Fatal Pursuit

by Martin Walker

  Hugon had researched the history of the four Bugatti Atlantics, and Bruno was surprised to learn that until little more than ten years ago it had been assumed there were only three. The two bought by the English customers, Lord Rothschild and R. B. Pope, were silver-blue and sapphire blue. All the known photos of the black Atlantic were assumed to feature the car bought by the Holzschuch family, the car that was wrecked by a train at a level crossing in 1955.

  Then a sharp-eyed French historian, Jean-Pierre Cornu, realized that the photos of the black Atlantic were of two different cars with different headlamps and different bumpers. In the spring of 1937, there had been a Concours d’Élégance in Juan-les-Pins on March 31, and another at Nice the next week. Each featured a black Atlantic, but they were different cars. In the first photograph, from Juan-les-Pins, Madame Holzschuch stood next to the car. In the second, at Nice, Yvonne Williams, the wife of William Grover-Williams, was featured, and this was the photo that appeared in the Bugatti catalog for 1938. This was also the car that Williams had taken to 121 miles per hour on the outskirts of London at a road test during the British automobile show in 1937, and it had also become the first car to reach 200 kilometers per hour, 125 miles per hour, at the Montlhéry circuit south of Paris.

  Then came the crux of the report. The researcher confirmed that Grover-Williams and his wife had been guests at the Château de Rastignac, the first real connection between the car and the Périgord. He had now found evidence that a black Bugatti Atlantic had been seen at the château in 1941 and had then been dismantled and hidden in a disused tobacco barn just a few miles away. And he was now close to learning what had happened to it.

  The researcher had to be Hugon, although no name was listed on the title page. The report, which included copies of the photos described in the text, was dated the day before the date on the post office receipt that had been in Hugon’s pocket. That in turn was five days before Hugon’s death. Bruno began to scribble down in his notebook the timeline of events.

  The report was bound to have excited Sylvestre and Freddy. Presumably it was a day or two later that they had received Hugon’s phone call, demanding another fifty thousand euros. At that point they must have decided to take up the invitation to the St. Denis vintage-car show. They could then have visited Hugon and either forced him to tell them what he knew or gave him a check and learned the Atlantic’s fate. Then they killed him in a way that looked like a heart attack and tore up the check.

  That made sense, but it left two big questions. The first was Freddy’s role. Sylvestre was the one obsessed by the car. Why had the report been sent to Freddy? Possibly, Bruno thought, because Sylvestre wanted to cover his own trail, probably because he was so well known in Alsace that collecting a parcel of documents from a poste restante would provoke unwelcome curiosity. And why use a poste restante rather than Sylvestre’s home address, unless Sylvestre had wanted to conceal his interest? The far-bigger question was, if Sylvestre had learned of the car’s fate and its hiding place just before killing Hugon, why had he not gone to find it and reap all the fame and fortune that would go with the dramatic discovery?

  Perhaps Hugon had not finally established the car’s whereabouts. Maybe the car’s location was known, but it had been cached somewhere Sylvestre could not obtain physical possession. Or perhaps he could not even see it to confirm its presence; somewhere like a junkyard, mused Bruno, buried under tons of scrap metal.

  He went to share his thoughts with J-J and found him with Isabelle, who was looking exhausted and elated at the same time.

  “We’re onto him, your Freddy,” she said, looking at Bruno. “You’ve got us all calling him that now. It was Sylvestre’s iPhone that did it. Freddy forgot to turn it off. We picked it up in the Bordeaux airport, and then in Schiphol in Amsterdam, where he landed not long after seven. We then lost the signal when he took off on another plane at eight-thirty. That gave us five flights to choose from, and we monitored each destination. He arrived in Athens just before noon. He’s still there, and we’re trying to get the Greek police to pick him up. And we think we have the name and passport number he’s now using.”

  “Unless he spent the flight downloading everything on Sylvestre’s iPhone onto his own,” said J-J. “Then he could have emptied the memory and tossed the phone into an Athens wastebasket, where it’s still transmitting. Meanwhile Freddy’s on a new flight to Abu Dhabi or somewhere.”

  “Thanks,” she said, tiredly. “Just what I needed. But that’s not all. Sylvestre’s bank accounts have all been emptied. Freddy must have used Sylvestre’s laptop to do it, programming it to order the transfers while he was on the phone to Amsterdam. He hit the SEND button just after eight, but at least we now have all the details of the accounts to which he sent the money, and now we’re able to monitor them.”

  “How much did he get?” J-J asked.

  “Just over a million. Sylvestre had loaded up one account to finance the new Shanghai venture.”

  “So your operation has been a success,” said Bruno. “You’ve mapped their finance network.”

  She nodded and said, “It’s like that old medical joke. You know the one, where the doctor comes out of the operating theater wearing his scrubs and mask and tells the patient’s family that the operation was a success, but unfortunately the patient died.”

  Isabelle walked out with Bruno when he left. At first she said nothing, but once they were out of earshot of the others, she turned to him. “I just did you a favor. I took down your two cameras before the forensics team turned up because I didn’t want them found. For both our sakes, I didn’t want the procureur realizing that we’d started the surveillance before we were legally authorized to do so. I’ll get them back to you, but I want to review the data cards first.”

  “You won’t be able to use them as evidence.”

  “Agreed, but it might help me know what happened. I’ll keep you posted.”

  24

  Bruno went first to Oudinot’s farm to make sure all was well there and to ask Martine if she might be free that evening. In the house he found only Odette, rolling pastry and listening to a call-in show on Périgord Bleu about gardening. He said he hoped J-J’s questions had not been a strain. Odette continued her rolling, cocked her head at the radio and said, “Idiots.”

  “They’re saying it’s a good weekend to plant mâche, which shows how little they know,” she said, looking at Bruno. “You use the lunar calendar, don’t you? Have you seen what it says for today? No gardening of any kind.”

  Bruno nodded; he had seen it, and it had eased his guilt a little for neglecting his garden with all the extra work involved with Sylvestre and Félix and the time he was spending with Martine.

  “And have you seen the horoscope today? Read what it says about Virgo, that’s Martine’s sign. Read it out.”

  Bruno picked up Sud Ouest, already turned to the horoscope page. It was something that always reminded him of that happy first summer with Isabelle; she always read out both his and hers. He read aloud: “This is not a good time for romance. Avoid any new amorous entanglements; they are doomed to fail and make you miserable. Stick with old friends and family and take lots of exercise.”

  He put the paper down, and Odette looked him in the eye. “I’m not a fool, Bruno. I know Martine is seeing you, and she seems very happy about it, but it’s not going to last. She’s never going to settle down here, whatever fantasies Fernand may have about his daughter coming home to breed grandchildren. She never will. She’s a big-city girl now, able and ambitious, and that’s fine by me. If you two go on with this affair, you’ll both be unhappy. What’s more, she’s a Virgo, you’re a Libra; it can never work.”

  “I think you’re reading a lot into a newspaper horoscope, Odette,” he replied, embarrassed.

  “I know my daughter. Anyway, you’re coming to dinner tomorrow night, and then she’s off, back to London next week, which is for the best.”

  “Isn’t she staying for the funeral? Do
you know if it’s going to be here or in Alsace?”

  “I don’t know. It would be a bit hypocritical of us to put on a great show of mourning. Still, family is family when all’s said and done.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow evening, and thank you for the invitation. I’ll just go and have a word with Fernand and Martine.”

  “You’ll find them down with the newborn calf, but they’ll probably be talking about Sylvestre’s will and who’s going to inherit. I hope it’s not us. Fernand and I aren’t the kind of people who know what to do with money. Martine’s different.”

  In the barn, the calf was being licked clean by its mother and trying to stand, rear legs first, and tottering. Martine squeezed his hand as he greeted her with the bise on both cheeks, and then he shook hands with Fernand.

  “So the commissaire’s interrogation wasn’t too difficult for you?” Bruno asked.

  “No, he was very polite, just wanted to know if we’d seen or heard anything and if we’d all been together in the house all night,” Fernand said. “Do you know anything about Sylvestre’s will?”

  “I spoke to the police in Alsace, and they are contacting Sylvestre’s family lawyer. We should know on Monday. And the mayor of his village in Alsace may want to have the funeral there.”

  “It’s quite a shock,” said Martine. “We’re all a little bit stunned by what’s happened, so I think the three of us will just have a quiet evening together here.”

  Bruno understood her message: no lovemaking tonight. “Well, I’ll look forward to seeing you at dinner tomorrow.”

  The calf had made it to its feet, and the mother stood and nudged it with her head to get under her belly and toward her teats. The calf licked around her udder but seemed unsure what to do next. Martine reached down and put a teat firmly into the calf’s mouth and then began stroking its throat to start the sucking and swallowing reflex. Her father watched her proudly and said, “Still a country girl at heart, our Martine.”

  Bruno went back to pick up his van and drove to the supermarket. Simon was in his office, leafing through what looked like sales figures, when Bruno came in, closing the door behind him. He sat down and handed across the printout of the procureur’s draft. Bruno had used his own official notepaper, with the seal of St. Denis and the heading of the Police Municipale.

  “If you want to keep your son out of jail, you and your wife need to sign this. Where is she?”

  “She’s taken Tristan to our cottage near Arcachon,” Simon replied. “She thought he needed a break after the shock of the arrest and being handcuffed.”

  Bruno shook his head. “You never learn, do you? Here I am trying to save that son of yours from a juvenile detention center, and you send him off for a vacation at the beach. You’re thinking of him as some kind of victim in all this when in reality he’s the perpetrator.”

  “It wasn’t my idea. In fact I was against it—”

  “But you never argue with your wife,” Bruno interrupted. “That’s half the trouble. She spoils him, she lies for him, perjures herself for his sake. And you put up with it, Simon. I think you’re rotten parents. You’ve certainly done a lousy job of raising your son.”

  “One mistake…,” Simon began.

  “More than one. Let’s not forget he also faces a charge of possessing illegal drugs in commercial quantities. I doubt it will take me more than twenty minutes to get a few affidavits from his classmates saying he’s been dealing drugs in the collège.”

  “You say you can keep him out of detention?” Simon began to scan the document, frowning as he read it. “You’re going to make us responsible for his behavior?”

  “It’s called being a parent.”

  “And what’s this forestry business?”

  “It’s part of the tough regimen the procureur requires as the price for keeping Tristan out of jail. You can guess what’s likely to become of him in there and what kind of life lies ahead of him when he gets out. This way, he has a chance of finishing his education and maybe even going on to university. It’s his last chance, and you and your wife have to sign up for it or it won’t happen.”

  “He won’t like this—no phone, no computer, not to be out of our custody at any time when he’s not working. It sounds like house arrest.”

  “It’s punishment; Tristan is not supposed to like it. Maybe if you’d been enough of a father to punish him earlier he wouldn’t be in this mess now.”

  “They won’t be back from Arcachon until next week.”

  Bruno sighed heavily. “You just don’t get it, do you, Simon? If they’re not back here tonight with that signed document on the procureur’s desk by Monday morning, the Arcachon police will go to your beach house and arrest your son. They will then hold him in a police cell until we get around to sending a prison van to take Tristan directly to the detention center to await trial.”

  “Will it be enough if I sign?”

  “No, I’ve told the procureur that your wife is more than half the trouble. And if she doesn’t sign, then we still have the perjury charge hanging over her.”

  “Our lawyer says—”

  “Bullshit. Call your lawyer if you want, and he’ll tell you that charging her with perjury is a matter for the procureur’s discretion. I just spoke to him, and he’s decided to go with my recommendation to keep Tristan out of jail even though he knows he’s going to get a lot of flak for going soft on your son. If you spurn his offer, he’ll throw the book at all of you, starting with your wife.”

  “You say this plan for Tristan is your suggestion?”

  “It’s a joint recommendation to the procureur from me, the head of the gendarmes and the magistrate in charge of juvenile justice. It’s been endorsed by the mayor, who personally arranged this forestry work.”

  Simon signed the document in small neat handwriting and printed “Lu et approuvé” above it—“read and approved”—the legal requirement in France.

  “I’ll get them back tonight and somehow I’ll get her to sign it.”

  “And you will hand deliver that document first thing Monday morning to the procureur’s office in Périgueux. And you’d better get a receipt from his office because the mayor and I will need to see it.”

  Bruno rose and left without another word. He headed to the mairie, still fuming at the thought of Tristan being rewarded with a trip to the beach, to report to the mayor on Sylvestre’s death. It might be a Saturday afternoon, but the mayor would be at work on his endless project of writing the history of St. Denis if there were no official duties to be performed. Bruno also wanted to check his e-mails. As he scrolled through, his phone pinged with an incoming text. It was Gilles, asking for a meeting at the maison de retraite in twenty minutes. He texted back confirmation and went back to the e-mails. One was from Tristan’s mother.

  “I will never forgive you for that dirty trick you played on me nor for what you have done to my boy. I’m one of the people who pays your salary and I begrudge every penny of it. You’re a disgrace to your uniform,” he read. He sighed, and forwarded copies to the procureur and to Annette. Then he printed it out twice, added one to his file on Tristan and took the other to the mayor, who was at his desk, fountain pen in hand, his manuscript before him and several old books open around him. He looked up as Bruno entered and gave him a copy of the denunciation.

  “One of your voters doesn’t like me,” he said.

  “What was the dirty trick?”

  “She swore that Tristan was at home with her when he threw the stone that hit the little girl. I got her to sign a formal statement to that effect. Yveline was present when it all happened.”

  “I don’t think the procureur would bring a perjury charge against a mother lying to protect her son.”

  “I think he will if she tries to block the forestry job you arranged as too tough on her precious son. She’s taken him off to their weekend cottage in Arcachon so the poor boy can recover from his ordeal. She’s the problem, and her false statement is our leverag
e.”

  The mayor put down his pen, removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “What a foolish woman. Human folly never changes,” he said, sighing. “I’m just working on the saddest moment in the history of our town. Do you know that St. Denis and its convent were sacked and burned in 1577, during what we call the Wars of Religion? The troops were Protestant, but they were having a private war among themselves, between Galliot de La Tour, the lord of Limeuil, and his brother Jacques. We have a square called la place du Temple because they built a Protestant chapel after the town was burned. The chapel was itself demolished a hundred years later when Louis XIV revoked the rights given to Protestants under the Edict of Nantes.”

  “I sometimes wondered why the square was so named when there was no temple.”

  “Now you know. What do you want me to do with this?” he waved a copy of the e-mail from Tristan’s mother.

  “Nothing really. I just wanted you to know about it. I’ve told Simon to be sure that Tristan and his mother return from the beach today. I also wanted to tell you that we have the results of one autopsy that confirms Hugon was murdered with cyanide and another that says Sylvestre was deliberately drowned in his pool.”

  When Bruno left the mayor’s office, he went to the retirement home and was there to greet Gilles when he arrived in Fabiola’s old Twingo with an elderly man in the passenger seat.

  “Bonjour, Bruno,” said the passenger, grinning at him. “Grégoire sends his regards.”

  Bruno realized this must be Grégoire’s father, Étienne, come to visit Félix’s grandfather. He had white hair and a white mustache and was wearing dark glasses, a suit and a tie. Bruno had always been struck by the formal way so many elderly people chose to dress.