As Hitler planned the German invasion of Russia in June 1941, a crash program to build more weapons took over the Bugatti factory in Alsace, Young explained. The cars and some of the machine tools the Nazis did not need were evacuated to Bordeaux. In February 1941, the factory records show that the famous Bugatti Atlantic left for Bordeaux. But it never got there.
“Was Grover-Williams driving it?” Bruno asked.
“It’s not clear. The official records suggest that he was undergoing training in England until early 1942, but we have family letters that say he went to France in early 1941 on some secret mission, and some of his French friends remember seeing him in Paris with Benoist around that time.”
Somewhere between Alsace and Bordeaux, the car had disappeared. Both Grover-Williams and Benoist were later arrested by the Gestapo and died in concentration camps. Nobody ever knew what happened to the car nor whether either of the two racing drivers was at the wheel.
“So you are here looking for the car?” Bruno asked. “I imagine you’re not the first to try to track it down, if it still exists.”
“I found something interesting in the family papers, a reference to friends Grover-Williams trusted, a British family living in a château in the Périgord, at Rastignac. I’ve managed to track down an old woman who worked at the château as a maid during the war, and I’ve been trying to see her for weeks. I finally got the call that she would see me on the morning of the rally. That’s why I had to let Annette down and leave you in the hot seat. I’m sorry.”
Bruno wondered why he hadn’t told Annette the truth, but instead he asked, “And did the maid know anything about the car?”
“Not a thing. She seemed baffled by my question. She said everybody else who had wanted to talk to her asked only about the valuable paintings that had been in the château. Apparently the Nazis took them during the war and burned the place down. It looks pretty good now, though.”
“Did the château seem familiar?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t place it.”
“We call it the French White House. The design was copied by the architect who did the one in Washington. Ours is the original, although I wonder if the Americans believe that.”
“Well, it was a wasted day. And I’m sure Sylvestre will be miles ahead of me. He’s got the money to hire professional researchers.”
“So you’re competing?” Bruno asked, noting that reference to professional researchers. There were not many of them in the region, other than the late Monsieur Hugon. Could Sylvestre be his mysterious client?
“Absolutely, we’re competing,” said Young. “I had suggested we join forces, but Sylvestre just shook his head and smiled in that infuriatingly superior way of his. I thought my bit of family knowledge might give me an edge.”
“What do you know about Sylvestre and his friend Freddy?”
“That he’s rich, does well in his classic-car business, particularly since he and Freddy launched the new showroom in Abu Dhabi. And Freddy is a hell of a driver. I don’t know Sylvestre that well. When we meet, usually for a meal or a drink when he comes to London, we talk about cars. But he’s never asked about my personal life.”
“Does he know of your link to Grover-Williams?”
“Not from me. It’s about the only advantage I have, so I’ve kept it to myself. But that Rastignac connection doesn’t seem to be getting me very far.”
“There’s somebody else in on the hunt now,” said Bruno. “A journalist friend of mine who sometimes works for Paris Match. His interest is the story rather than the car, but he picked up something that seemed to interest Sylvestre.”
Bruno told Young of the downed bomber pilot’s memoir, how he was picked up and helped to escape in the Bugatti by someone who sounded like Benoist, though it may have been Grover-Williams.
“Does Sylvestre know what’s in this memoir?” Young asked excitedly.
“Yes, and he seemed excited by it, which makes me think he hasn’t found any sign of the car itself. He’s still looking for clues.”
“Just like me,” said Young, looking wan. “But from his manner when he last spoke, he seemed a lot closer to it than me.”
“There’s one thing that intrigues me,” said Bruno. “This all happened some seventy years ago. Even if you find the car hidden in some abandoned barn, it will probably be rusted away by now.”
“That depends on how carefully it was stored. It was made of a special alloy, part magnesium, so rust wouldn’t have been a problem. Magnesium has a low ignition point, which explains why they couldn’t weld the car and had to use rivets instead. There’s a long ridge running along the roof where the rivets held the bodywork together.”
“Still, the chances of finding it must be pretty slim,” said Bruno. “And it’s even less likely that it would be in a fit state to restore to a point where you might be able to sell it for the kind of money you were talking about.”
“There are five key parts,” said Young, ticking them off on his fingers as he spoke. “The engine, the chassis, the transmission and the front and rear axles. If someone finds three of those, it counts as a restoration. And with that car’s legend, it’s worth thirty or forty million, maybe more.”
“Maybe you should talk to my reporter friend,” said Bruno. “I don’t think you’re going to get very far on your own.”
Bruno drove in front of Young toward Gilles’s home. Careful of his car’s suspension, Young went slowly up the long approach on the dirt road. As they topped a gentle rise, they could see the old farmhouse in the gentle hollow below. It was flanked by two barns that Pamela had converted into self-contained gîtes, the stables and the pigeon tower. The buildings formed a natural courtyard, dominated by an old ash tree in the center, and a vine-covered terrace made a charming spot for dining in summer. Two embracing wings of poplars were set back from the house, and something about the way the farm blended into the landscape made it seem both peaceful and welcoming.
They found Gilles at work in the spare bedroom of the main house, which he had turned into his study, lining the walls with bookcases and filing cabinets and with a big old dining table as a desk. It stood by the window with a fine view over the grass tennis court and swimming pool at the rear of the house. To Young’s surprise, on a bulletin board where Gilles had pinned notes, photos of Fabiola and various business cards and reminders to himself was attached a printout of the car Bruno had first seen on Young’s mobile phone.
Bruno introduced the two men and, over a glass of wine, Young explained what he knew of the lost Bugatti and his family connection. Gilles had already been researching on the Internet and had downloaded from the Imperial War Museum in London a copy of the memoir by the downed RAF pilot. Young scanned it quickly, asked for an atlas and asked if the Michelin factory at Clermont-Ferrand was inside the border of the territory administered by the Vichy regime. Bruno confirmed that it was.
“So if the car picked him up near Clermont-Ferrand, the direct route to Bordeaux would come through the Périgord,” said Young.
“The best road would go through Terrasson and Périgueux,” said Bruno. “That would take him right past the Château de Rastignac.” Young explained his fruitless visit to interview the former maid.
“Let’s be frank about this: my interest is the story, which is a pretty good yarn even if we don’t find the car. People always like reading about mysteries,” Gilles said, looking at Young. “But what about you? Is your real interest the car or the money it might make?”
“The money would be fine, but I probably wouldn’t get much more than a finder’s fee,” Young replied. “Ownership will be a legal mess. I imagine Bugatti would have a claim, but it was wound up decades ago, and I don’t know who would have the rights to the old assets. The heirs of the driver might have some claim, depending on the contract he had with Bugatti to deliver it. The owner of whatever place it might be hidden would have some claim, if only for decades of storage fees. And even if it is found and can be restored, f
ull restoration costs would run into the millions.”
“In that case, why not broaden the search by publicizing it?” Bruno asked. “We could bring in Jack Crimson, whose contacts might find something in the SOE archives—the Special Operations Executive did all kinds of espionage during the war. You might consider asking Florence and her computer club to trawl the Internet for any links to any of the people or places linked to Grover-Williams. And why not get Sud Ouest to run a story and see if any new information turns up? It might mean you’ll have to share any finder’s fee.”
“Let’s not bring Sud Ouest into this; they’re competition,” said Gilles. “At least wait until I run the story of the search for the lost Bugatti in Paris Match.”
Young looked uncertainly from Bruno to Gilles, obviously unsure how much to trust them and wondering whether he’d have any chance of success on his own. Bruno and Gilles exchanged glances. They didn’t know much about Young, but if Annette liked him, Bruno was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. What Bruno couldn’t say was that most of his interest in this affair was professional. Sylvestre and Freddy were the targets of Isabelle’s operation, which made them serious suspects. And if Sylvestre had indeed been in the market for a professional researcher, there was even a possibility that they might be linked to Hugon’s death.
“If we go this route, making the search public through the press, how might the money be shared out?” Young asked. “Please bear in mind that I’ve lived with this story since I was a boy. I can’t tell you how many times I sat at my mother’s knee, hearing about this amazing ancestor of ours, one of the great racing drivers as well as a Resistance hero. What I’m trying to say is that this is very personal for me, and I’ve put a lot of time and effort into it. So however the money gets shared out, I think I should get half.”
“That’s not just greedy; it’s premature,” said Gilles. “We don’t know what else we’ll find out or who might contribute crucial new information.”
“I’ll be frank,” Young said. “The money is quite important to me, but it’s not the only thing. If I get credit as the man who played a key role in finding the lost Bugatti, that would be wonderful for my business. It would really make my name and also allow me to give old Grover-Williams his due. It’s tragic that a man like that could be almost forgotten.”
“I can see that,” said Gilles. “He and Benoist both deserve to be better known, and that’s one thing I can contribute.”
“Yes, but as you said, it doesn’t matter to you whether the car is found or not. You still have your story.” Young was looking grimly at Gilles as he said it.
“It’s a much-better story if it is found,” said Bruno, trying to still the sudden note of hostility that was developing between the two men. “Why don’t we simply ask Annette to adjudicate anything to do with money? We each know her and trust her.”
Young grimaced and gave a long sigh. “Okay, but I have real doubts about doing anything that might bring Sylvestre into this. I don’t trust him, and I’m sure he’ll have thought through all these questions about ownership, and he can afford the best legal advice. He might even have found some way of buying the rights to any Bugatti lost in transit during the war.”
“I understand that,” said Bruno. “But once this search goes public, you and he are on an equal footing. And you say your company will benefit from the credit you’ll get in Paris Match as the man who launched this search. You’re also the relative of Grover-Williams. It will be your story, not his.”
Young sipped at his wine, looking solemnly at each of them in turn. Then he put out his hand toward Gilles and said, “In that case, I think we have a deal.”
14
Bruno drove home to change, check his ducks and chickens and take Balzac for a brisk walk through the woods. It was in the stillness of the trees that Bruno did his best thinking. He liked this time of year when the first leaves had begun to fall, but the canopy above him was still golden brown, tinged with red where it caught the last rays of the setting sun. The birdsong was changing as the summer migrants moved south. The hunting season had opened, but he had not been out yet, preferring to wait until the weather grew colder and Balzac’s training had progressed. Bruno whistled, and the dog came to heel at once, but he was still learning the whistled notes that sent him skirting right or left before driving Bruno’s much-desired bécasses back to his master. Young as he was, Balzac seemed fearless, ready to chase away even a big fox. Feeling a sudden burst of affection, Bruno knelt down to stroke him and tell him what a fine hunting dog he would be.
As he walked back, he thought of his next steps. He would need to ask Sylvestre about Hugon. Even if he denied knowing the man, Sylvestre’s face might show some reaction. He should ask Madame Hugon if she’d ever heard the name and whether any new mail had arrived for her husband since his death. He needed to ask other members of the history society whether Hugon had talked about his latest research job. The euro notes in Hugon’s wallet were new; the numbers might be traced back to the bank where they were first issued.
As for Isabelle, her investigation into terrorist finance was beyond his skills, though he could help with some modest surveillance. When he reached his home, he went to a locked cupboard in his barn and took out two battery-operated surveillance cameras that he’d salvaged from one of the brigadier’s earlier surveillance operations at a local château. He thought they might come in handy someday. Then he called Isabelle.
“Where are our two suspects now?” he asked.
“Their phones show Sylvestre in Trémolat and Farid in central Sarlat, each in a fixed location, so I assume they’re having dinner. It might be another day or two before I can get down. This is turning into a real mess,” she replied. “Since we’ve been using the Americans’ TFTP, we have to go through all kinds of hoops to abide by European rules on data sharing with the U.S.”
“What’s the TFTP?” Bruno asked.
“Terrorist Finance Tracking Program. They’ve got the best data. But in order to use it Europol is required to verify each individual case and ensure every request we make is necessary and tailored as narrowly as possible to minimize the amount of data collected. It’s crazy—we’re all fighting the same people—but we have to live with it. In the meantime, whatever surveillance we can mount depends on you and Jean-Jacques.”
“Leave it with me and let me know when you can get here,” he said. “But if you can monitor their movements by their phones, what else do you need?”
“We need to know about any visitors or meetings they have, that’s the priority, along with the license plates and registration numbers of whatever vehicles they’re using. We want to know if they’re visiting Internet cafés to use an e-mail address we don’t know about.”
“Okay. I might be able to help with the vehicle numbers. I took some photos of the place where they’re staying on my phone and their rental cars were parked there. Your technicians should be able to blow up the images. I’ll e-mail them to you right away. Is Jean-Jacques providing any support?”
“He’s trying but he’s short staffed. I know you’ll do your best, and thanks, Bruno. Give Balzac a hug for me.”
She hung up, and before setting off Bruno mentally reviewed the map of the region that he carried in his head. He couldn’t use the direct road that led to Sylvestre’s place in case he or Freddy returned early and saw his car. Nor did he want to alert Fernand by using the access through the Oudinot farm. There was a hunting trail he knew that went close enough, so Bruno loaded Balzac into the passenger seat of his Land Rover and headed down the lane, through St. Denis and out on the road to Le Buisson. When he got to the distinctive bend in the hunting path, he pulled out his map and a compass to check the bearing to Sylvestre’s house. Ten minutes later, Balzac snuffling at his heels, he reached the road and saw the loom of the chartreuse, helped by a porch light that had been left on.
He took one of the cameras from his rucksack, checked the new batteries and the data stick
he’d installed to record the images and used black masking tape to fix it in the fork of a tree where it had a clear view of the muddied track that led to the lodge and courtyard. He put the second camera in a spot where it had a view of both the pool area and the path that Oudinot had sealed off. That would have to do. He checked that neither camera was visible from the road or the house, led Balzac back to the Land Rover and returned to St. Denis. Back in town, his phone was showing four bars of reception so he sent the photos of Sylvestre’s place to Isabelle.
There were only two customers left in Ivan’s bistro, strangers who seemed to be speaking English. Ivan looked at his watch when Bruno came in with Balzac, gestured him to a seat at the bar and poured out a generous glass of scotch. “I’ve got some tuna salad left and some apple pie, and you can share the nasi goreng that Mandy’s making for our dinner. That suit you? And what about your dog?”
“Santé,” said Bruno, taking a sip of the scotch. “That all sounds good, and just a bowl of water for Balzac, please. I fed him before I left home, and it’s been a long day. How’s Mandy?”
Ivan invariably returned from vacation with a girl he’d met, usually one whose cooking skills could enlarge his own repertoire. There had been a Belgian girl who broke his heart but left him with half-a-dozen ways of preparing mussels and the recipe for a thick chicken stew called waterzooi. A Spanish girl had introduced St. Denis to gazpacho and paella, and the departure of the German girl with her Wiener schnitzel was sincerely mourned by Ivan’s customers. He could never get the breadcrumb coating quite right without her expert assistance. His last vacation to Southeast Asia had raised hopes among the townsfolk that he’d return with a Thai woman who would broaden his menu yet further. Instead, he’d fallen for a breezy Australian who could wipe the floor with Bruno at tennis and was working with Ivan while waiting for her application to study at the wine school in Bordeaux to be approved. Having spent a year in Indonesia before meeting Ivan on the beach at Kota Bharu in Malaysia, she knew how to prepare a range of Asian foods.
Fatal Pursuit Page 13