A Vintage End

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  Had Lemaire compromised that?

  Or had Burke’s blog about the lacklustre police investigation, which was really Lemaire’s wording, created the issue?

  The salt cod purée showed up.

  Burke wasn’t hungry anymore.

  He picked at his appetizer now and then, barely noticing when it went cold. His attention was on the threatening email and on his conversation with Côté and Sauvageot. He also drifted back to his ride up the Ventoux and his hearing those curse words in Québec French.

  Burke couldn’t grasp any connections. And then he told himself he shouldn’t be trying. He needed to give up all this detective stuff and concentrate on producing better written blogs and definitely better video blogs. His columns needed to improve, too.

  It was time to forget Yablonski and dead cyclists and scary emails.

  It was time to get back to a regular life.

  “Ah, Paul, I might have known I’d find you with a pastis on the table,” came a familiar voice.

  Burke looked up.

  André Rousseau was standing by the table, grinning, and Burke felt instantly better. Burke stood and the two men exchanged a hug and cheek kisses.

  Rousseau sat down and the server quickly appeared.

  “A bottle of rosé, Paul?” Rousseau said. “It’s the perfect time and you look like you need it.”

  Burke agreed and the server left with their order.

  “A moment ago, you looked like you were far away, my friend,” Rousseau said. “What has been happening?”

  Burke paused for a moment, considering how much to tell. If he was in any kind of danger, he definitely didn’t want to involve Rousseau. But he also knew his friend could handle himself and, besides, was aware of the behind-the-scenes events dealing with the vintage races.

  So, Burke told Rousseau about the threatening email, his different conversations with the flics, the status of the deaths in Arles – and the near-accident scene on the Ventoux.

  “You’ve been busy, Paul,” Rousseau said.

  “I just wanted to write simple blogs, André, but look at what’s happening,” Burke said.

  “Well, you’re a different man and one of the changes is that you’re someone who needs to know the truth,” Rousseau said. “I don’t think you do it to improve your readership or anything like that. It’s like you’re addicted to knowing what happened.”

  Burke shrugged. There was truth in his friend’s observations.

  “Two years ago, you were someone different,” Rousseau said. “You were a good man but, if you will allow me, you were also lazy and without goals. I don’t know where you were heading, but I expect it wasn’t going to be anyplace satisfying. When you got involved in those deaths connected to the Tour, you changed. You’re a different person, plain and simple.”

  Burke nodded.

  “So, what do you expect might happen in this Vaison race?” Rousseau said.

  “I have no idea,” Burke replied. “But I’m sure it will be something. And since this is the last race, I think it will be bigger and nastier.”

  “I think so, too,” Rousseau said.

  “I’m glad you’re here, André,” Burke said.

  “I am, too, my friend,” Rousseau said. “Maybe together we can figure out what has been going on.”

  The wine came and they moved the conversation away from the vintage races and Bosco Yablonski. When it finally came time to order, Burke opted for a curry chicken pizza while Rousseau selected a huge bowl of fish and vegetable soup with lime, ginger and cilantro.

  As they chatted, the café staff placed portable heaters in a half dozen areas to keep diners on the terrace warm. As for the square, it was busy with a couple of hundred people. There were elderly couples walking hand in hand, teenagers chatting loudly, youngsters playing a variety of games and young couples strolling with baby carriages. It was classic small-town France, thought Burke.

  When the food came, Burke and Rousseau gawked at the stunning presentation of the meals. Their dishes were simple in nature, but they looked gorgeous, especially Burke’s curry chicken pizza which looked like it had been arranged as a work of art with a half dozen colourful vegetables surrounding bits of yellowed chicken. Once again, Burke understood how the French put as much emphasis on the presentation of the food as they did on the taste.

  As they ate, Burke couldn’t help hearing conversations from neighbours on the terrace, from passersby and even from folks in the park. Several focused on the upcoming vintage bike race. More than once, Burke heard Yablonski’s name mentioned. And he heard talk about the strong police presence in the town.

  “It seems Saturday’s race is the topic du jour,” Rousseau said.

  Burke’s cellphone buzzed to tell him he had two new texts.

  A quick glance indicated both were from Antoine Pastore.

  “Did you see the social media post about the Vaison race? It promises trouble for anyone who rides,” Antoine’s first text said.

  In his second text, Antoine provided a photo of the threatening post, adding the post had subsequently disappeared.

  Burke opened the photo, expanded it and read the actual wording: “If you ride in the 4th vintage race, you are supporting Yabolinski. Dangerous.”

  He showed the phone to Rousseau who whistled in response.

  Burke punched in Antoine’s phone number at work, but there was no answer. Then he tried Antoine’s personal cell number. This time, his friend answered.

  “I take it you saw my texts,” Antoine said.

  “I did and I’m wondering if that social media post hit the news,” Burke said. “I haven’t been around a television or radio or computer for several hours.”

  “No, at least not yet,” Antoine said. “I expect most news outlets have seen it, but aren’t going to use it. It’s a matter of not giving the sender exactly what he wants – in this case, creating fear among the public. I know François and his editors talked about it and decided to wait.”

  “I expect it was an interesting discussion,” Burke said.

  “Journalistic responsibility versus the public’s right to know. Lots of room for debate there,” Antoine said.

  “Was the post up for long?” Burke asked.

  “A few minutes at most,” Antoine said. “These days, I keep one of my computer monitors fixed on social media so I’m always monitoring what’s going on. I saw it, took a screenshot and then it disappeared. Whoever is putting up those posts knows how to work the system to avoid getting caught.”

  Burke decided to change topics.

  “Any more ideas about finding out about that group of graduate students we discussed before?” Burke asked.

  Antoine started to discuss the difficulties involved when Burke heard someone say “calice” which meant “chalice”, considered a mild curse in Québec. It was definitely not a word used in the same way in France. It was the second time he had heard someone using Québec French to curse.

  While Antoine continued talking, Burke looked around to identify who had uttered the oath, but there were dozens of pedestrians in the area and it was impossible to pinpoint the speaker. He stood, but that didn’t help. He wondered if the speaker was the cyclist on the Ventoux – in a way, the two voices sounded slightly similar – but he knew he wouldn’t be able to recognize him with any certainty because the cyclist on the mountain had worn a helmet and sunglasses, making his facial features virtually impossible to detect or remember.

  By the time Burke returned his attention to the phone, Antoine had stopped talking.

  “Antoine?”

  “What’s happening? Did you go somewhere else? Or were you just thinking?”

  “Sorry, Antoine, I was just distracted,” Burke said, slumping back into his chair. “Would you repeat that last bit again, please.”

  “I just said there’s no way to get the identities of a group doing a graduate project,” Antoine said.

  “That’s what I figured,” Burke said.

  Th
en he had a sudden thought.

  “Paul, have you left again?” Antoine said.

  “No, I’m still here,” Burke said. “I have an idea. It might not work, but it’s worth trying.”

  He explained it quickly to Antoine in a few sentences. And then he waited for a response.

  “You know, Paul, it might just work,” Antoine said. “It’s still a long shot, but it’s better than anything else we’ve considered.”

  “I’m glad you said that,” Burke said. “I’m going to get right on it.”

  “Paul, you’re like a terrier with a bone – you never let go. You have this Yablonski affair on the brain and you won’t put it aside.”

  Burke knew Antoine was right. He had tried to give up on everything surrounding Yablonski, but he couldn’t.

  He ended the call with Antoine.

  “So, have you developed a strategy for us?” Rousseau said, smiling.

  “I have,” Burke said. “But I just don’t know if it’ll provide any results.”

  “We won’t know until we try it,” Rousseau said. “So, we need to get to work – once we finish our meals, of course.”

  “Agreed,” Burke said, smiling back at his friend and thinking that, for the French, it would always be food before work or even romance.

  Chapter 55

  Back at the gîte, Burke told his friend his plan. Rousseau agreed and said it might work – with some luck.

  While Rousseau retreated to a book since Burke’s strategy was essentially a one-person plan, Burke tackled his first step: If he could, he needed to identify the Canadian assigned to No. 22 for the Vaison race.

  Grabbing his shoulder bag, Burke pulled out the sheets with the results from the first three races. He started on the Saint-Raphaël event, looking for those who had completed the course and had worn numbers under 50, figuring that if the Canadian was one of the anti-Yablonski group, he would have registered early.

  But there was no Canadian, or Québecois, finisher wearing any such number.

  Then he remembered that the skeleton setup had probably required four people which meant some, or likely all of them, hadn’t finished. So, the Canadian’s name wouldn’t show up on the published list of finishers.

  He studied the Nice results the same way and found a Canadian named Christophe Talbot who had finished the race and had worn No. 25.

  He checked the Arles race. Talbot finished there as well and had worn No. 23, the number likely dropping as the very first entrants opted not to do another event.

  Burke cranked up his laptop, went online and did a search for a Canadian student named Christophe Talbot.

  No results, but Burke hadn’t really expected to find any. It was just about eliminating options.

  Burke decided to pursue his second task. He opened a Word document and typed feverishly, explaining to a group of academics who he was and why he could use their help in diversifying his work for various media outlets. He read it and then re-wrote it to try to make it more persuasive. Still not satisfied after another check, he revised it again.

  The idea, he knew, was hardly genius, but it wasn’t bad. His email request said he was a blogger with a following and he was looking to expand his efforts. The message was for the heads of the history departments at the universities he had identified as being within that 250-kilometre radius of the missing skeletons. He said he wanted to include French historic moments in his work and to involve grad students in those efforts. He told them he was starting with a piece about Oradour-sur-Glane and hoping there were some students who were specializing in that terrible event. If so, he would love to be able to contact them. Maybe the history departments could help, said Burke, adding he would give credit to whoever helped.

  To ensure there was some urgency to the note, Burke said he hoped to hear soon, ideally within the next two days, because he had an upcoming series of deadlines that couldn’t be changed. He hoped the professors would provide names and contact information as soon as possible.

  It seemed good enough, but, to be sure, he asked Rousseau to read it.

  “It’s fairly convincing,” Rousseau said.

  Burke spent the next 20 minutes digging online for the names of academics he thought could help and their emails. When he had them, he re-read his copy one last time. Then he went into his email software, pasted the text and typed in one of the names and addresses.

  Burke questioned whether it was too late to send; maybe it would look strange that it was going out well into the evening.

  On the other hand, Burke thought it might sound like he needed a quick response.

  He decided to send it.

  And then, to one recipient after another, he emailed his request, doing so separately as to avoid anyone thinking he was spamming a group of academics.

  When they were all gone, he sat back. As Antoine had mentioned, it was a long shot, but it couldn’t hurt.

  And maybe it would produce the result he sought.

  Of course, if the effort turned up a result, what would he do next? He told himself he’d worry about that when the time came, if it arrived at all.

  Burke expected some of the department heads would ignore his request. Maybe some would do a search for him online and see his profile as a blogger with the newspaper group which, in turn, might be enough for them to seriously consider his request. Some might note his work focused on cycling and believe his desire to expand his writing was questionable.

  Burke turned off the laptop and went into the living room. He was mentally and physically exhausted. It had been a busy day.

  He asked Rousseau if it was all right to turn on the TV.

  “I’m done with reading,” Rousseau said. “Let’s see what’s on.”

  The news was on.

  And the report being aired discussed the upcoming vintage race with the announcer mentioning the number of race participants, the huge crowds expected to watch and, not least, the considerable police presence that was already on display after the car bombing in Arles.

  “And we’re right in the middle of it,” Rousseau said.

  There was no escaping the final vintage race.

  Chapter 56

  Burke awoke just after 6 a.m., partly because of the full symphony of songbirds outside his bedroom window and partly because the day ahead was likely to be eventful.

  Moving around quietly because Rousseau was still sleeping, Burke turned on the television and got a national current affairs program. The story being shown involved creative use of truffles in the kitchen since it was the season for that highly prized fungus. When the short feature ended, the host said the next segment would come from Vaison-la-Romaine where the final of four vintage bicycle races was being held.

  That got Burke’s attention.

  The night before, the Vaison race had been regional news. Now it was national news.

  After the commercial break, the host introduced the program’s sports person who, with a grin, began by talking about how the vintage race had captured the imagination of thousands of cyclists eager to ride old-time bikes and dress in old-style apparel.

  Then, with a frown, the sports broadcaster turned serious.

  “However, despite the races’ popularity, there have been a few problems,” he said.

  He elaborated, reviewing the incidents from the skeleton scene to the fake currency to the burning of Yablonski in effigy – and the bombing of the businessman’s limo.

  “The police are promising no further incidents will occur,” the sportscaster said, an obvious reference to Daniel Bonnier’s ill-considered remark earlier.

  Burke figured that was a promise likely to be broken, although he had no clue how.

  There was more conversation between the two men and then the sportscaster introduced a video with scenes from the first three races and from preparations for the final one. Burke hadn’t seen any of the clips and was impressed at the quality; the scenes showed riders looking like they belonged to eras going back 50 and even 75 years.
The landscape behind the riders was, not surprisingly, spectacular since the organizers had chosen routes for maximum visual effect.

  When the video got to Vaison, Burke saw the tents being erected in the parking lot by the Tourist Information Office, crowds of visitors strolling the downtown and cafés jammed with locals and tourists; for a moment, Burke thought he saw himself and Rousseau at the café the evening before. Then there were a couple of clips of police looking intent as they walked about and studied the crowd. The suggestion, Burke thought, was the Vaison-la-Romaine event was going to have some trouble.

  Burke wondered why there hadn’t been a shot of Yablonski in the video.

  The sportscaster ended the segment by saying there would be some video of the final vintage bike race on the Sunday news and on the Monday program.

  Burke considered what Yablonski might be doing at that precise moment. Having breakfast, talking to aides, meeting with the police? Regardless, Burke was sure Yablonski would be in Vaison.

  And he was just as sure that Yablonski’s enemies would be, too.

  Although it was still early, Burke turned on his laptop and, to his surprise, he saw he had two responses to his emails sent the previous night. One was from a professor temporarily in charge of the history department at one of the universities Burke had emailed. The professor said he knew of no one conducting any research related to Burke’s request. The other email was from a history dean at another university who said he was a cycling fan and knew Burke’s name. In fact, the dean said he often read Burke’s posts, adding he thought it might be rewarding for Burke to expand his topics with some French history.

  The dean wrote he had three students who were in masters programs, who were working on topics relating to Oradour-sur-Glane and who had been co-operating, with his permission, on some elements of their work. He didn’t provide their names, saying he wanted to contact them first, but expected they would be happy to help, especially since he thought two of them were keen cyclists and might be familiar with Burke.

  Burke felt his heart thump. This looked like an amazing piece of good luck. The three students mentioned by the dean might be the ones involved in the Yablonski protests.