Pursuit in Provence (A Jordan Mayfair Mystery)

by Phyllis Gobbell

  Alex asked the price and the length of the tour, and, having the answers, turned to me. “What good timing! Don’t you agree?”

  I couldn’t very well say no, considering his eagerness, like a child offered ice cream. So we joined the tour. We must have been the last two in a group of thirty-something. A large number for that sort of thing. The guide was a short man who was hard to see in the crowd, but intermittent sightings revealed that he was round and bald. He was, however, easy to hear and understand. His English was excellent, and his deep baritone voice rang out like an orator’s, a voice that fit the setting.

  “This structure was built between the first and second centuries. It was hewn out of rock and covers thirteen thousand, seven hundred and fifty-four square yards,” he said, “one of the largest amphitheaters in the world.”

  I felt my mind drifting already. Gazing up at the ancient stones wedged in the arches without mortar, gravity at work, I snapped a series of pictures. I got an exquisite shot of light slanting through the upper-level bridges. Our group was moving forward when I tuned in again, moving through the dark stones on the inside, heading toward the entrance to the massive arena where the bulls—thankfully, not gladiators—provided entertainment on weekends.

  Alex, true to form, began to inch his way toward the guide, motioning for me to follow. I motioned back, and he apparently got the message that I preferred to bring up the rear, as I’d done when we were on other tours. And as I had done on previous occasions, I managed to stray from the group.

  I climbed up on the stone bleachers, past a Japanese tour group seated on the bleachers, listening to their guide. So attentive and well-behaved, compared to the other tourists—like me. All along this upper row were alcoves. Amazing workmanship. I continued upward, taking photos of the arched tunnels. I remembered being introduced to the word vomitorium in architectural history. The professor had explained that the architectural feature was a passage through which the spectators entered the tiers of seats, not a place for the Romans to purge after they binged, as one student had suggested. Farther and farther up I climbed. The air was cooler, breezier. I snapped more pictures of the dirt field, raked, ready for the bulls, and raised my camera, aiming at the steel structure which provided rows of extra seats on the opposite side.

  He appeared in my viewer, and when I looked up from my camera, he was no more than ten feet away.

  That oily hair, hanging to his shoulders. That sinister little mustache. Those eyes, hard as chips of granite. Those hairy arms.

  I snapped his picture. Again—and again as he moved forward.

  He came toward me, motioning at the camera. “Give it!” he said, with a heavy accent.

  “Get away from me!” I’d meant to shout, but up here, my voice seemed to waft away on the breeze. I clicked my camera once more before he took a final step and grabbed me. Before he could wrench my camera from me, I dropped it into the depths of my tote bag.

  My neck snapped back, and I felt his hot, garlicky breath on my face. The scream inside me was stifled by a hand clamped over my mouth. I struggled, trying to free myself from the pressure on my mouth, pulling at his forearm. Hairy as a bear, Millie had said. Strong as a bear, I thought. All of this while stumbling. He was dragging me through the arched tunnel into the dark vomitorium behind the seats. I could throw up, I thought. I was operating on reflex, my body resisting restraint, but after a minute my brain shifted gears. I began to think. All he wanted was the master tape—and my camera, but giving him the camera wouldn’t make him go away. I stopped writhing. As I had hoped, he stopped dragging me. He even let up on my neck.

  “Do not make a sound,” he said, just above a whisper. He jabbed me in the small of my back. I flinched but repressed my groan, knowing I was feeling the barrel of a gun.

  I nodded, the best I could with his hand over my mouth— and he removed his hand.

  I wiped my mouth, spitting out the taste of the sweaty, dirty palm. My breath came in huge gulps. He let me move away from him. I knew better than to take more than a couple of steps with that gun pointed at me. I turned and took a long look at him. He was a good three inches shorter than me, but he made up for size by brandishing his weapon with its long barrel. A silencer, maybe? Great! Nobody would hear the gunshot.

  “Where is the master?” he said.

  “In my suitcase,” I said, still fighting for air.

  “You lie!”

  “It’s the truth!” I said. He punched my stomach with the barrel of the gun and hissed at me, maybe an obscenity. Whatever he said, I got the message and lowered my voice. “Not in my suitcase at L’hôtel du Soleil. You looked through my room, didn’t you? The tape is in the suitcase I lost in Brussels. It has never been in Fontvieille.”

  The skin around his eyes twitched. I couldn’t be sure he was fluent enough in English to follow all that I’d said. But maybe he understood and was simply considering what to do with me. I wondered what Alex would think when he couldn’t find me—or when someone found my body. My body! What would Alex say to my children? Oh God, please! I prayed silently.

  My abductor ran his hand down his face, a gesture of frustration. Neither of us spoke for a moment. I took note of his nervous shifting from foot to foot. This was no picnic for him, either. Then he retrieved his phone from his pocket, punched in a number, and began to speak, using big, extravagant gestures, waving the gun around, almost as if he’d forgotten me. Listening, then, to someone who must have been giving the orders, he actually turned away from me. During his momentary distraction, I took a chance and ran.

  I heard the ping of something hitting stone. He’d shot at me, and he’d shoot again, but my chances were better now that I was out of the dark vomitorium, running along the stone bleachers. Out in the open where people could see, though now no one was there. Wouldn’t you know it? The Japanese tour group had disappeared.

  Ducking in and out of the arches, I was at least able to keep the gunman from having a clear shot at me. I couldn’t go down through the bleachers. All he’d have to do was stand at the top and take aim. I saw the steps to the tower in front of me and went up, up the curved, narrow set of steps that came out onto a view of the city. My heart was trying to leap out of my chest. Nowhere to go from here. What had I been thinking, heading up? It was the only staircase I’d seen. The view of the city was magnificent, so peaceful. What an incredibly peaceful place up here with the wind whipping, so high above the city that the street noise didn’t reach you.

  And then he was there, as I knew he would be. He stepped up, breathing hard, too. He pointed his gun at me and took a step closer. I backed against a rail that felt insubstantial. Another step, and he touched the point of the gun to the soft hollow in my throat. With a horribly grotesque smile, the man who had pursued and finally caught me said, “Would you like to fly?”

  CHAPTER 37

  * * *

  Where were the Japanese tourists when you needed them?

  That vast structure, throngs of tourists near the entrance, but up here, no one.

  The gunman didn’t send me flying. He jerked my arm and flung me away from the rail. With the gun poking in my back, he urged me down the tower steps, into the dark vomitorium again, down more steps that might’ve led me to freedom if I’d taken them instead of the stairs to the tower. Each time I hesitated, he jabbed my back until he grabbed my arm again and stopped me. “Now we go outside,” he said. “If you make a sound, I shoot.” His English was quite clear.

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked, my voice thin with panic.

  “We take a ride,” he said.

  A ride. Get me in a car, drive me away from Arles, no one would ever know what happened to me. No one would ever find my body. That body image again. I dragged my feet, trying to buy time, but he pushed me forward.

  “Can you do this?” he asked. I understood: Or should I shoot you here and be done?

  “Yes.” The word had no air behind it. I was shivering.

  “Not so b
rave now,” he said. I was in front of him, but I imagined his smirk.

  I bristled at the insult. Even in the situation that I was convinced we could call life or death, that remark did something to me. Something happened in my head, maybe the little neon sign blinking, I want to live, I want to live. I did. I wanted to see my kids again. To see Alex and go home to Savannah, even see my obnoxious brother. I sent up another prayer.

  Be smart, Jordan. I was smarter than this lowlife. He might believe he had a spineless little worm in tow, a compliant middle-aged woman he could maneuver into the car without a scene. That was what he was counting on. But he was wrong. I would not get into a car without a fight. I hugged myself, rubbing the gooseflesh of my arms. My shivering was not a pretense.

  We kept moving down through dark, cool chambers that would lead eventually to the particular exit my abductor wanted. Was the person he phoned waiting for us in a car at a certain location? It wouldn’t be the south side, where Alex and I had entered. Too populated. But, incredibly, the first glimpse I had of anything identifiable outside the structure was of the bright Provençal fabrics at Ancienne Place Saint-Michel.

  Small hope, but it was something. Be smart. Look for an opportunity. He grabbed me and pulled me close to his side. I could smell his nervous sweat. He was not a pro. That didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. Desperation often led to stupidity. Even as those thoughts skittered through my mind, he said, “We go out now. Do not make me use this.” I felt something dig at my side, just below my waist. He was holding the gun between us, next to my tote bag.

  We were just to the right of the entrance, though several iron gates stood between us and the tourists lined up for tickets. Where was the security guard? Probably on his break. A teenage girl saw us. She shook her companion’s arm and pointed at us, but neither girl called for help. Why do we teach our daughters to be so passive? I thought. Maybe they didn’t see the gun. Maybe they just saw an angry man bullying a woman who wasn’t resisting. We pushed on to the exit before I could make eye contact with the girls.

  The sunlight slanted in, a bright ethereal beam that seemed to signify hope, for as rough hands propelled me forward into the light, I was able to see not only the crowded square but also a knot of people standing on the steps in front of the building across from us. They must have been talking about the amphitheater. Someone pointed up, above us.

  A bicycle went by. I heard the whine of an engine and then a squeal of brakes as a black sedan pulled up just inches from my toes.

  Everything happened in a few seconds, but my mind had switched to slow motion, like an old projector playing a fuzzy film, frame by jerky frame.

  Paul Broussard emerged from the gathering on the steps across the street and looked directly at me. He raised his hand and called, “Jordan!” as the back door of the sedan flew open.

  A hard push from behind thrust me forward, but I grabbed the door handle with one hand and the door frame with my other hand, buying a couple of seconds. I glanced at the driver. The Italian beauty who’d been with Barry in the alcove of Guy Savoy—so long ago, another lifetime.

  I heard Paul shouting, “Jordan?” and then “Wait! Stop!” I heard the gunman spewing what must have been French curses, and then he struck me in my ribs. I cried out. My knees buckled, and I crumpled to the ground. In my mind I said, God help me! I won’t get in! but what came out of my mouth was something between a wail and a scream.

  I think I expected to feel the pain of a bullet, but in that erratic moment—no more than a few seconds for the whole episode—the driver yelled to my abductor and he scrambled over me, into the back seat. The car lunged forward. The sudden movement hurled me against the ancient stones in the street.

  I caught a glimpse of Paul as the car flew away. He had narrowly missed being struck down. He yelled something I didn’t understand, and to whom, I couldn’t tell. People appeared all around us. A great roaring filled my head, and my vision blurred. I thought I would pass out, but that was after Paul Broussard had me in his arms, whispering, “You are all right. You are safe.”

  I didn’t stop shaking until I had a blanket wrapped around me and steaming espresso in me. Someone from one of the shops had brought out the pale pink blanket. Someone else had provided the espresso. A little crowd of shopkeepers and tourists hovered over me as I sat on a low stone wall, gradually waking from what had been an incredible nightmare. The gendarme appeared. I caught a glimpse of the security guard, pale and wide-eyed, making a call. I was not surprised that Paul ran interference for me. The policemen—four or five of them—left me in Paul’s care and turned their attention to those who had witnessed the scene.

  Paul conferred briefly with the man who’d been standing beside him on the steps of the building that I was now able to identify from a prominent sign as Rencontres Internationales de la Photographie. My vision was improving by the moment.

  Paul clapped the man on the shoulder and I heard, “Merci, merci, bon ami.” He made a call, pacing in front of me. And then he sat down on the wall beside me.

  “Several witnesses took the number on the license plate. People were snapping pictures of the whole incident. An alert may have already been issued,” he said.

  Suddenly, I remembered Alex. “He won’t know what happened to me,” I said, on a frantic note. “I’ve got to get back inside. We were on a tour.”

  “You were abducted from a tour?” Paul asked.

  “I wandered off,” I said. I suspected from the trace of a smile that he was remembering the day we had met at the Château de Montauban, another time I had wandered from the tour. I was glad it made him smile.

  “Alex will be worried.” I set my cup on the wall beside me and touched my sore ribs, grimacing. Paul took my hands in his. “Perhaps I should get you to a doctor,” he said.

  “I could tell if something was broken. Or a lung punctured.” I took a deep breath. “No trouble breathing.”

  “I assured the gendarme that you would give a statement, when you were well enough,” he said.

  “I’m well enough,” I said. “But I need to find Alex first.”

  Paul squeezed my hands. We lingered like that for another moment, just looking at each other. So much to say, but how, and when? At last, as if by mutual agreement, we stood up. Again I rubbed my side, and I knew I’d be sore, but I was sure there was no serious damage. Paul took the blanket from my shoulders and motioned to a stooped old man who scurried over to retrieve it.

  “Merci beaucoup,” I said. The little man gave a sheepish smile and a courteous reply in French, followed by a string of French directed at Paul.

  Paul smiled. “He says he is sorry that this thing happened to you in Arles. He says, ‘She has beautiful hair, doesn’t she?’ I don’t think I was supposed to translate that part.”

  The natives of Provence continued to amaze me with their warmth.

  Paul and I entered the amphitheater the way Alex and I had entered earlier. Paul spoke with the gray-haired woman at the ticket counter, and that was all it took, a word from Monsieur Broussard. We were able to go in and browse at our leisure, but at that moment I was not looking with an architect’s eye. I simply wanted to find Alex. Now, no less than a dozen tour groups milled about in the stands around the elliptical field. Go figure. I strained to identify the English-speaking group, led by the short, bald tour guide.

  “I can’t tell which group was ours,” I said, finally. “But the good news is that Alex may not be looking for me yet.” It seemed remarkable that the tour could have been in progress all during my terrifying experience. Remarkable that the incident had taken only a few minutes. I saw by my watch that it had been only fifty-five minutes since Alex and I joined the tour.

  Paul regarded the ancient tiers of seats. “Do you want to sit down?”

  “No, let’s just wait here,” I said. “Everyone will have to pass this way on the way out, don’t you think?”

  He agreed. But he did not stand still. Before now, I hadn’t imagin
ed that Paul Broussard could be anything but composed, competent, unflappable. But, after all, he was a man of action, not one to enjoy standing and waiting.

  “You don’t have to stay, Paul,” I said. “Alex and I can drive back to Fontvieille.”

  “I would not think of leaving, Jordan,” he said, with an edge. “Mon Dieu! You are hurt and you are shaken. Why do you keep trying to get rid of me?”

  “No—I didn’t—” I began, but he didn’t let me finish.

  “It is not important. I promised to take you to the gendarmerie. I gave my word.” He began to pace. A few minutes passed. A couple of the groups filed out of the amphitheater, but no sign of Alex.

  I took a few steps toward Paul and put my hand on his arm, on the fine material of his jacket. “You saved my life,” I said.

  He gave a little smile. “I am glad I decided to attend the exposition after all.”

  He explained that he’d been to the Rencontres Internationales de la Photographie building for a film exposition, with directors and producers from all over Europe. “There have been events all week. I get many invitations to such occasions, but I don’t usually accept. For some reason, I decided I would attend on this final day. I spoke to your uncle about it this morning.”

  We exchanged a glance. Yes, Alex and I could have attended as Paul’s guests. Whatever he thought about that, he kept to himself. I wasn’t willing to go there, either.

  “I will never forget how you called my name,” I said, “and it gave me courage to fight for another moment—because I knew you were there.”

  “Ah, but you already showed great courage,” he said.

  I had the feeling he was as uncomfortable with my compliments as I was with his. A brief silence followed, before I spotted the bald little man that had led our tour. “There—that’s the English-speaking tour that’s breaking up,” I said, straining to locate Alex. “I hope Alex hasn’t gone off to look for me. There’s so much I haven’t told him.”