“In the end, the police decided Uncle didn’t kill this Vachon and his bodyguard,” Hélène said. “They didn’t say if they have someone else in mind, but they said Uncle is off the hook for the deaths. Thank goodness.”
Burke felt some small relief.
“Monsieur Richard said Uncle will probably have to spend six months in jail,” Hélène added, the words catching in her throat. “But they both said it could have been much worse. He could have received a much longer sentence, because the government wants to look strong when dealing with any acts that could be considered terrorism or industrial attacks. Besides, they will likely send Uncle to a place that won’t be too rough or dangerous. It will probably be a new facility in the suburbs of Lyon. It hasn’t been open too long. Thank God he won’t be going to one of those nineteenth century dungeons.”
That was good news. There had been recent stories in the media about the terrible quality of French prisons, with tales of rats, open wires, stifling air, backed-up toilets, horrible food and so on. If he was in a new facility, he might be OK.
“He has signed over the café to me, too,” she said in a quiet voice. “He knows he can’t take care of it, and he doesn’t want it affected by the court action. So, I’m the new owner of his café.”
Burke wasn’t sure she wanted to take over the café for the long term since she was starting to develop career plans involving interior design, but he knew she wouldn’t go against her uncle’s wishes. Maybe in six months or a year, Claude would take it over again.
“And you agreed?” Burke asked to make sure.
“Of course,” Hélène replied. “I’ll have to postpone school for a year or more, but I’m young. Besides, I don’t mind running the café. I might even change the menu a little.”
Her voice was lightening up, and she managed a chuckle. “That would drive Uncle crazy, but it seems a new dish or two might be a good idea.”
She said she would be spending her afternoon at the café trying to hire some additional staff to make up for Claude’s absence.
“Maybe you can come over before dinner for a pastis,” she suggested. “And for a hug. I need one. I want to feel your arms around me.”
“I’ll be there as requested, Hélène,” Burke said. “And by the way, I need a hug from you, too. If I don’t see you for a couple of days, I sort of miss you.”
There it was—his statement of affection.
There was a pause at the other end of the line.
And then Hélène spoke. “And I feel the same, chéri.”
They ended the conversation there. Hélène would be busy at the café, even before the dinner crowd showed, but even a few minutes with her would feel good.
Driving home, he turned his thoughts to that morning’s activities. Léon Petit was going down for the murders of McManus and Den Weent—and Claude wasn’t for the death of Yves Vachon.
And he had a new paying gig on TV.
Once again, he thought about how dramatically his life had changed in just three weeks and, given the morning’s events, would be changing still in the next few days. Then he’d be back to a quieter life.
“Or maybe not,” he told himself.
CLAUDE’S CAFÉ—NOW HÉLÈNE’S—was busy when Burke strolled down just after 7 p.m. Once again, he sensed most of the clientele came from nearby condo developments. They had discovered the quality of the café’s food and atmosphere, and were starting to make it their own. That was fine by Burke.
He found a quiet table in a corner of the terrace. He caught Hélène’s eye as she hustled by and got a wink in exchange. His server turned out to be a new addition to the staff—a tall, thin young man with a goatee.
“Hélène told me I had to look after you with special care,” he announced stiffly before breaking into a broad smile. “I’m Henri, one of her old friends from school. I just started here.”
Burke reached across and shook hands, then ordered a glass of rosé. Henri bowed slightly and hurried off.
He watched Hélène go from table to table, taking orders and working the clients with the same skill as her uncle. She might not want to do this type of work for long, but she was a natural.
Madame Marois was sitting a few tables away, as bolt upright as ever, with Plato dutifully stretched out by her feet. She was ordering something from Henri and waving a finger at him. He nodded a couple of times, did his bow again and beetled off. When he walked by Burke, he raised his eyebrows.
So Madame Marois was back to her old difficult self.
Burke sipped his wine and relaxed. He felt bad that Hélène was exceptionally busy while he clearly was the opposite, but she didn’t seem to mind, stopping once to give him a quick peck on the lips and a couple of times to offer a little extra wiggle as she went by on her way to another table.
When he caught Madame Marois’s eye, he nodded and smiled, lifting his glass in her direction. The old woman looked frostily back at him and tilted her head with the slightest of movements. Then she returned to gazing at her distant wall, lost in her thoughts and putting up her standard “don’t bother me” barrier.
Burke finished his wine and decided he’d have dinner at home. He paid his bill, left Henri an oversized tip that left the young man pleasantly surprised, and waved at Hélène. Then, on the spur of the moment, he walked over to Madame Marois.
“How are you this evening, Madame?” he asked.
She stared at him for an extra couple of seconds. “I’m well, young man,” she said with effort.
“The café is busy tonight,” Burke said, waving at the occupied tables.
“Yes, it is—and unfortunately noisy, too,” Madame replied. “Too many of these tourists don’t understand the elegance of a quiet drink and meal.”
“Yes, it seems a little noisier than usual,” Burke admitted, not bothered by the extra energy. “But it’s still a welcome escape. And Hélène will do a good job ensuring the café retains its quality.”
Madame’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Hélène has taken over the café from her uncle,” he said.
“Because he’s in trouble for the Vachon affair?”
“In a way,” Burke said. “But he’s not guilty of the hit-and-run deaths, according to the police.”
“He isn’t?” Madame said. “The newspapers and TV certainly seemed to suggest he was the one who did it.”
“You’ll get the latest story tomorrow or maybe on the TV news late tonight, but he’s off the hook,” Burke informed her.
“Have they got someone else for the hit-and-run?” Madame asked.
“I don’t know,” Burke told her. “I don’t think so, but they don’t inform me.”
Madame paused. “Well, that’s good for Claude. But why is his niece taking over the café?”
Burke told her it was Claude’s wish, then excused himself before he revealed any other news that wasn’t his to tell. When he glanced over his shoulder on the way out, he noticed Plato was standing and Madame was patting his head and saying something to the dog.
Burke wasn’t back in his apartment for more than a few minutes when he received a phone call from Olivier Richard asking if he could meet with Claude the following morning at the police jail cells. Since it was evening and he didn’t think lawyers made late calls unless it was crucial, Burke wondered if there was an emergency, but the lawyer dispelled that notion, saying Claude just wanted to discuss a couple of personal matters in the morning with Burke and no one else—an obvious reference to Hélène. Burke agreed. Olivier added that he’d be there for some of the conversation, and then he rang off, leaving Burke to ponder what Claude wanted to talk about.
A little while later, Burke turned on the evening news.
Sure enough, the announcer told the audience that the charges of vehicular manslaughter and hit-and-run against Claude had been dropped, but that the café owner faced other charges involving conspiracy to damage private property.
The announc
er added that two others were also charged in connection to plans made to stop the new FP Developments project in the area.
The investigation into Vachon’s death was continuing, the announcer reported, and then there was a clip of—who else?—Jean-Pierre Fortin talking about how the Nice police and “other forces” remained optimistic about getting a result.
After the news, hoping that Hélène might drop over after closing the café, Burke found himself drifting off.
THE NEXT DAY, BURKE met Olivier Richard at their designated time of 10 a.m. at the front of the Nice police station.
“What’s this about, Monsieur Richard?” Burke asked.
“I believe he wants to get his affairs in order before he leaves us for a while,” the lawyer replied diplomatically.
Burke followed the lawyer into the station and to a special side desk. There, Richard spoke quietly with a uniformed officer, who then led the two of them to a back room. There, under the watchful eyes of two guards, they sat and waited for Claude to show up.
When he entered the room fifteen minutes later, Burke was shocked at the change in his friend. He had lost at least ten pounds in just a few days and, for the first time since Burke had known him, looked somewhat trim.
He also looked exhausted as he dropped into the metal chair opposite them.
Claude must have noticed the look of surprise on Burke’s face, because he said with an expansive smile, “What do you think of my new physique? Pretty soon, I’ll be able to ride in the mountains with you—except for this minor inconvenience involving jail.”
Then he leaned forward to Burke.
“The problem is the food here,” Claude said in a theatrical whisper. “They have no sense of cuisine. I mean, the things they do to potatoes should be banned by law. As for the pieces of meat, I truly do not want to know their origins. Ghastly!”
Burke smiled back. Claude’s eyes, though tired, still had their usual playful spark. He was in trouble, but he was keeping his spirits up. Or he was doing a good job pretending he was.
Burke glanced at Richard, but the lawyer’s face showed no emotion.
“I’m hoping you can do me a favor, Paul,” Claude said, growing serious.
“If I can, Claude,” Burke replied.
“I know you’re seeing my niece, and I know you have learned she’s taking over my café while I’m away,” Claude said.
Burke nodded.
“Hélène is a strong young woman, and I’m confident she will handle the responsibility of running the café—although I’m concerned she’ll worry too much about making sure everything is operating just right. Mostly, though, I’m concerned she’ll worry a great deal about her old Uncle Claude. We’re close, much closer than a normal uncle and niece. More like a father and daughter.”
Burke nodded. He had seen the strength of their relationship.
“I think it’s possible she will try to do too much for me,” Claude continued. “And I think she might crack under the pressure—if she doesn’t get some support. That’s where you come in, my friend. I can see you care for her in a way that’s more than just a brief encounter, and so I want to ask you to support her as much as you can.”
These were deep waters. But he couldn’t disagree with what Claude was saying; he did care for Hélène.
“Will you be there for her—and for me? I know you and I have a history that isn’t long, but we understand each other, I think, and that’s why I’m asking you this favor.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Burke said.
“But here’s the tough part,” Claude said. “I don’t want her to visit me in prison. Not once. It would be very difficult on her, but it would be harder on me. I need to be strong, and if I see her, I’ll weaken. So, please, do what you need to do to keep her away from Lyon.”
Burke could see Hélène objecting to that idea. In fact, he assumed there was no way on earth she would be kept from visiting her uncle.
“Maybe you need to talk to her about that,” Burke said.
“I will, but I know my niece,” Claude said, nodding. “She’ll argue with me at the start, and then she’ll agree, but then, later, she’ll change her mind. Please, Paul, do whatever you can to keep her from Lyon.”
“I’ll do whatever I can,” Burke said. He paused. “What about other visitors? Like me?”
Claude shrugged. “That’s different,” he said, smiling. “It would be good to see a friendly face. I might even have some requests for you from time to time.”
Burke didn’t know what Claude meant by “requests,” but he agreed.
“What about other friends? Do you want them to visit, too?” Burke asked.
“Ah, my other friends,” Claude said. “I’ll see some of them. They’re good men. They’ll know when to come and when to stay away.”
“Maybe you’ll have access to a computer,” Burke suggested.
Olivier Richard jumped in, saying the conditions of Claude’s soon-to-be sentence would preclude him from using a computer in the prison library.
“That’s because of Claude’s use of a computer in the commission of a crime,” Richard explained.
They chatted for a few minutes, and then Claude ended the conversation.
“Make sure you don’t get too thin, Claude,” Burke said, standing. “Maybe the prison will let you work in the kitchen and make some decent food.”
That made Claude smile and shrug. “Maybe,” he said and then waved goodbye.
Outside on the street, Burke asked Richard when Claude would be appearing in court for his sentence.
“The end of this week,” the lawyer said. “They want to get Claude’s case out of the way as soon as possible. They know that the media will be back asking about Vachon’s killer. There are a lot of politics involved in this case.”
Burke nodded.
“In fact, I believe the police are now looking for a specific type of vehicle—a large, black automobile,” Richard said.
“A lot of cars fall into that category,” Burke said.
Richard nodded. “I think they have more information, but they aren’t willing to give it to the lawyer of a man previously accused of Vachon’s death. They just provided me with some basic information when they changed the charges against Claude.”
“Was it Inspector Fortin?”
“It was,” Richard replied. “He’s in demand after solving the McManus-Den Weent case. He’s been appointed to lead the Vachon investigation and put some movement into it. He’s in total charge of the case for the investigating judge, and that’s not likely a good thing for the true perpetrator. I know Fortin. He’s not a likable man, but he’s a very clever one. I’ve seen him in action a number of times, and he has the ability to make connections that lesser minds can’t.”
“But he seemed so anxious to lock Claude up,” Burke said.
“His superiors needed some kind of result to silence the media’s criticism and that of the government. The bosses ordered Claude to be served up, temporarily at least, as a solution. When it became clear to Fortin that Claude wasn’t the one who killed Vachon, the charges were changed.”
“So Fortin never really believed Claude did it?”
“I don’t think so,” Richard said. “I think he was just going along with his superiors. Along the way, he learned about Claude’s emails and texts.”
Burke nodded.
“But I expect he’ll have to produce a good result this time,” Richard said. “The pressure from the media and government will be back on very quickly, and they’ll be skeptical about the next individual charged with the murders of Vachon and his bodyguard, so Fortin better get it right.”
That made sense to Burke.
“Maybe Fortin will consult you on the Vachon case, too,” Richard said.
“What do you mean?” Burke asked.
“A variety of sources, including a TV program two days ago, have suggested you produced some information that led to the arrest of that bike mechanic.”
&nb
sp; “Just coincidence,” Burke said.
“Yes, well, my sense is you don’t miss much, Monsieur Burke,” Richard said. “I’ll be in touch if you’re needed for Claude’s court appearance. In the meantime, good luck with trying to tell Hélène she shouldn’t visit her uncle when he’s away.”
“I think I’ll need it,” Burke said.
“I guarantee you’ll need it,” Richard said and then left.
AFTER THE MEETING, BURKE needed to digest what he had heard from Claude and Olivier Richard. Not wishing to return home, he drove near the Promenade des Anglais, parked and found a bench overlooking the turquoise water and the rocky beach below. He sat, letting the gentle sea breeze caress him. He closed his eyes.
So, Claude had misled him—and Hélène—about the depth of his anti-FP Developments activities. He had been foolish, even reckless, but Claude believed in a cause and had tried to help people.
And now Hélène was facing a different future, one that involved him in a fairly serious way.
He smiled at that idea.
But who was responsible for the hit-and-run against Vachon and his bodyguard? Fortin was a smart guy, but Burke felt he might need some luck, too. So far, the police hadn’t discovered the culprit despite most of their resources being committed to the case.
He sensed that Olivier Richard’s comments about the police getting closer reflected wishful thinking by the flics.
As for the large black car, there were thousands of them in the region. Obviously, no videocam showed the vehicle’s license plate or the features of the driver or any passenger. If it had, there’d have been an arrest, which would have been trumpeted to the media.
His mind drifted to Léon Petit. Something was niggling at Burke. Something that made him wonder about Petit murdering both McManus and Den Weent.
He put aside those thoughts and watched the ferry from Corsica coming into port. It was a massive vessel, but it moved with ease and speed.
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