“You can pick somewhere discreet, if you’re worried about word getting back to your Englishwoman that I’m in town,” she had said, in a half-mocking, half-teasing tone.
Given the speed at which local gossip moved around St. Denis, Pamela probably already knew. He’d called her earlier from the Corrèze to explain that he wouldn’t be able to exercise the horses that evening but that he’d join her at seven the next day for the morning ride.
For once, Isabelle had ditched her usual black and was wearing a starched white shirt that showed off her cruise-ship tan, over a pleated skirt that flared enticingly as she turned to wave at him after climbing out of her rented car. He told her he admired the way it looked on her. Smiling happily, she told him it had been made by Fortuny, and she’d found it at a vintage clothing shop in Paris.
“I’ll take the coquilles St. Jacques and then the blanquette de veau,” she said to Bruno, after looking appreciatively at the large blackboard with the day’s menu that had been placed by their table. “I’d like a bottle of Perrier, and I’ll leave the wine selection to you. And then tell me all about what happened today and explain why you didn’t bring our puppy along.”
“Balzac still has some manners to learn before I’d dare let him loose on a restaurant,” he replied while trying to choose between the veal and the chicken. Finally he ordered the same dishes that Isabelle had chosen, along with a glass each of the restaurant’s Bergerac Sec to go with the scallops and a half bottle of la Jaubertie’s Cuvée Mirabelle to go with the veal. Then he told her how the day had unfolded from the moment Brian Fullerton had mentioned his brother’s farmhouse.
“I’m worried about the missing guns,” he said over the cheese course. “From the brother, it’s clear that Francis was in the habit of using them, so it’s a reasonable guess that Paul had learned to fire them. He’s on the run with his sister, fleeing in a hurry from the place they thought was a refuge, and he’s armed and dangerous. I don’t envy the traffic cops who flag him down or whoever has to go in once he’s cornered.”
“They’ll use the Jaunes,” Isabelle said, referring to the Gendarmes Mobiles, their elite unit. “Nobody would shed many tears if Murcoing gets killed, but there’ll be trouble if his sister gets shot as well. But that’s somebody else’s problem. Today, you did well. It’s obvious that Murcoing is the murderer, and Crimson gets his stuff back, and so will some other victims as well. I imagine the local insurance agents will be giving you a very special dinner.”
Bruno was about to say that it could not be nearly as special as this evening when he remembered the sharp way she had said, “Those days are over,” when he’d made some quip about her wearing his shirt as a dressing gown. And now she was off to some European job in Holland. There would be no more special missions for the brigadier that sometimes brought her down to St. Denis. Perhaps this was to be their last supper together. A part of him would always be in love with her vivacity and her fire.
“Bruno, I wanted to warn you there’s a buzz around the ministry that there’s to be some kind of preelection surprise. People are nervous. And St. Denis seems to be caught up in it,” she said, startling him. “Maybe you are too. I’m not sure exactly what this political intrigue might be, but the brigadier told me to ask you about Americans, and when he did I noticed your army file was open on his desk. I think that was why he was so quick to seize on Crimson’s burglary.”
“I don’t understand. Crimson’s an Englishman.” One part of his brain was thinking that this had to be about Jacqueline’s book and therefore implicated the mayor, while another was thinking that for once this was something he could not discuss with Isabelle. Her interest would be to protect the state; his would be to protect the mayor.
“English, Americans, two sides of the same coin,” she said, waving his comment aside. “You know these old Gaullists; it’s always been an article of faith that there’s no difference between les Anglo-Saxons. And in intelligence, at least, they’re probably right; the English tell the Americans everything. Just remember that as far as the brigadier is concerned, you have no secrets. He’ll even know we’re together this evening.”
“Did you tell him we were having dinner?”
“No, but you remember in Bordeaux, after your phone was tapped and he gave you one of our secure ones? He can call up a screen that shows him where all of those phones are at any given time. And before you ask, yes, that means he knows when we’ve spent the night together.”
Bruno felt himself blushing. “Is this rumor about an election surprise just in your ministry?”
She gave a wry smile. “You know Paris.” She said it as if she’d been born and bred in the capital, when in fact she’d been based there less than a year and had spent much of that time in hospitals.
“Remember Gilles from Paris Match, the reporter I knew in Bosnia?” Bruno asked. “He’s coming down here along with some British journalists. He said it was because of Crimson, but I wonder.”
“Crimson is a good news story. Burglary solved, goods recovered, brilliant police work.”
“I don’t think that’s it. This is election time, political season.”
She nodded thoughtfully and took a sip of wine. “It’s strange that we never talked politics, you and I, nor was there much of it when I was based in Périgueux. In Paris, after other people’s love lives it’s the main topic of conversation. I presume you lean to the right like most flics.”
Bruno raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think I lean in any direction, and I suspect the old tradition of lifelong loyalty to a single party is fading pretty fast. Take you, for example; I’d say you were progressive on social matters like abortion and gay rights, but conservative on law and order and maybe on defense.”
“That sounds like you too,” she said, smiling.
“I don’t pay that much attention to national politics. Locally, I vote for the man or woman I like.” Bruno recalled his last trip to the voting booth for the municipal election. He’d voted for the mayor, who was center-right, and for the kindly retired schoolteacher who’d chaired the local Socialist Party for two decades. He’d also cast his ballot for Alphonse, an old hippie who was a passionate Green, and for Montsouris, the only Communist on the council. In the last national election, he’d voted one way for the presidency, and in the elections for the Assemblée Nationale he’d voted for the other side.
“But you’re anti-European,” she said. “You’re a French nationalist, a real cocorico. And I’ve heard you moan about those bureaucrats in Brussels often enough.”
“Absolutely not. I love France, but I’m a passionate pro-European. It’s just some stuff that comes out of Brussels that irritates the hell out of me.”
Bruno relished the way that other Europeans like Pamela, from Scotland, and his German friend Horst, the archaeologist, could live and work in France or anywhere in Europe they chose. He liked the principle of a single currency and travel without passports. But he was angry that rules made in Brussels were squeezing to death the small farmers around St. Denis.
“So who are you going to vote for?” she asked. “The devil we know or the devil we don’t?”
“I don’t know yet. None of them really impresses me, but maybe it’s time for a change. That’s the best thing about democracy, the feeling that you can throw the rascals out.”
He signaled for the check, but the waiter pointed to Isabelle and shrugged. She’d paid when he went to wash his hands.
“Don’t worry, you’re going on my expense account,” she said. “You got Crimson’s stuff back.”
“Thank you,” he said, studying her and wondering whether to say what was on his mind. He decided to go ahead. “For a while, I thought you’d invited me to dinner to say a formal adieu.”
She looked at him in silence, almost sternly, took a deep breath as if about to say something important and then stopped herself. She picked up her bag from the floor beside her, rose and turned to take his arm. She flashed him a brilliant smile,
gave the skin of his forearm a gentle nip and said, “I thought I already did.”
“Several times,” he replied. “That’s the problem. I never know if you mean it.”
The kitchen and living room lights were still on, and Valentoux’s car was parked in the driveway when Bruno got home. He must have heard the Land Rover, because as Bruno emerged he was standing in the doorway, a bottle in his hand, to welcome Bruno’s return.
“This is for you, to say thanks,” he said, handing Bruno a bottle of Lagavulin and leading the way into the living room, where two glasses were waiting alongside a jug of water. “Annette tells me it’s your favorite scotch, and I’m celebrating. I’ll be moving into her place in Sarlat tomorrow, if that suits you.”
Bruno thanked him, put the bottle into his cupboard and brought out the bottle of Lagavulin he already had opened. He poured out two glasses and splashed a little water into each one. He noted with approval that there were no ice cubes.
“Annette told me how you drink it, no ice, just a touch of water.”
“Dougal, a Scottish friend, showed me how the Scots drink it,” Bruno replied. “I’m glad you’re settled, and I’ve also got some reassuring news. It looks like you’re in the clear and that it was Murcoing who killed your friend.”
“I’m not surprised. I found out more about him from someone I’ve known for years, someone who’s based in Bordeaux. He seems to be a mercenary youth who makes a habit of living off older men. Apparently he speaks good English.”
Bruno was about to say that Francis Fullerton would fit that pattern, but thought better of it and instead sipped his drink. He liked Valentoux and did not want to offend him, but he wanted to know more about Fullerton’s other affair. How far should he allow for some jealousy on Yves’s part?
Valentoux noticed Bruno’s hesitation and smiled. “You’re very polite. I knew Francis was never faithful to me, and I accepted that. I fell in love with him, and I was very attracted to him. He was a wonderfully handsome man, full of energy and joie de vivre. There were times I thought I’d found the love of my life; times when we both thought that. But I think I always knew or perhaps feared that he was a bit of a rogue, not someone to rely on.”
A parallel with Isabelle came into Bruno’s mind. He’d trust her with his life, but he wasn’t sure that he could rely on her, not if it came to a choice between her career and her heart. He dragged himself back to the conversation with Yves.
“When you say Murcoing was mercenary, you mean he went with older men for money?”
Valentoux shrugged. “Perhaps, I don’t know. But I’d imagine it was mainly for presents, expensive clothes and trips, always at the best hotels, perhaps the occasional painting. I can’t see Francis being involved with someone quite so crude as to demand cash.”
Valentoux took a notebook from an inside pocket and handed Bruno a small color photograph. It showed a dark-haired little girl in a light blue dress sitting on the lap of a strikingly pretty woman. The picture had been taken in a garden, in front of an ivy-covered wall; an older woman stood beside them.
“You may be surprised but that’s Odile, my daughter, and those are her parents, Francine and Hélène, an actress and a set designer whom I’ve known for years. They initially wanted to adopt, but when that proved difficult, they asked me to help and I fathered the child with Francine. Odile calls me Tonton, Uncle Yves.”
“Congratulations,” said Bruno, his eyes lingering on the little girl, looking for a resemblance. “I think she has your eyes.”
“I have a whole photo album: her birth, her birthdays, going on vacation together at the beach in Normandy. Here’s one of Francis with Odile, in my apartment in Paris. He thought she was marvelous, and I think he fell in love a little with Francine and Hélène, just as I had.”
“She’s lovely. How old is she?”
“She was four when that was taken, last summer, in my garden. Francine and Hélène are very kind; they make a lot of room for me to share in their joy. Perhaps they may have had some room for Francis as well. I know Francis hoped that might happen. That was something he wanted to talk about on this vacation we had planned. He was beguiled by his fantasy of giving Odile a little sibling.”
“She’s a lovely child. You’re a lucky man,” said Bruno, and meant it. He pushed the photo back across the table, poured two more drinks and asked, “Did you know that Francis had another house not far away, in the Corrèze? That’s where I was this afternoon.”
“I knew he had a place somewhere in the south, but he made it sound more like Languedoc or Provence. I had no idea it was so close.”
Bruno described his meeting with Francis’s brother, the trip to the farmhouse and the loot he had found there. He didn’t mention the guns or the shrine, but he spoke of Francis’s interest in his grandfather’s wartime exploits and his obsession with the Neuvic train.
“On the evening we met he talked to me about his grandfather—Sergeant Freddy, he called him—and his work with the Resistance. I thought he might have been inventing it, a convenient line to attract a Frenchman. He sometimes talked about this mythical train with its billions of francs. I’d never heard of it, and I’d thought it might be another of his fanciful stories. He had quite a few, about his wild times in Los Angeles and New York in those halcyon days before the plague came, before AIDS.”
“Did you know he was HIV positive?”
“Yes, he was honest about that from the beginning, and absolutely assiduous about safe sex. That’s why I was reluctant…” Yves checked himself. “Francis was interested in the American moves to legalize gay marriage. I think it was as much the hope of sharing a child with Francine and Hélène or fathering another one as any great urge to settle down with me. For my part, I was worried about the HIV being passed on.”
Yves drew his hand over his eyes. “How silly that all seems now that I’ll never see him again.”
Seeing his wistful expression, Bruno chided himself for being too intrusive. He finished his drink and rose to his feet.
“I’ll be up early again tomorrow to exercise the horses, so I may not see you before your move to Sarlat. We’ve got each other’s numbers, and I’m sure our paths will cross. Just toss the sheets and towels in the washing machine before you leave.”
“One last thing before you go,” said Yves. “I don’t know if it could help, but when I first mentioned to Francis that I’d be directing in Sarlat this summer, he said he knew the area. Apparently he’d been renting a place somewhere around here, near Les Eyzies, ten years or more ago. He’d taken the place with some friends and met a young French boy. There had been some trouble with local people—I’m not sure whether it was a fight or just the usual gay bashing—and they’d all left in a hurry.”
Bruno felt a little shock of recognition and a renewed sense of his failure in an unresolved case whose memory could still occasionally trouble his nights. “Did he tell you the name of the French boy?”
“No, never. But when we were at his place in London one evening he showed me some poems he had written. They were very intense, not to my taste. But there was one about listening to a lover speaking French.”
15
On his early morning drive to Pamela’s house, Bruno was considering how to refer to his evening with Isabelle. As they saddled the horses, he said casually that he’d been summoned to “a working dinner with your favorite policewoman from Paris.” To his relief, Pamela did not react. She was much more interested in his news that Crimson was expected to return to St. Denis that day, that his belongings had been found and that the local burglaries would now cease.
“That poor man, coming home to a ransacked house,” she said. “Tell him to join us for dinner, Bruno.”
After an invigorating ride and a refreshing shower, Bruno led Balzac on a leash through the temptations of the Saturday morning market. The young basset hound sniffed and then gulped down the scraps of pâté and crusts of brioche, the offcuts of great hams and rinds of cheese tha
t kindly stallholders tossed in his path. Finally Bruno thought, Enough. He scooped up his puppy to carry him past these well-meant offerings and fastened his leash to the leg of the chair opposite the one where Gilles was sitting on the terrace of the café. His laptop was open before him, and all the day’s newspapers were piled alongside it. They shook hands. As Bruno turned to wave for Mirabelle, a schoolgirl who earned pocket money as a waitress on Saturday mornings, Gilles began feeding Balzac chunks of his own croissant.
“You’ll make him fat,” Bruno said as he shook hands. “I’m going to have to stop bringing this dog to market. What’s the news from Paris?”
“Not much, which is why I’m down here hoping for some more,” said Gilles. “Is this guy Crimson arriving today?”
“So I’m told, and we’ve found his stuff. The Police Nationale will be putting out a press release later today saying that all of Crimson’s belongings have been recovered. If you’re still running news on your website, you can have the scoop. You’ll even beat Sud Ouest. We found the stolen goods in a Corrèze barn belonging to the murdered English antiques dealer.”
“When you say ‘We,’ does that mean you were present?”
“Yes, but don’t say that. Let J-J take the credit.” A coffee and croissant appeared in front of Bruno and he nodded his thanks to Mirabelle, one of Florence’s favorite pupils.
“Let me tweet this first, and then you can give me some more detail for the website.”
Twenty minutes and another coffee later, Bruno had made his rounds of the market. He climbed the steps to the upper square and gazed down on St. Denis and its people. Farmers’ wives with shopping bags were coming out of the bank, and teenage girls in market-day finery were giggling together by the bridge and deliberately not looking at the boys. Everything was normal, and all was calm, except that there was an armed killer on the loose.
The Resistance Man Page 13