Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

  We weren’t so concerned about being quiet now, and the tunnel was not so claustrophobic. The return trip didn’t seem so bad, and talking helped to pass the time.

  “And I think this explains your ghost.”

  Millie made another small puzzled sound, and a moment passed before she said, “Are you saying Llorca was the ghost?”

  “The lights were out around the pool, but the moonlight was shining on Llorca’s white hair. Not bright enough for you to identify as a person, but it gave the impression of movement. Something was moving out there. That’s how you described it,” I said. “Twice. I’m trying to remember which nights.”

  “The first was the Friday that we arrived at the hotel,” Millie said. “I’d have to look up the date. But there sure was a full moon. I’d never seen anything like it.”

  “The important thing is that it was the night before Paul Broussard arrived in Fontvieille,” I said.

  “Why’s that important?”

  “Because Llorca wanted to get out as many sketches as he could before Paul began to investigate. He knew Paul would step up security.” As I said it, I was struck by what was the most important finding to me: The scenario that I was imagining didn’t have Paul as part of the scheme. Though something still nagged at me, made me more determined than ever to get to the bottom of the story Madame Duvall had brought to light. I knew I must talk to Paul before I left.

  Millie interrupted my thoughts. “The other time, I think it was on a Thursday night. Remember? I told you about it the next morning.”

  “That was the night the sketch book was removed,” I said. “Llorca took it out through the passage, just as he stole all the other sketches over a period of time. I haven’t worked out yet if there’s some significance to that particular night.”

  “Let’s take a water break,” Millie said. She was breathing hard. Maybe I was setting too fast a pace.

  She used her straw to drink from the water bottle and said, “Finish it off. It won’t be long now.” I took it slowly, sloshing the water around in my dry mouth, giving Millie a rest break. Apparently, she was more eager to get out of the tunnel than to rest. After a couple of minutes we were on our way again.

  “Gerard Llorca had access to all the art in the museum,” she pointed out. “Doesn’t it seem a little off that instead of using his own key, he went to all the trouble of using this tunnel?”

  “The person with a key is the first to be suspected.” I snapped my fingers. “That’s it. After Paul had brought in extra security inside the museum, Llorca was able to keep his own name in the clear by staging the theft of the sketch book.”

  Millie chimed in. “Because the guards saw Broussard and Llorca leave the museum together, and they said no one else went in.Oh, Jordan, we’ve got him!”

  “Not so fast. What we’ve got are theories, no proof,” I said.

  “Isn’t the tunnel proof?”

  “Llorca could say that anyone could use the tunnel to access the archives. He could deny even knowing about it. But if Bettina will swear to what Llorca’s been doing . . .” My words trailed off.

  Millie’s hopeful voice fell. “Poor kid. How’d she get mixed up with the likes of him?”

  I was thinking about how this man with connections to Paris and the art world might have manipulated Bettina, when we came to the bend in the passage where Louis had confronted us. I was aware of the dull ache in my arms and shoulders, but it was a relief to know that we were no more than twenty minutes from the entrance.

  Millie apparently recognized where we were, as well. She said, “Almost home.”

  By silent agreement, we didn’t say a word the rest of the way, until we emerged from the tight space, through the opening someone had made in the mortared wall, into the larger chamber under the hotel. Relief was so profound that it left me weak. I backed against the stone wall and closed my eyes until my ragged breathing evened out.

  I switched off my flashlight. Millie did the same. We waited a minute, to let our eyes adjust, before exiting into the clean, cool air.

  CHAPTER 35

  * * *

  It took a while for the adrenaline to stop rushing through my body. Not more than three hours later, I was inexplicably awake and alert, greeting the Provençal morning. I lay in bed watching the stars disappear as the dark sky softened to gray, then streaks of silver light breaking across the east, and at last the rosy sunrise. Thursday morning. Tomorrow we would leave Provence. No one could say I’d wasted much of my vacation sleeping.

  The kitchen staff was just putting out breakfast when I requested a coffee from Louis and went to the sitting room, where I read all the English newspapers I was able to find from the past week. Every once in a while I caught Louis’s measuring look. He’d been on duty when Millie and I entered the hotel by the front door, sometime before three A.M. The lights were always turned off around the pool by that time, and we suspected the patio door was locked. Besides, we wanted Louis to think we’d walked in from the street. Millie said she’d seen flyers about live entertainment at La Regalido’s bar. She’d suggested we act a little tipsy. Giggling didn’t come naturally to me, but I tried to imagine how Felicity would behave. I gave a fluttery wave and a giggly Goodnight to Louis, who did not like us, I was sure, but he wore a grudging smile of amusement as he said Bonsoir. Millie may have stumbled a little too much as we made our way up the stairs. Her refusal to speak seemed appropriate. Neither she nor Louis had shown much warmth to each other since he’d had a sample of her skill at fast-pitch softball.

  Jean-Claude arrived to relieve Louis as breakfast was about to be served. “Madame Mayfair!” he greeted me. “You are the early bird!”

  “Do you have a moment?” I said, indicating the chair beside mine.

  He obliged, regarding me with a cautious look, no doubt thinking about our last couple of conversations about Bettina. And this one would not be easier.

  Since he was working and I might have only a few minutes with him, I didn’t hesitate. “I know something that may explain what’s going on with Bettina and Gerard Llorca.”

  Jean-Claude’s eyes turned as hard as chips of coal. “He is a pig, and she is a child. The man is older than I, her father!” he continued, raising his hands skyward. “And he looks like l’épouvantail!” He took a deep breath and translated: “Scarecrow.”

  I shifted in my chair and leaned forward. “Bettina is a beautiful young woman, very desirable, but I think Gerard Llorca had other reasons for making promises to her.”

  Jean-Claude’s expression transformed into one of earnest attention. “What are you saying, Madame?”

  He listened to my theory. I hadn’t imagined Jean-Claude could sit so still. I couldn’t avoid telling him about our explorations in the tunnel. He cried, “Mon Dieu!” a couple of times, but I assumed he’d be relieved to think Bettina was probably not having sex with the Scarecrow.

  He hung his head and muttered, “My little girl, she helped a thief with his robbery.”

  That was the thorny part. Though I wasn’t entirely sure of Bettina’s role in the scheme, if she and Llorca had a business arrangement rather than a sexual relationship, she had to know what he was doing. Even if she never saw him emerge from the tunnel with stolen goods, I was convinced she had some evidence against him—the only evidence against him, at this point.Would she be willing to tell her story to Inspector Bouvier? In doing so, she’d be implicating herself. Bettina wanted to get to Paris, and Llorca was her ticket. Whatever her part was in the robbery—maybe just being on duty at Réception while Llorca accessed the tunnel—it was probably quite innocent. But the authorities might not see it that way.

  “I won’t say anything that will harm Bettina. Not yet,” I told Jean-Claude. “But please talk to her. Without her cooperation, Llorca might never be punished.”

  Jean-Claude regarded me with moist eyes. He grabbed my hands and shook them with great emotion. “Thank you, Madame. You are the soul of kindness. So smart about daughter
s.”

  “Talk to Bettina,” I reiterated, and then I corrected myself. “Mostly listen.”

  Alex was making plans to visit Arles. I waited for breakfast until he came downstairs about eight o’clock, looking more chipper than he’d appeared after our trip to Avignon. He was in high spirits, though he reminded me, “Today is our last full day in Fontvieille.”

  My feelings about leaving were, in a word, conflicted. I was ready to be back in Savannah, back at work, back in my predictable world, where I felt safe. Still, the thought of leaving Provence brought a twinge of sorrow, the olive groves and vineyards, the medieval villages, the warm people, and the light. And I was sorry that so many threads remained untied.

  Alex said, “You do plan to join me, don’t you, my dear? I know you’re concerned about Felicity, but it would be such a shame to miss Arles.”

  I didn’t mention that I’d had dinner with Felicity—and Kyle—last night. “Let me try to reach Mr. Kemal in Brussels,” I said. “Or someone else in the Embassy who can help. I should be able to leave by nine thirty.”

  “Ah, the suitcase,” Alex said as if he’d completely forgotten that little problem, and perhaps he had. He knew so little of the past few days’ developments. I’d tell him . . . maybe on the long flight home.

  Adnan Kemal was available. I was astonished. His assistant came on the line and connected me directly to Mr. Kemal. He was profusely apologetic, explaining that he’d been out of the office because his mother in Istanbul had been very ill. “I am the oldest son, you see, and my brothers have their families. Who does a mother call in sickness if not her oldest son, even if he lives in another country?”

  I expressed good wishes for his mother’s health and moved to the topic of my suitcase.

  “Your suitcase has still not arrived? No! I am so very sorry!” It was evident that he didn’t remember his own instructions about getting the suitcase to me. He believed he had taken care of it on Monday . . . or Tuesday? He thought he had asked an assistant to send it by Federal Express.

  “Federal Express?” I echoed.

  “Of course, Madame. Belgium is a modern country.” Mo-DEIRN, he said, with a chuckle. He promised to track down the assistant and call me back with his findings.

  “The problem is, I’m leaving Fontvieille tomorrow,” I said.

  “You are going to Paris, perhaps?”

  “To Marseilles tomorrow, to Paris Saturday, and Sunday I’ll be flying back to the States.”

  “Ah, I understand the problem. If the suitcase has been dispatched but does not arrive before you leave the town—what is it?—yes, Fontvieille, more confusion results. I understand.”

  “What can we do, Mr. Kemal?” I said, with a trace of impatience.

  “Please let me check into this, Madame Mayfair, and I will let you know.”

  “Before we leave tomorrow?”

  “Yes indeed.”

  “And if the suitcase has not yet left Brussels, let me give you my address in the States so you can send it directly to my home in Savannah.”

  “Savannah,” he said, as if he found the name amusing.

  “Savannah, Georgia,” I said. Sounding better all the time.

  CHAPTER 36

  * * *

  As we came into the centre ville at Place Lamartine, past the fountains glistening in the magical light, I agreed with Alex: It would have been a shame to miss Arles. Less than ten kilometers from Fontvieille, it was the perfect site for our last day in Provence.

  Arles, which the French pronounce by swallowing most of the letters, dates back to the sixth century B.C., Alex’s guidebook informed us. Located on waterways and land routes as well, Arles was an important city in the Roman Empire. The Romans built impressive buildings during that time, the amphitheatre, churches, Roman baths, along with the aqueduct that supplied fresh water.

  Alex, with his map, played tour guide through a triangular area along the Rhône, where many of the buildings built during Roman domination still existed. Our first stop was the Forum, a square around which the old city of Arles was organized. Provence was full of spaces like this which resembled huge courtyards, paved with stone, like the Place de l’Hotel de Ville in Aix. I would’ve been content to sit outside one of the lively cafés that lined the Place du Forum, observe the people, and think about the elegant space that the Romans created—but Alex kept insisting, “Our time is too short.”

  He wanted to visit the Museum of Pagan Art at the Place de la République—but, alas, it was already closing for the two-hour lunch break. I suggested that we take in the market, and Alex cheered considerably. Jean-Claude had mentioned on departure from the hotel that this was market day in Arles. Somehow, we’d missed the markets in other towns.

  Between the Summer Garden and the Hôtel Jules Cesar, the open-air market was in full swing. Local produce, ripe and colorful: grapes, olives, pears, lemons, mushrooms the size of dinner plates, peppers, eggplants and artichokes. Fresh basil, honey, eggs and cheese, pistachio nuts. Breads of all kind, tarts, rotisserie chickens, fish soup in jars.

  Tourists and locals alike crowded between the rows where vendors had set up their wares. There were women pushing baby carriages, children munching on cookies, lively chatter and laughter. A vendor called out, in the musical language of Provence, to an old woman who returned a toothless grin and elbowed her way toward his wooden boxes of tomatoes.

  We spent half an hour making our way through the foodstuffs, then on to the non-edible merchandise reminiscent of a flea market back home. The regular stuff—jewelry, pottery, paintings, fresh flowers of all colors—but the market in Arles had a few unique items. Live ducks, chickens, and rabbits in crates, in beds of straw. I couldn’t bear more than a glance; these creatures would be tonight’s meal for someone. Lavender soap and the bright fabrics that we’d seen throughout Provence. A glass cutter demonstrated his art.

  The artisan promptly pegged Alex as a potential buyer. “Sorry, I can’t take anything else back with me,” Alex told him. A nice way to say he didn’t want the glass stars the man was selling. The artisan handed him a business card. “My web site,” he said, in heavily accented English. “You pay by credit card.”

  By that time we were hungry. We settled at a café in view of the Summer Garden and had another unique Provençal lunch, a pizza-like pissaladiere, with onions and olives and anchovies that didn’t resemble at all the ingredient I dislike on a pizza. All on a crust, but without tomato sauce or cheese. Scrumptious.

  “Jordan, have you spoken with Monsieur Broussard since the evening you had dinner with him?” Alex asked.

  “Only in passing,” I said.

  “He came to the front desk as I was reminding Jean-Claude that we’re checking out tomorrow.” Alex added, “He’s certainly an affable gentleman.”

  “I agree.” I took a bite that filled my mouth. That was all I was going to say.

  Alex dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. He seemed to be considering. He said, “Perhaps I made a judgment that wasn’t entirely fair, Jordan.”

  I cut my eyes at him. Seemed Alex had decided Paul wasn’t a thief. I wondered what had changed his mind. Paul was definitely charming. I had to talk to him. Had to satisfy myself that he was innocent, not just in Llorca’s crime, but in the crimes that had sent his brother to prison.

  “Please forgive me for being—presumptuous,” Alex said. “I scolded you for being protective of me, but I may have been guilty of the same.”

  “Forget it, Alex. We’re leaving tomorrow. These people we’ve met in Provence, we’ll never see again.” I tried with reasonable success not to let my voice betray me.

  Alex continued. “We talked for a moment, Monsieur Broussard and I. He mentioned that he is also going to Arles today, to a film exposition. Our schedules seem to be much the same. He said you knew how to reach him if we’d care to attend the exposition.”

  “I think we’ll have a full day without that,” I said.

  “He’s also leaving Fontvieil
le tomorrow. Flying, of course, to Paris. He offered us seats on his plane. He said he’d be delighted for the company, and there was plenty of space.”

  “It’s quite a roomy little plane,” I said. “But I’m looking forward to Marseilles. Aren’t you? All we saw of the city was the train station and the Hertz office. Besides, we’re supposed to return our car to Marseilles.”

  Alex frowned, as if still trying to figure out a puzzle. “You don’t suppose we could turn the rental car in somewhere near Fontvieille, do you? Perhaps here in Arles.” I knew he was right, but I waited a moment, and he answered himself. “We probably should go on with our plans.”

  I finished off my mineral water and said, “On to the amphitheater?”

  “Ah, so little time,” Alex said, immersing himself in his guidebook once again.

  The elliptical amphitheater, a smaller version of the Roman Coliseum, occupied an enormous space in the heart of the city. We seemed to have chosen the most popular time to visit. Entering at the Ancienne Place Saint-Michel, a lively square with shops selling fabrics, santons, and postcards, we moved in the direction of ticket sales. The wide steps were crowded with tourists. Most appeared to be in tour groups, milling about, snapping photos, waiting for someone to tell them what to do. A security guard who looked too young to shave stood off to the side, looking bored. We threaded our way past the groups, to a line for individual tickets.

  I pointed out the steel structures that rose above the barrel vaults at about a hundred feet above the ground. “They’ve added seats,” I said.

  “Oh yes, it’s still in use,” Alex said. “They have bullfights here every weekend.” I’d already figured that out from the colorful banners that hung on the walls inside the lower arches, depicting angry bulls and dashing matadors.

  The line moved slowly, but at last we stepped up to the ticket window. “Would you like to join a tour?” asked the bespeckled gray-haired woman, beaming at Alex, after he’d spoken to her in English. Refreshing to see someone in tourism who was older than my children. She motioned. “An English-speaking tour is about to start just inside the gate, and it is not full.”