Fatal Pursuit

by Martin Walker

  As the crowd reached the crossroads, the numbers thinned, and Bruno saw the two old men. Félix was beside them and an elderly woman followed, whom Bruno did not know. Grégoire appeared in his car and greeted them all. The old men and the woman, presumably Grégoire’s wife, climbed into the car, and Félix went to his bicycle, parked in the rack outside the mairie, and unlocked a chain from around the rear wheel. He cycled off, following the car.

  Then Bruno recognized three more people, dressed for church, coming across the square toward him. It was Simon, his wife and Tristan. They came onto the terrace of the café and stood awkwardly before him. He rose saying “Bonjour, monsieur-dame.”

  “As you can see, I got them back from the beach,” said Simon. “And I heard from the mayor, so my wife has something to say to you.”

  She squared her shoulders, fixed her eyes at some point a little above Bruno’s head and said quickly, without drawing breath, “I want to apologize for writing you that e-mail. I was very upset and not myself. And now that I know you are doing everything you can to prevent Tristan from being sent to prison, I want to thank you.”

  She stopped, dropped her eyes to look him in the face and nodded. Then she nudged her son, who kept his eyes on the ground. She nudged him again, and in a strained voice Tristan said, “Thank you, Bruno, for giving me this chance. I’ll try not to let you down.”

  Mother and son then both turned to look challengingly at Simon, as if they had been given some grueling but unwelcome test and had managed, despite themselves, to pass it. Simon ignored them and stepped forward to hold out his hand. Bruno shook it.

  “Thanks, Bruno. That document will be in the procureur’s hands tomorrow morning.”

  He led his family back to his Mercedes, opening the passenger door for his wife. Bruno watched them leave, wondering what art of persuasion or force of character Simon had deployed for the apologies to be delivered. Or perhaps it was something the mayor might have said to Simon.

  “It’s a good job that family didn’t try coming in my café,” said Fauquet, coming out to clear away the coffee cups. “I wouldn’t have served them, not after what that boy did. I never liked his mother anyway, stuck-up old bitch. Thinks she’s the lady of the manor just because her old man manages a supermarket. It’s just a big shop, when all’s said and done.”

  “You’ve never liked him since he opened the bakery department in the supermarket and took some of your business away,” said Bruno.

  “You’d have to be pretty hard up to eat that frozen muck they reheat and sell as fresh bread, and don’t even get me started about those mass-produced things they call cakes.

  “They say it’s not even his son,” Fauquet went on. “Simon had just arrived in town as one of the undermanagers, and Amandine was working as a cashier. She’d been going out with a man from the butchery department who looked a lot like Tristan. He left town, and before you could turn around she was going out with Simon and married him a couple of months later. It was all before your time, Bruno. And then Simon was promoted to manager, and she started putting on airs. But some of us have long memories. Arnaud, his name was, Arnaud Messager. I wonder what happened to him?”

  Something clicked in Bruno’s mind. That phrase on the recording that had eluded him, the “Naud” who had bought something. It could have been Arnaud.

  He reached for his wallet to pay Fauquet, who looked at him in surprise and said, “Losing your head? You already paid me once.” Then he handed Bruno a large brown paper bag, big enough to hold a dozen baguettes. “Stale bread for your chickens,” he said. “No charge, just give me a few eggs if you get any extra this week.”

  “Thanks, Fauquet,” said Bruno. “Do you know of anyone else around here called Arnaud, apart from the guy you were just talking about?”

  “Nobody who’s still alive,” said Fauquet. “There was a man who used to sell cheese in the market before Stéphane, but he wasn’t from St. Denis. I think he was from Belvès. And there was Jérôme’s dad, who started the amusement park, but he’s been dead for over thirty years.”

  “Park,” thought Bruno. And “Rome,” that could be for “Jérôme.” And Grégoire had said the two old men wanted to visit the amusement park. Bruno slapped a fist into his other hand and turned to kiss an astonished Fauquet on both cheeks.

  “If I’m right, my friend, I’ll get you a lot more than half-a-dozen eggs. You might just have solved a murder case!”

  He used his key to get into the mairie, closed on Sundays, and went to his office to drop off the plastic bag. He then went into the registry to check the cadastre, the giant map that listed each house and property lot in the commune. He looked up the section that included the amusement park and then compared that with the tax records. He called the mayor and then Gilles.

  “I think we’re getting to the endgame for your story on the Bugatti,” he told Gilles. “Can you meet me at the amusement park just as soon as you can? Call Young and see if he wants to join you. I finally worked out what the old boys were saying on my phone.”

  “On my way,” Gilles replied, and with Balzac at his heels, Bruno walked over the bridge and turned right at the bank to go down the rue de la Paix toward the amusement park.

  26

  Bruno recognized Félix’s bike, chained to the cycle rack outside the entrance to the park. He pulled out his wallet to buy a ticket, handed over a ten-euro note and asked the cashier if Jérôme was available.

  “He’s in the back,” said the cashier, handing back a two-euro coin and calling for his boss. “But no dogs allowed.”

  “Bruno’s an exception,” said Jérôme, coming out to shake Bruno’s hand. “What can I do for you?”

  “You know your sale has fallen through?” Bruno began. “Sylvestre was found dead in his pool yesterday.”

  “I know, it was on the radio. Still, I get to keep the deposit, the notaire says, even if his heirs don’t want to conclude the sale. That will give me enough to go ahead with the expansion.”

  “Remember you told me about your father’s idea to expand the park with a museum of local life here in the nineteenth century? You said something about re-creating an old village and farm. How far did your dad get with the project?”

  “I was still a boy at the time, but I have the plans he drew up and, with just a few modifications, that’s what I’ll be using.”

  “Did he buy anything that he planned to use, like old school desks, blackboards, farm equipment?”

  “He bought a classroom full of those old double desks where two kids sat side by side. And he got some old farm gear, plows and reapers, all horse drawn, a threshing drum, stuff like that. He bought a job lot from some junkyard that was going out of business. If the mayor gives me the go-ahead I’ll look through it and see what can be salvaged.”

  “Where do you keep it?”

  “In the old barn just beyond the windmill. Nothing’s been moved since my dad put it there.”

  “Do you mind if I take a look around with my dog? I paid the entrance fee.”

  “You didn’t have to do that, Bruno. And sure, take your dog. It’s too late in the season for me to be busy.”

  “When the mayor turns up, tell him to look for me near the windmill.”

  Bruno strolled past the carousel and skirted around the line of parents and children waiting to buy barbe à papa, the tendrils of spun sugar on a stick that would turn their faces pink and ruin their teeth. He could hear the pop of air rifles at the shooting range and glanced across to see Grégoire taking aim, his wife at his side. Bruno could smell the aroma of frying sausages. He nodded and waved regretfully in return to a greeting and an invitation to join a group at the beer tent. Nobody was dancing on the stretch of bare ground, but three musicians were dutifully playing bal musette songs from the years before the war, or maybe even before the Great War.

  He strolled on, through the water garden with its copy of a Japanese bridge and the benches in discreet corners beneath the fronds of the willow
trees where courting couples could go after a successful navigation of the Tunnel of Love, or when the young lady had been suitably terrified by the Ghost Train.

  Ahead of him stood the windmill on its slight mound and beside it stood the two old men, looking across the fence to the old barn where Jérôme’s father had stored his junk. Bruno ducked back into the willows and knelt down to stroke Balzac into silence until he heard footsteps and a quiet, familiar voice saying his name. He beckoned the mayor to join him and put his finger to his lips.

  “Did you check the cadastre and the tax files?” Bruno whispered.

  “It’s definitely town land, and no taxes have been paid for more than thirty years. I wasn’t even mayor then. It must have been forgotten.”

  After a moment, a small figure emerged from the old barn and began running across the open ground toward the windmill. As he neared the fence, Bruno saw it was Félix and heard him call out, “Grandpa, I think we found it.” He waved a flashlight in one hand and a small notebook in the other and then ducked beneath the fence and hugged his grandfather.

  “I found the plate on the chassis and cleaned it. It’s Bugatti, serial number 57453SC,” Félix said. “But that’s all there is, the chassis, the engine and the axles.”

  Bruno pushed through the willow fronds, the mayor behind him, watching the stunned faces of the two old men and returning a cheerful greeting from Félix.

  “That’s all you need,” Bruno said. “That’s enough for it to count as a restoration. Only the transmission is missing, and we might even find it with the rest of the junk. Bonjour, messieurs, and my congratulations.”

  “On behalf of St. Denis, my friends, let me thank you for your efforts,” said the mayor. “But since this land and barn belong to the town, and we are claiming the contents in lieu of thirty years of unpaid rent and taxes, I’ll have to ask you not to trespass again, young man. This time, of course, we’ll let it go.”

  “Merde,” said Étienne and then looked over Bruno’s shoulder to where Gilles was pushing through the willows.

  “Success, sort of,” said Bruno. “What’s left of the Bugatti is in the barn over there. Shall we go and see? And don’t look too crestfallen, messieurs. St. Denis is a generous town, and I’m sure there’ll be some suitable finder’s fee for you to share.”

  They set off across the field, Bruno and Félix holding up the wire fence and helping the old men to get through before helping them across the uneven ground. The wooden doors of the barn were closed with a rusted chain and padlock that hadn’t seen a key for decades.

  “Come around here,” said Félix and led them to the far side of the barn where a plank had been pulled away and then clumsily replaced. He pushed the plank aside and squeezed inside.

  “I’ll never get through there, pull another plank away,” said the mayor and Bruno heaved the rotten wood aside.

  “Careful,” said Félix, shining the flashlight at Bruno’s feet, illuminating a tangled maze of rusted machinery, plows, desks and rotted wooden shafts of farm carts. “I had to pick my way through, and some of it’s still pretty sharp.”

  The mayor and the two old men stood at the gap, peering inside as Bruno and Gilles carefully picked their way through. Each of them pulled out his phone and started taking photos of the tangle and finally of the plate on the long chassis with that magic name BUGATTI.

  “Lost for seventy years,” said Gilles. “I never believed we could find it.” And at that point, two phones began to ring, one immediately after the other. The mayor pulled out his phone and Gilles followed suit.

  Bruno heard the mayor say, “Yveline, yes, we’ll need gendarmes right away,” while Gilles had a finger in one ear to cut the background noise and was loudly telling someone, probably George Young, where to find the barn.

  Bruno picked his way out to the open air, and his phone began to vibrate at his waist. He saw that Fabiola was calling him back and hit the button to accept the call.

  “I did as you asked, but it wasn’t easy, and I feel bad about it. I don’t even know if we’ll still be talking after this, so I hope it’s worth it,” she said, her voice colder than ice. “And the answer is no, not last night and not for the last three nights.” The phone cut off at her end.

  The mayor came up and suggested that Bruno try to break the padlock, saying, “It’s town property and I authorize you to open it.”

  “Shall we call in Delaron to take some photos?” Bruno asked. “We can tell him to hold the story until we have the car secured, and it would be good to have everything properly recorded.”

  The mayor nodded and pulled out his phone. Bruno sent Félix trotting back to ask Jérôme for a crowbar or a heavy screwdriver and invite him to join them.

  “But don’t tell him what you found,” he called after the boy’s disappearing back. Félix crossed another figure on the way, ducking though the fence and approaching them.

  “So you finally found it, here in this barn,” said Young, once he arrived. He shook hands with Gilles and Bruno and then looked curiously at the two old men. “Congratulations,” he added, his tone sounding forced. “Was it kept here all along?”

  “For about thirty years,” said Gilles. “It was the former owner of the amusement park who bought Bérégevoy’s junk and brought it here, planning to open some kind of old farm museum. He died before he could look through it, and the plan fell through. So here it all stayed.”

  “So in the end Sylvestre never knew where it was?” Young asked.

  “I think he did,” said Bruno. “He’d signed a contract with Jérôme, the current owner, to buy the whole park. Sylvestre assumed that would include this field and barn and all the contents. He was wrong. It belongs to the town. Jérôme’s father was apparently a good friend of a former mayor, who said he could use the barn for a nominal rent and taxes. They signed an agreement to that effect, which is still in the town files, but neither rent nor taxes were ever paid.”

  Félix returned with Jérôme, carrying a crowbar. The mayor explained everything all over again as Jérôme’s face first lit up with hope and excitement and then fell into gloom.

  “Cheer up, Jérôme,” the mayor went on. “I’m going to support your plan to enlarge the park and build the nineteenth-century village you told Bruno about. I think it will be a splendid addition to the town and bring in lots more tourists than your falling guillotine ever did. We’ll even let you have this land and the barn and almost all the contents, once we’ve removed the Bugatti.”

  The siren of a gendarme van could be heard coming closer, and then they saw it at the far side of the field, on an unpaved road that skirted a campground. The van stopped, disgorged four gendarmes, and then Yveline climbed down from the driver’s seat. They all ducked through the fence and headed toward the barn.

  “Good,” said the mayor. “They can help us move some of this junk so we can see the Bugatti properly, and then they can secure the barn. Bruno, break that padlock.”

  Bruno took the crowbar and levered free one of the clasps holding the chain, and Gilles helped him swing open the tall wooden doors, the rusted hinges groaning in protest after decades of disuse. With daylight streaming in, the contents of the barn seemed less of a jumble, even though the haze of ancient dust their entry had stirred up still hung in the stifling air. Most of the school desks were piled, quite neatly, by the entrance. Behind them were three antique farm carts.

  Bruno left the mayor to deal with the gendarmes, and he and Jérôme squeezed past the desks and clambered onto a cart. Reapers were stacked against the rear wall, and plows had been piled against the side of the barn through which Félix had first made his entry.

  “Is that an oil drum?” Bruno asked, pointing to a large cylindrical object that was resting on the Bugatti’s chassis.

  “No, it’s an old threshing drum,” Jérôme replied. “And I think that’s a twine baler beside it. They stopped using wire to hold the bales when they found animals swallowing little strips of it with the hay.�
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  Gilles and Young clambered up onto the next cart to look down in silence at the object of their search. Young moved gingerly forward, lowered himself down and picked his way to the chassis, bending down to examine the vital plate.

  “Five, seven, four, five, three followed by an S for Surbaissée, the lowered chassis, and a C for the supercharger,” he said very quietly, as though to himself. “The most beautiful car in the world.”

  A gendarme’s face appeared in the gap in the side of the barn, and Yveline was clambering up onto the third cart.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” said Bruno, and then turned to look down at Young, still kneeling in reverence beside the chassis.

  “While you’re down there, would you mind telling me where you were the night before last, Friday night?”

  Young looked up at him, startled. “What? Friday night, I was having dinner with Annette?”

  “And after dinner?”

  “None of your business.”

  “I’m afraid it is. This is important. Where were you from midnight until four in the morning?”

  “I was with Annette.”

  “That’s not true. You haven’t slept with her for the past three nights.”

  Young’s eyes flickered toward Yveline, and he swallowed. “It’s true that we weren’t together last night; we had a bit of a row over dinner.”

  “I’m not asking about last night. It’s the night before that interests me, the night Sylvestre was murdered.”

  “Murdered? The radio said he drowned in his pool.”

  “He did. You pushed him in when he was drunk, jumped in after him and drowned him, and then you woke Freddy, told him the police were already after him and they’d be sure to blame him for Sylvestre’s death.”

  Young gave a mocking laugh. “This is all a fantasy. You’re making it up.”