‘My cosmetic case,’ he explained. He reached into his case in the back seat and brought out a small black zipped leather bag. ‘Never travel without it.’
She looked at him rather peculiarly. ‘A man doesn’t carry a cosmetic case.’
‘This one does. You’ll see why.’
Twenty minutes later, when they stood before the reception desk of the grandest hotel in Arles, she understood why. They were clad as they had been when they had left the clothing emporium but were otherwise barely recognizable as the same people. Cecile’s complexion was several shades darker, as was the colour of her neck, hands and wrists, she wore bright scarlet lipstick and far too much rouge, mascara and eyeshadow: Bowman’s face was now the colour of well-seasoned mahogany, his newly acquired moustache dashing to a degree. The receptionist handed him back his passport.
‘Your room is ready, Mr Parker,’ he said. ‘This is Mrs Parker?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Bowman said, took Cecile’s suddenly stiff arm and followed the bell-boy to the lift. When the bedroom door closed behind them, she looked at Bowman with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.
‘Did you have to say that to the receptionist?’
‘Look at your hands.’
‘What’s wrong with my hands – apart from the fact that that stuff of yours has made them filthy?’
‘No rings.’
‘Oh!’
‘Well might you “Oh!” The experienced receptionist notices those things automatically – that’s why he asked. And he may be asked questions – any suspicious couples checked in today, that sort of thing. As far as the criminal stakes are concerned a man with his lady-love in tow is automatically above suspicion – it is assumed that he has other things in mind.’
‘There’s no need to talk – ’
‘I’ll tell you about the birds and bees later. Meantime, what matters is that the man trusts me. I’m going out for a bit. Have your bath. Don’t wash that stuff off your arms, face and neck. There’s little enough left.’
She looked into a mirror, lifted up her hands and studied both them and her face. ‘But how in heaven’s name am I going to have a bath without – ’
‘I’ll give you a hand if you like,’ Bowman volunteered. She walked to the bathroom, closed and locked the door. Bowman went downstairs and paused for a moment outside a telephone kiosk in the lobby, rubbing his chin, a man deep in thought. The telephone had no dialling face which meant that outgoing calls were routed through the hotel switchboard. He walked out into the bright sunshine.
Even at that early hour the Boulevard des Lices was crowded with people. Not sightseers, not tourists, but local tradesmen setting up literally hundreds of stalls on the broad pavements of the boulevard. The street itself was as crowded as the pavements with scores of vehicles ranging from heavy trucks to handcarts unloading a variety of goods that ran the gamut from heavy agricultural machinery, through every type of food, furniture and clothes imaginable, down to the gaudiest of souvenir trinkets and endless bunches of flowers.
Bowman turned into a post office, located an empty telephone booth, raised the exchange and asked for a Whitehall number in London. While he was waiting for the call to come through he fished out the garbled message he had found in Czerda’s caravan and smoothed it out before him.
At least a hundred gypsies knelt on the ground in the grassy clearing while the black-robed priest delivered a benediction. When he lowered his arm, turned, and walked towards a small black tent pitched near by, the gypsies rose and began to disperse, some wandering aimlessly around, others drifting back to their caravans which were parked just off the road a few miles north-east of Arles: behind the caravans loomed the majestic outline of the ancient Abbey de Montmajour.
Among the parked vehicles, three were instantly identifiable: the green-and-white caravan where Alexandre’s mother and the three young gypsy girls lived, Czerda’s caravan which was now being towed by a garishly yellow-painted breakdown truck and Le Grand Duc’s imposing green Rolls. The cabriolet hood of the Rolls was down for the sky was cloudless and the morning already hot. The chauffeuse, her auburn hair uncovered to show that she was temporarily off-duty, stood with Lila by the side of the car: Le Grand Duc, reclining in the rear seat, refreshed himself with some indeterminate liquid from the open cocktail cabinet before him and surveyed the scene with interest.
Lila said: ‘I never associated this with gypsies.’
‘Understandable, understandable,’ Le Grand Duc conceded graciously. ‘But then, of course, you do not know your gypsies, my dear, while I am a European authority on them.’ He paused, considered and corrected himself. ‘The European authority. Which means, of course, the world. The religious element can be very strong, and their sincerity and devotion never more apparent than when they travel to worship the relics of Sara, their patron saint. Every day, in the last period of their travel, a priest accompanies them to bless Sara and their – but enough! I must not bore you with my erudition.’
‘Boring, Charles? It’s all quite fascinating. What on earth is that black tent for?’
‘A mobile confessional – little used, I fear. The gypsies have their own codes of right and wrong. Good God! There’s Czerda going inside.’ He glanced at his watch.
‘Nine-fifteen. He should be out by lunch-time.’
‘You don’t like him?’Lila asked curiously. ‘You think that he – ’
‘I know nothing about the fellow,’ Le Grand Duc said. ‘I would merely observe that a face such as his has not been fashioned by a lifetime of good works and pious thoughts.’
There was certainly little enough indicative of either as Czerda, his bruised face at once apprehensive and grim, closed and secured the tent flap behind him. The tent itself was small and circular, not more than ten feet in diameter. Its sole furnishing consisted of a cloth-screen cubicle which served as a confessional booth.
‘You are welcome, my son.’ The voice from the booth was deep and measured and authoritative.
‘Open up, Searl,’ Czerda said savagely. There was a fumbling motion and a dark linen curtain dropped to reveal a seated priest, with rimless eyeglasses and a thin ascetic face, the epitome of the man of God whose devotion is tinged with fanaticism. He regarded Czerda’s battered face briefly, impassively.
‘People may hear,’ the priest said coldly. ‘I’m Monsieur le Curé, or “Father”.’
‘You’re “Searl” to me and always will be,’ Czerda said contemptuously. ‘Simon Searl, the unfrocked priest. Sounds like a nursery rhyme.’
‘I’m not here on nursery business,’ Searl said sombrely. ‘I come from Gaiuse Strome.’
The belligerence slowly drained from Czerda’s face: only the apprehension remained, deepening by the moment as he looked at the expressionless face of the priest.
‘I think,’ Searl said quietly, ‘that an explanation of your unbelievably incompetent bungling is in order. I hope it’s a very good explanation.’
‘I must get out! I must get out!’ Tina, the dark crop-haired young gypsy girl stared through the caravan window at the confessional tent, then swung round to face the other three gypsy women. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face very pale. ‘I must walk! I must breathe the air! I – I can’t stand it here any more.’
Marie le Hobenaut, her mother and Sara looked at one another. None of them looked very much happier than Tina. Their faces were still as sad and bitter as they had been when Bowman had watched them during the night, defeat and despair still hung as heavily in the air.
‘You will be careful, Tina?’ Marie’s mother said axiously. ‘Your father – you must think of your father.’
‘It’s all right, Mother,’ Marie said. ‘Tina knows. She knows now.’ She nodded to the dark girl who hurried throught the doorway, and went on softly: ‘She was so very much in love with Alexandre. You know.’
‘I know,’ her mother said heavily. ‘It’s a pity that Alexandre hadn’t been more in love with her.’
Tina passed through the rear portion of the caravan. Seated on the steps there was a gypsy in his late thirties. Unlike most gypsies, Pierre Lacabro was squat to the point of deformity and extremely broad, and also unlike most gypsies who, in their aquiline fashion, are as aristocratically handsome as any people in Europe, he had a very broad, brutalized face with a thin cruel mouth, porcine eyes and a scar, which had obviously never been stitched, running from right eyebrow to right chin. He was, clearly, an extremely powerful person. He looked up as Tina approached and gave her a broken-toothed grin.
‘And where are you going, my pretty maid?’ He had a deep, rasping, gravelly and wholly unpleasant voice.
‘For a walk.’ She made no attempt to keep the revulsion from her face. ‘I need air.’
‘We have guards posted – and Maca and Masaine are on the watch. You know that?’
‘Do you think I’d run away?’
He grinned again. ‘You’re too frightened to run away.’
With a momentary flash of spirit she said: ‘I’m not frightened of Pierre Lacabro.’
‘And why on earth should you be?’ He lifted his hands, palms upwards. ‘Beautiful girls like you – why, I’m like a father to them.’
Tina shuddered and walked down the caravan steps.
Czerda’s explanation to Simon Searl had not gone down well at all. Searl was at no pains to conceal his contempt and displeasure: Czerda had gone very much on the defensive.
‘And what about me?’ he demanded. ‘I’m the person who has suffered, not you, not Gaiuse Strome. I tell you, he destroyed everything in my caravan – and stole my eighty thousand francs.’
‘Which you hadn’t even earned yet. That was Gaiuse Strome’s money, Czerda. He’ll want it back: if he doesn’t get it he’ll have your life in place of it.’
‘In God’s name, Bowman’s vanished! I don’t know – ’
‘You will find him and then you will use this on him.’ Searl reached into the folds of his robe and brought out a pistol with a screwed-on silencer. ‘If you fail, I suggest you save us trouble and just use it on yourself.’
Czerda looked at him for a long moment. ‘Who is this Gaiuse Strome?’
‘I do not know.’
‘We were friends once, Simon Searl – ’
‘Before God, I have never met him. His instructions come either by letter or telephone and even then through an intermediary.’
‘Then do you know who this man is?’ Czerda took Searl’s arm and almost dragged him to the flap of the tent, a corner of which he eased back. Plainly in view was Le Grand Duc who had obviously replenished his glass. He was gazing directly at them and the expression on his face was very thoughtful. Czerda hastily lowered the flap. ‘Well?’
‘That man I have seen before,’ Searl said. ‘A wealthy nobleman, I believe.’
‘A wealthy nobleman by the name of Gaiuse Strome?’
‘I do not know. I do not wish to know.’
‘This is the third time I have seen this man on the pilgrimage. It is also the third year I have been working for Gaiuse Strome. He asked questions last night. This morning he was down looking at the damage that had been done to our caravan. And now he’s staring at us. I think – ’
‘Keep your thinking for Bowman,’ Searl advised. ‘That apart, keep your own counsel. Our patron wishes to remain anonymous. He does not care to have his privacy invaded. You understand?’
Czerda nodded reluctantly, thrust the silenced pistol inside his shirt and left. As he did, Le Grand Duc peered thoughtfully at him over the rim of his glass.
‘Good God!’ he said mildly. ‘Shriven already.’
Lila said politely: ‘I beg your pardon, Charles.’
‘Nothing, my dear, nothing.’ He shifted his gaze and caught sight of Tina who was wandering disconsolately and apparently aimlessly across the grass. ‘My word, there’s a remarkably fine-looking filly. Downcast, perhaps, yes, definitely downcast.
But beautiful.’
Lila said: ‘Charles, I’m beginning to think that you’re a connoisseur of pretty girls.’
‘The aristocracy always have been. Carita, my dear, Arles and with all speed. I feel faint.’
‘Charles!’ Lila was instant concern. ‘Are you unwell? The sun? If we put the hood up – ’
‘I’m hungry,’ Le Grand Duc said simply.
Tina watched the whispering departure of the Rolls then looked casually around her. Lacabro had disappeared from the steps of the green-andwhite caravan. Of Maca and Masaine there was no sign. Quite fortuitously, as it seemed, she found herself outside the entrance to the black confessional tent. Not daring to look round to make a final check to see whether she was under observation, she pushed the flap to one side and went in. She took a couple of hesitating steps towards the booth.
‘Father! Father!’ Her voice was a tremulous whisper. ‘I must talk to you.’
Searl’s deep grave voice came from inside the booth: ‘That’s what I’m here for, my child.’
‘No, no!’ Still the whisper. ‘You don’t understand. I have terrible things to tell you.’
‘Nothing is too terrible for a man of God to hear. Your secrets are safe with me, my child.’
‘But I don’t want them to be safe with you! I want you to go to the police.’
The curtain dropped and Searl appeared. His lean ascetic face was filled with compassion and concern. He put his arm round her shoulders.
‘Whatever ails you, daughter, your troubles are over. What is your name, my dear?’
‘Tina. Tina Daymel.’
‘Put your trust in God, Tina, and tell me everything.’ In the green-and-white caravan Marie, her mother and Sara sat in a gloomy silence. Now and again the mother gave a half sob and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.
‘Where is Tina?’ she said at length. ‘Where can she be? She takes so long.’
‘Don’t worry, Madame Zigair,’ Sara said reassuringly. ‘Tina’s a sensible girl. She’ll do nothing silly.’
‘Sara’s right, Mother,’ Marie said. ‘After last night – ’
‘I know. I know I’m being foolish. But Alexandre – ’
‘Please, Mother.’
Madame Zigair nodded and fell silent. Suddenly the caravan door was thrown open and Tina was thrown bodily into the room to fall heavily and face downwards on the caravan floor. Lacabro and Czerda stood framed in the entrance, the former grinning, the latter savage with a barely controlled anger. Tina lay where she had fallen, very still, clearly unconscious. Her clothes had been ripped from her back which was blood-stained and almost entirely covered with a mass of wicked-looking red and purplish weals: she had been viciously, mercilessly whipped.
‘Now,’ Czerda said softly. ‘Now will you all learn?’
The door closed. The three women stared in horror at the cruelly mutilated girl, then fell to their knees to help her.
CHAPTER 5
Bowman’s call to England came through quickly and he returned to his hotel within fifteen minutes of having left it. The corridor leading to his bedroom was thickly carpeted and his footfalls soundless. He was reaching for the handle of the door when he heard voices coming from inside the room. No voices, he realized, just one – Cecile’s – and it came only intermittently: the tone of her voice was readily recognizable but the muffling effect of the intervening door was too great to allow him to distinguish the words. He was about to lean his ear against the woodwork when a chambermaid carrying an armful of sheets came round a corner of the corridor. Bowman walked unconcernedly on his way and a couple of minutes later walked unconcernedly back. There was only silence in the room. He knocked and went inside.
Cecile was standing by the window and she turned and smiled at him as he closed the door. Her gleaming dark hair had been combed or brushed or whatever she’d done with it and she looked more fetching than ever.
‘Ravishing,’ he said. ‘How did you manage without me? My word, if our children only look – ’
‘
Another thing,’ she interrupted. The smile, he now noticed, lacked warmth. ‘This Mr Parker business when you registered. You did show your passport, didn’t you – Mr Bowman?’
‘A friend lent it to me.’
‘Of course. What else? Is your friend very important?’
‘How’s that?’
‘What is your job, Mr Bowman?’
‘I’ve told you – ’
‘Of course. I’d forgotten. A professional idler.’
She sighed. ‘And now – breakfast?’
‘First, for me, a shave. It’ll spoil my complexion but I can fix that. Then breakfast.’
He took the shaving kit from his case, went into the bathroom, closed the door and set about shaving. He looked around him. She’d come in here, divested herself of all her cumbersome finery, had a very careful bath to ensure that she didn’t touch the stain, dressed again, reapplied to the palms of her hands some of the stain he’d left her and all this inside fifteen minutes. Not to mention the hair brushing or combing or whatever. He didn’t believe it, she had about her the fastidious look of a person who’d have used up most of that fifteen minutes just in brushing her teeth. He looked into the bath and it was indubitably still wet so she had at least turned on the tap. He picked up the crumpled bath-towel and it was as dry as the sands of the Sinai desert. She’d brushed her hair and that was all. Apart from making a phone call.
He shaved, re-applied some war-paint and took Cecile down to a table in a corner of the hotel’s rather ornate and statuary-crowded patio. Despite the comparatively early hour it was already well patronized with late breakfasters and early coffeetakers. For the most part the patrons were clearly tourists, but there was a fair sprinkling of the more well-to-do Arlésiens among them, some dressed in the traditional fiesta costume of that part, some as gypsies.
As they took their seats their attention was caught and held by an enormous lime and dark green Rolls-Royce parked by the kerb: beside it stood the chauffeuse, her uniform matching the colours of the car. Cecile looked at the gleaming car in frank admiration.
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