le Mesnil-Patty, a farming community west of Paris, not far from the English Channel. They were ordered to sit in the field. Several SS soldiers then showed up and slaughtered 35 of the 37 Canadians; two of the prisoners managed to get away only to be caught and spend the rest of their war in a POW camp.

  Burke had heard about Dieppe and a dozen other battles in which Canadians had been heavily involved.

  He had never heard about Le Mesnil-Patty. Rousseau said he hadn’t either.

  But Burke wondered if Christophe Talbot had. Maybe the young man had a distant relative who had been murdered in that lonely field so many years before. If so, it might explain why Talbot was involved with three young Frenchmen in their efforts to humiliate Bosco Yablonski.

  Or maybe it was another place where Canadian soldiers had been executed.

  He kept digging into the D-Day information. Because it was hard to read over Burke’s shoulder, Rousseau went to the couch and turned on the television.

  Burke learned how more than 150 Canadians were captured in the aftermath of the Normandy invasion and executed. Eighteen were shot in the head in the garden at Abbaye d’Ardenne while another 45 were killed at different times around the Chateau d’Audrieu.

  As it turned out, only one German officer, one Kurt Meyer, ended up being put on trial by Canada for some of the deaths. In a court martial, he was sentenced to death, but his sentence was commuted later by the Canadian government to life imprisonment. He did five years in a New Brunswick prison before being transferred to West Germany. In 1954, without opposition from Canada, he was released.

  Burke felt anger stirring inside him. It had been wartime, but the executions had been horrific. And only one man had been put on trial for the slaughters and he had ended up free within a decade of the war’s end. Burke was ready to explode.

  And then he thought if he was angry, what might Christophe Talbot have felt if he had discovered how a family member might have died back then at the hands of German soldiers?

  Burke couldn’t find any Canadian soldier killed who had the surname of Talbot, but that didn’t mean a lot. Maybe there was a daughter of a soldier who had married and changed names. Or a sister of a murdered Canadian who had changed her name.

  And if during the research into past massacres that included Oradour-sur-Glane and Le Mesnil-Patty, Talbot and his friends learned about how some Frenchmen and their descendants profited, it might explain how a group of young men decided to target a business tycoon.

  Burke wasn’t sure that Yablonski’s Uncle Sébastien was at the heart of all that had happened the last three weeks, but he wouldn’t bet against it.

  He wondered if the police might be thinking along the same lines.

  And he wondered if he should tell them in case they weren’t.

  Chapter 71

  Behind him, Burke heard a news report on the TV.

  “And for details of today’s incidents at Vaison-la-Romaine, we go to our reporter Martine Géroux,” said the announcer.

  Burke turned around to watch.

  The reporter, a middle-aged woman who looked as tired as Burke felt, opened with how 10 people had been rushed to various hospitals in the wake of some kind of poisoning in the VIP tent at the vintage bicycle race in Vaison-la-Romaine.

  She discussed how police were investigating the circumstances behind the poisoning.

  Then a clip showed Favreau awkwardly discussing how hard his officers were working.

  “We have some individuals who are listed as being in serious condition,” Favreau said.

  He said no one had been arrested yet in connection to the matter.

  “We are treating this with the utmost seriousness,” he said.

  So, clearly the report wasn’t up to date. Or the police weren’t telling anyone they had three suspects in custody who were facing a variety of charges.

  Favreau said it was too early to establish if the Vaison trouble was related to what had happened at the three previous vintage races.

  The reporter mentioned the mayor was assuring everyone the public was in no danger. A video clip followed with the mayor saying the various authorities had matters completely under control. However, to Burke, the mayor was not convincing.

  Then the announcer went onto another story about a workers’ strike up north.

  Burke returned to his computer and checked the website for Lemaire’s newspapers. He saw there was mention that three individuals were now in custody, possibly in connection with the VIP tent issue.

  Burke remembered how Lemaire never liked to be beat on a story.

  Then he wondered about something and pulled out his phone, punching in Antoine Pastore’s personal number.

  “I knew you’d be calling me sooner than later,” Antoine said by way of answering the call.

  “I saw a social media post about the consequences of supporting Yablonski,” Burke said. “Did you see it?”

  “I had various social media sites on one screen and saw several posts with the same message,” Antoine replied. “The posts mentioned it was time that those who supported Yablonski paid a price.”

  Burke expected the posts were from Talbot and Belcourt, maybe at the exact time he had spotted Talbot working his phone earlier in the afternoon.

  “Paul, check this out,” came Rousseau’s voice over his shoulder.

  “Hold on, Antoine,” Burke said and turned back to the TV.

  The announcer was saying there was an update on the events at Vaison-la-Romaine.

  “Three men in their 20s have been taken into custody and face a variety of charges related to the incident in Vaison-la-Romaine earlier today,” the announcer said. “We will return to our reporter Martine Géroux.”

  Géroux was standing in front of the local police station, relating how arrests were made shortly after the conclusion of the race and after people were taken away by stretcher from the VIP tent.

  “We are also hearing that the mayor, chief race organizer and main sponsor Bosco Yablonski are at the local hospital visiting with victims of today’s events,” she said.

  The screen showed a clip of the three men going up the stairs to the hospital, looking suitably resolute and sympathetic at the same time. Burke figured someone must have alerted the media. A perfect photo op.

  The story ended and, once again, it was back to the announcer.

  Burke told Antoine what he had been watching.

  “Lemaire is all over this,” Antoine said. “But stay in touch, Paul.”

  Burke said he would.

  The call ended.

  Burke’s phone buzzed. He had a new text.

  “Now what?” Rousseau asked.

  It was from Madame Benoit.

  Chapter 72

  Madame wasted no time in her message to Burke:

  “Friends tell me all kinds of flics are around Vallette’s greenhouse. Lots of evidence bagged. Also, someone charged with death of homeless man. No connection to races.”

  Rousseau asked Burke about the text, and Burke told him what his Arles landlady had said in her message.

  “Your Ma
dame Benoit sounds different from the usual operator of a chambre d’hôte,” Rousseau said.

  “She’s a special woman,” Burke said.

  Then he told Rousseau how he thought Christophe Talbot might have gotten so deep into the actions against Bosco Yablonski.

  “But it’s all based on Yablonski or someone in his family background doing something very, very bad,” Rousseau said. “What happens if the information Talbot and the others got was wrong or misleading?”

  Burke had no answers. If anything, he was feeling more confused by the minute as his mind swirled with theories.

  If Yablonski had nothing to hide, why would his people go after Luc Houle? Or was it possible someone with no connection to Yablonski had murdered Houle?

  The two men went silent, not hearing anything on the television.

  “Well, there’s nothing more we can do and I’m hungry,” Burke said. “Let’s go to the Old Town for a meal. Maybe on the way we can stop at the VIP tent and see if anything has happened since we were there.”

  Rousseau nodded.

  “And I’ll call Ginny and Peter to tell them they can join us if they want,” Burke added.

  “Good,” Rousseau said.

  A half hour later, after parking Burke’s car, Burke and Rousseau were standing in front of the VIP tent which had been roped off and was being guarded by two gendarmes. The enormous crowd of the afternoon was gone. In fact, there was not a single person within 25 metres, the beer gardens having been closed due to all the police and ambulance activity.

  Burke flashed his media card.

  “Anything happening here?” Burke asked one of the officers.

  “Nothing,” the officer said. “Everything has been done here that needs to be done. You are wasting your time here, Monsieur.”

  Burke thought so, too.

  He and Rousseau left. When they walked into the main square in the Old Town a few minutes later, they saw hundreds of people strolling, visiting or sitting at either a café or on a park bench. The square was noisy and Burke could feel excitement in the air. He figured a lot of people were still on an adrenaline rush from the afternoon’s events.

  “Over here, Paul and André,” came Ginny’s voice.

  Burke and Rousseau spotted the English couple at a nearby café. They were sitting at a table for four and there was already a carafe of white wine there.

  “It has been a busy day and now you both can relax,” Ginny said, motioning for Burke and Rousseau to sit down.

  Burke had doubts he’d be able to relax anytime soon.

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  Burke’s first sip of the chardonnay that Ginny and Peter had ordered tasted like heaven with delicate yet crisp hints of pear and even apple.

  “I can see you feel better already, Paul,” Peter said, toasting Burke with his own glass of wine.

  They all clinked glasses.

  And then they swapped details about the day’s events although Burke stayed away from relating his discussion with the four flics at the gendarmerie.

  The sun was starting to set, but the crowd didn’t diminish; if anything, it increased. The day had been busy, complicated and exciting, and people didn’t want to give up their involvement in it.

  When it came time to order, Peter went for a bouillabaisse, Ginny chose seared sea scallops, Rousseau selected veal kidneys sautéed in a green peppercorn sauce while Burke, believing a fine meal would soften the day, opted for red mullet salad with pastis.

  As soon as they ordered, Burke got a text.

  It was from Hélène asking how he was. She said she had heard about what had happened in Vaison.

  Burke excused himself and, feeling guilty he hadn’t contacted her before, punched out a quick message that he was fine and just having supper with Rousseau and some new friends.

  He told her little about the day’s events. He would do that when he returned home.

  Hélène replied immediately: “Good to hear. I was worried. Stay safe. See you tomorrow. Busy here at work. Love you.”

  He sent a second text, saying he loved her, too.

  Then it was back to his friends.

  And, finally, Burke started to relax even though his mind drifted now and then to what had happened that day and what the flics might be doing.

  He still wondered what Cote had meant by “That’s why he is useful.”

  The meals came and they looked sensational, thought Burke.

  And, as Burke soon discovered, they tasted even better than they looked.

  “The French do a great many things that are weird and strange, but they handle food better than any other people,” Ginny said between mouthfuls of her scallops.

  They ordered more wine, this time a pinot grigio to go with the seafood, although Rousseau was having meat, and it came quickly. Burke let Rousseau fill his glass; it would be his last since he was driving, if only a short distance.

  “With all this excitement, it will be difficult to go back home to a regular life,” Ginny said.

  Rousseau laughed.

  “Stay around with Paul here and you’ll always have some excitement,” he said, slapping Burke’s arm.

  “I live a docile life, André,” Burke replied, smiling. “These last few weeks have been unusual.”

  “Don’t believe him,” Rousseau told Peter and Ginny.

  Then he stopped talking and leaned forward.

  “Look who’s out for a stroll,” Rousseau said pointing to the square.

  Burke, Ginny and Peter looked at where Rousseau was gesturing.

  They saw Bosco Yablonski walking in the company of the mayor and Philippe Durant, the race organizer Burke had met in Arles. They had a half dozen security around them. And in the middle of the group was Josette Martel, Yablonski’s special projects person and, it seemed, his chief advisor.

  Some of the people in the crowd recognized who was in the group and stopped walking to stare. The mayor, ever the politician, acknowledged those looking at them. He chatted with a few possible voters, looking solemn since a smile after such a day would be inappropriate.

  Burke was stunned that Yablonski was there. What good did it do to show his face? Burke had expected Yablonski would be long gone, tucked away in a hotel in Avignon or maybe on a plane to some distant retreat. The quicker he could get away from the fallout from the Vaison race – and those before – the better it would be or so Burke had thought.

  But Yablonski didn’t look like he wanted to be elsewhere. He was smooth with onlookers, exchanging a few comments and even a couple of handshakes. Like the mayor, he didn’t smile, but he seemed genuinely relaxed.

  “Yablonski looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world,” Peter said. “There might have been a disaster in the VIP tent today and his name is still being linked to something that is dark, but you wouldn’t know it tonight. Amazing.”

  They watched as the mayor, Durant, Yablonski and Martel went to the terrace of the most elegant restaurant in the square and took a table obviously reserved for them. The six security staff stayed across the street, as if on guard.

  “And so life continues,” Rousseau said.

  Chapter 74

  Burke pulled out his smartphone, enlarged the view and snapped off a couple of photos of Yablonski, Durant and the mayor. Then he took some video. From that distance, the result wasn’t great, but he hoped it would be good enough. He sent them off with a brief note to François Lemaire, wondering how the newsman would handle what he had provided.

  His duty done, Burke turned back to his meal and to his friends, but he couldn’t stop from glancing at Yablonski and his group every few minutes.

  It was all slightly bizarre. He still couldn’t believe Yablonski and the mayor would make such a public appearance in the wake of all that had happened that day.

  And then Burke stopped glancing and stared.

  Four gendarme vehicles – two cars and two vans – were entering the square. They stopped by the fountain and a dozen uniformed officers poured o
ut, half of them in full combat gear and brandishing assault rifles. The other gendarmes held automatic pistols. The final figure to exit a vehicle was Sergeant Pascal Favreau, his right hand resting on his holstered automatic handgun.

  Then another car, this one unmarked, drove into the square. It stopped by the other police vehicles. The doors opened and Sylvie Côté, Julien Sauvageot and Daniel Bonnier got out.

  The crowd in the square, still numbering well into the hundreds, stopped moving about. The neighbouring cafés, previously noisy, became quiet.

  And Burke, like everyone, watched mesmerized as the gendarmes spread out and jogged toward Yablonski’s security men across from the restaurant where their boss, the mayor and the chief organizer for the vintage races were sitting.

  “Don’t move and put your hands behind your head,” Favreau barked at the security staff.

  Yablonski’s men exchanged glances and, for a moment, Burke thought one or two might bolt. Or maybe, worse, reach inside a jacket for a weapon.

  But no one ran and no one took out a weapon. Burke breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he had seen too many cops-and-robbers movies or TV shows, but he had half-expected violence to erupt right there in the square of this normally sleepy community.

  The security men for Yablonski did as Favreau had ordered. The gendarmes checked for weapons and pulled out automatic handguns from Burke’s muscleman and another, equally nasty-looking individual. Then they handcuffed everyone.

  Burke couldn’t hear what Favreau was saying to the six men, but his message seemed obvious: Don’t make any trouble. Burke thought he might also be telling them the charges they were facing. Behind Favreau, looking serious but satisfied, were Côté, Sauvageot and Bonnier.

  Burke saw how two gendarmes were stationed so they could keep an eye on Bosco Yablonski.

  The police started to move the security staff toward the two vans and that’s when Yablonski got up and started walking toward the police.

  Burke had a sense that Yablonski had been too shocked before to react.

  “What are you doing with my people?” he demanded in a loud voice that carried throughout the square.