The green Rolls-Royce slowed as it approached the Mas de Lavignolle. Le Grand Duc, still with a parasol being held above his head, surveyed the scene thoughtfully.
‘Czerda’s caravans,’ he observed. ‘Surprising. One would not have expected the Mas de Lavignolle to be of any particular interest to our friend Czerda. But a man like that will always have a good reason for what he is doing. However, he will doubtless consider it a privilege to inform me of his reasons. . . What is it, my dear?’
‘Look ahead.’ Lila pointed. ‘Just there.’
Le Grand Duc followed the direction of her arm. Cecile, flanked by El Brocador and Searl, the first all in white, the second all in black. The door closed behind them.
Le Grand Duc pressed the dividing window button. ‘Stop the car, if you please.’ To Lila he said: ‘You think that’s your friend? Same dress, I admit, but all those Arlésienne fiesta dresses look the same to me, especially from the back.’
‘That’s Cecile.’ Lila was positive.
‘A razateur and a priest,’ Le Grand Duc mused.
‘You really must admit that your friend does have a marked propensity for striking up the most unusual aquaintanceships. You have your notebook?’
‘I have what?’
‘We must investigate this.’
‘You’re going to investigate – ’
‘Please. No Greek chorus. Everything is of interest to the true folklorist.’
‘But you can’t just barge in – ’
‘Nonsense. I am the Duc de Croytor. Besides, I never barge. I always make an entrance.’
The ache in his midriff, Bowman guessed, was as nothing compared to some of the aches that he was going to come by very shortly – if, that was, he would then be in a position to feel anything. There was a gleam in Czerda’s eye, a barely-contained anticipation in the face that bespoke ill, Bowman thought, for the immediate future.
He looked round the caravan. The three shackled men had in their faces the uncomprehending and lacklustre despair of those to whom defeat is already an accepted reality. Czerda and Masaine had pleasantly anticipatory smiles on their faces, El Brocador was serious and thoughtful and watchful, Simon Searl had a peculiar look in his eyes which made his unfrocking a readily comprehensible matter, while Cecile just looked slightly dazed, a little frightened, a little angry but as far removed from hysteria as could be.
‘You understand now,’ Czerda said, ‘why I said you’d find the money within the minute.’
‘I understand now. You’ll find it – ’
‘What money?’ Cecile asked. ‘What does that – that monster want?’
‘His eighty thousand francs back again – minus certain small outlays I’ve been compelled to make – and who can blame him?’
‘Don’t tell him anything!’
‘And don’t you understand the kind of men you’re dealing with? Ten seconds from now they’ll have your arm twisted up behind your back till it’s touching your ear, you’ll be screaming in agony and if they happen to break your shoulder or tear a few ligaments, well, that’s just too bad.’
‘But – but I’ll just faint – ’
‘Please.’ Bowman looked at Czerda, carefully avoided Cecile’s gaze. ‘It’s in Arles. Safe-deposit in the station.’
‘The key?’
‘On a ring. In the car. Hidden. I’ll show you.’
‘Excellent,’ Czerda said. ‘A disappointment to friend Searl, I’m afraid, but inflicting pain on young ladies gives me no pleasure though I wouldn’t hesitate if I had to. As you shall see.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will. You are a danger, you have been a great danger and you have to go, that’s all. You will die this afternoon and within the hour so that no suspicion will ever attach to us.’
It was, Bowman thought, as laconic a death sentence as he’d ever heard of. There was something chilling in the man’s casual certainty.
Czerda went on: ‘You will understand now why I didn’t injure your face, why I wanted you to go into that bullring unmarked.’
‘Bullring?’
‘Bullring, my friend.’
‘You’re mad. You can’t make me go into a bullring.’
Czerda said nothing and there was no signal. Searl, eagerly assisted by a grinning Masaine, caught hold of Cecile, forced her face downwards on to a bunk and, while Masaine pinned her down, Searl gripped the collar of the Arlésienne costume and ripped it down to the waist. He turned and smiled at Bowman, reached into the folds of his clerical garb and brought out what appeared to be a version of a hunting stock, with a fifteen-inch interwoven leather handle attached to three long thin black thongs. Bowman looked at Czerda and Czerda wasn’t watching anything of what was going on: he was watching Bowman and the gun pointing at Bowman was motionless.
Czerda said: ‘I think perhaps you will go into that bullring?’
‘Yes.’ Bowman nodded. ‘I think perhaps I will.’
Searl put his stock away. His face was twisted in the bitter disappointment of a spoilt child who has been deprived of a new toy. Masaine took his hands away from Cecile’s shoulders. She pushed herself groggily to a sitting position and looked at Bowman. Her face was very pale but her eyes were mad. It had just occurred to Bowman that she was, as she’d said, quite capable of using a gun if shown how to use one when there came from outside the sound of a solid measured tread: the door opened and Le Grand Duc entered with a plainly apprehensive Lila trailing uncertainly behind him. Le Grand Duc pushed the monocle more firmly into his eye.
‘Ah, Czerda, my dear fellow. It’s you.’ He looked at the gun in the gypsy’s hand and said sharply: ‘Don’t point that damned thing at me!’ He indicated Bowman. ‘Point it at that fellow there. Don’t you know he’s your man, you fool?’
Czerda uncertainly trained his gun back on Bowman and just as uncertainly looked at Le Grand Duc.
‘What do you want?’ Czerda tried to imbue his voice with sharp authority but Le Grand Duc wasn’t the properly receptive type and it didn’t come off. ‘Why are you – ’
‘Be quiet!’ Le Grand Duc was at his most intimidating, which was very intimidating indeed. I am speaking. You are a bunch of incompetent and witless nincompoops. You have forced me to destroy the basic rule of my existence – to bring myself into the open. I have seen more intelligence exhibited in a cageful of retarded chimpanzees. You have lost me much time and cost me vast trouble and anxiety. I am seriously tempted to dispose of the services of you all – permanently. And that means you as well as your services. What are you doing here?’
‘What are we doing here?’ Czerda stared at him. ‘But – but – but Searl here said that you – ’
‘I will deal with Searl later.’ Le Grand Duc’s promise was imbued with such menacing overtones that Searl at once looked acutely unhappy. Czerda looked nervous to a degree that was almost unthinkable for him, El Brocador looked puzzled and Masaine had clearly given up thinking of any kind. Lila simply looked stunned. Le Grand Duc went on: ‘I did not mean, you cretin, what you are doing in Mas de Lavignolle. I meant what are you doing here, as of this present moment, in this caravan.’
‘Bowman here stole the money you gave me,’ Czerda said sullenly. ‘We were – ’
‘He what?’ Le Grand Duc’s face was thunderous.
‘He stole your money,’ Czerda said unhappily.
‘All of it.’
‘All of it!’
‘Eighty thousand francs. That’s what we’ve been doing – finding out where it is. He’s about to show me the key to where the money is.’
‘I trust for your sake that you find it.’ He paused and turned as Maca came staggering into the caravan, both hands holding what was clearly a very painful face.
‘Is this man drunk?’ Le Grand Duc demanded. ‘Are you drunk, sir? Stand straight when you talk to me.’
‘He did it!’ Maca spoke to Czerda, he didn’t appear to have noticed Le Grand Duc, for his eyes were for Bowman only. ‘
He came along – ’
‘Silence!’ Le Grand Duc’s voice would have intimidated a Bengal tiger. ‘My God, Czerda, you surround yourself with the most useless and ineffectual bunch of lieutenants it’s ever been my misfortune to encounter.’ He looked round the caravan, ignoring the three manacled men, took two steps towards where Cecile was sitting and looked down at her. ‘Ha! Bowman’s accomplice, of course. Why is she here?’
Czerda shrugged. ‘Bowman wouldn’t cooperate – ’
‘A hostage? Very well. Here’s another.’ He caught Lila by the arm and shoved her roughly across the caravan. She stumbled, almost fell, then sat down heavily on the bunk beside Cecile. Her face, already horror-stricken, now looked stupefied.
‘Charles!’
‘Be quiet!’
‘But Charles! My father – you said – ’
‘You are a feather-brained young idiot,’ Le Grand Duc said with contempt. ‘The real Duc de Croytor, to whom I fortunately bear a strong resemblance, is at present in the upper Amazon, probably being devoured by the savages in the Matto Grosso. I am not the Duc de Croytor.’
‘We know that, Mr Strome.’ Simon Searl was at his most obsequious.
Again displaying his quite remarkable speed, Le Grand Duc stepped forward and struck Searl heavily across the face. Searl cried out in pain and staggered heavily, to bring up against the wall of the caravan. There was silence for several seconds.
‘I have no name,’ Le Grand Duc said softly. ‘There is no such person as you mentioned.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Searl fingered his cheek. ‘I – ’
‘Silence!’ Le Grand Duc turned to Czerda. ‘Bowman has something to show you? Give you?’
‘Yes, sir. And there’s another little matter I have to attend to.’
‘Yes, yes, yes. Be quick about it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I shall wait here. We must talk on your return, mustn’t we, Czerda.’
Czerda nodded unhappily, told Masaine to watch the girls, put his jacket over his gun and left accompanied by Searl and El Brocador. Masaine, his knife still drawn, seated himself comfortably. Maca, tenderly rubbing his bruised face, muttered something and left, probably to attend to his injuries. Lila, her face woebegone, looked up at Le Grand Duc.
‘Oh, Charles, how could you – ’
‘Ninny!’
She stared at him brokenly. Tears began to roll down her cheeks. Cecile put an arm round her and glared at Le Grand Duc. Le Grand Duc looked through her and remained totally unaffected.
‘Stop here,’ Czerda said.
They stopped, Bowman ahead of Czerda with a silencer prodding his back, El Brocador and Searl on either side of him, the Citroën ten feet away.
‘Where’s the key?’ Czerda demanded.
‘I’ll get it.’
‘You will not. You are perfectly capable of switching keys or even finding a hidden gun.
Where is it?’
‘On a key ring. It’s taped under the driver’s seat, back, left.’
‘Searl?’ Searl nodded, went to the car. Czerda said sourly: ‘You don’t trust many people, do you?’
‘I should, you think?’
‘What’s the number of this deposit box?’
‘Sixty-five.’
Searl returned. ‘These are ignition keys.’
‘The brass one’s not,’ Bowman said.
Czerda took the keys. ‘The brass one’s not.’ He removed it from the ring. ‘Sixty-five. For once, the truth. How’s the money wrapped?’
‘Oilskin, brown paper, sealing-wax. My name’s on it.’
‘Good.’ He looked round. Maca was sitting on the top of some caravan steps. Czerda beckoned him and he came to where they were, rubbing his chin and looked malevolently at Bowman. Czerda said: ‘Young José has a motor scooter, hasn’t he?’
‘You want a message done. I’ll get him. He’s in the arena.’
‘No need.’ Czerda gave him the key. ‘That’s for safe deposit sixty-five in Arles station. Tell him to open it and bring back the brown paper parcel inside. Tell him to be as careful with it as he would be with his own life. It’s a very, very valuable parcel. Tell him to come back here as soon as possible and give it to me and if I’m not here someone will know where I’ve gone and he’s to come after me. Is that clear?’
Maca nodded and left. Czerda said: ‘I think it’s time we paid a visit to the bullring ourselves.’
They crossed the road but went not directly to the arena but to one of several adjacent huts which were evidently used as changing rooms, for the one they entered was behung with matadors’ and razateurs’ uniforms and several outfits of clowns’ attire. Czerda pointed to one of the last. ‘Get into that.’
‘That?’ Bowman eyed the garish rigout. ‘Why the hell should I?’
‘Because my friend here asks you to.’ Czerda waved his gun. ‘Don’t make my friend angry.’
Bowman did as he was told. When he was finished he was far from surprised to see El Brocador exchange his conspicuous white uniform for his dark suit, to see Searl pull on a long blue smock, then to see all three men put on paper masks and comic hats. They appeared to have a craving for anonymity, a not unusual predilection on the part of would-be murderers. Czerda draped a red flag over his gun and they left for the arena.
When they arrived at the entrance to the callajon Bowman was mildly astonished to discover that the comic act that had been in process when he’d left was still not finished: so much seemed to have happened since he’d left the arena that it was difficult to realize that so few minutes had elapsed. They arrived to find that one of the clowns, incredibly, was doing a handstand on the back of the bull, which just stood there in baffled fury, its head swinging from side to side. The crowd clapped ecstatically: had the circumstances been different, Bowman thought, he might even have clapped himself.
For their final brief act the clowns waltzed towards the side of the arena to the accompaniment of their companion’s accordion. They stopped, faced the crowd side by side and bowed deeply, apparently unaware that their backs were towards the charging bull. The crowd screamed a warning: the clowns, still bent, pushed each other apart at the last moment and the bull hurtled wildly over the spot where they had been standing only a second previously and crashed into the barrier with an impact that momentarily stunned it. As the clowns vaulted into the callajon the crowd continued to whistle and shout their applause. It occurred to Bowman to wonder whether they would still be in such a happily carefree mood in a few minutes’ time: it seemed unlikely.
The ring was empty now and Bowman and his three escorts had moved out into the callajon. The crowd stared with interest and in considerable amusement at Bowman’s attire and he was, unquestionably, worth a second glance. He was clad in a most outlandish fashion. His right leg was enclosed in red, his left in white and the doublet was composed of red and white squares. The flexible green canvas shoes he wore were so ludicrously long that the toes were tied back into the shins. He wore a white conical pierrot’s hat with a red pom-pom on top: for defence he was armed with a slender three-foot cane with a small tricolor at the end of it.
‘I have the gun, I have the girl,’ Czerda said softly. ‘You will remember?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘If you try to escape, the girl will not live. You believe me?’
Bowman believed him. He said: ‘And if I die, the girl will not live either.’
‘No. Without you, the girl is nothing, and Czerda does not make war on women. I know who you are now, or think I do. It is no matter. I have discovered that you never met her until last night and it is unthinkable that a man like you would tell her anything of importance: professionals never explain more than they have to, do they, Mr Bowman? And young girls can be made to talk, Mr Bowman. She can do us no harm. When we’ve done what we intend to do, and that will be in two days, she is free to go.’
‘She knows where Alexandre is buried.’
‘Ah, so. Alexand
re? Who is Alexandre?’
‘Of course. Free to go?’
‘You have my word.’ Bowman didn’t doubt him. ‘In exchange, you will now put on a convincing struggle.’
Bowman nodded. The three men grabbed him or tried to grab him and all four staggered about the callajon. The colourful crowd were by now in excellent humour, gay, chattering, relaxed: all evidently felt that they were having a splendid afternoon’s entertainment and that this mock-fight that was taking place in the callajon – for mock-fight it surely was, there were no upraised arms, no blows being struck in anger – was but the prelude to another hilariously comic turn, it had to be, with the man trying to struggle free dressed in that ridiculous pierrot’s costume. Eventually, to the accompaniment of considerable whistling, laughter and shouts of encouragement, Bowman broke free, ran a little way along the callajon and vaulted into the ring. Czerda ran after him, made to clamber over the barrier but was caught and restrained by Searl and El Brocador, who pointed excitedly to the north end of the ring. Czerda followed their direction.
They were not the only ones looking in that direction. The crowd had suddenly fallen silent, their laughter had ceased and the smiles vanished: puzzlement had replaced their humour, a puzzlement that rapidly shaded into anxiety and apprehension. Bowman’s eyes followed the direction of those of the crowd: he could not only understand the apprehension of the crowd, he reflected, but shared it to the fullest extent.
The northern toril gate had been drawn and a bull stood at the entrance. But this was not the small light black bull of the Camargue that was used in the cours libre – the bloodless bullfight of Provence: this was a huge Spanish fighting bull, one of the Andalusian monsters that fight to the death in the great corridas of Spain. It had enormous shoulders, an enormous head and a terrifying spread of horn. Its head was low but not as low as it would be when it launched itself into its charge: it pawed the ground, alternately dragging each front hoof backwards, gouging deep channels in the dark sand.
Caravan to Vaccares Page 16