Caravan to Vaccares (17 page)

Bowman pushed himself rather dizzily up on one arm. He could see it all happening in slow motion, the girl with the gun at her feet, Lacabro lurching towards it, the girl still stock-still. Maybe she couldn't even see the damn thing, he thought despairingly, but her eyes couldn't be all that bad, if she couldn't see a gun two feet away she'd no right to be out without a white stick. But her eyes weren't quite so bad as that. Suddenly she stooped, picked up the gun, threw it into the Rhône, then, with commendable foresight, dropped flat to the ground as Lacabro, his battered bleeding face masked in blood and hate, advanced to strike her down. But even in that moment of what must have been infuriating frustration and where his overriding instinct must have been savagely to maim the girl who had deprived him of his gun, Lacabro still had his priorities right. He ignored the girl, turned and headed for Bowman in a low crouching run.

But Cecile had bought Bowman all the time he needed. By the time Lacabro reached him he was on his feet again, still rather dazed and shaken but a going concern none the less. He avoided Lacabro's first bull-rush and wickedly swinging boot and caught the gypsy as he passed: it so chanced that he caught him by the left arm. Lacabro shouted in agony, dragged his arm free at whatever unknown cost to himself and came again. This time Bowman made no attempt to avoid him but advanced himself at equal speed. His clubbing right hand had no difficulty in reaching Lacabro's chin, for now Lacabro had no left guard left. He staggered backwards several involuntary paces, tottered briefly on the edge of the bluff, then toppled backwards into the Rhône. The splash caused by his impact on the muddied waters seemed quite extraordinarily loud.

Bowman looked gingerly over the crumbling edge of the bluff: there was no sign of Lacabro. If he'd been unconscious when he'd struck the water he'd have gone to the bottom and that was that: there could be no possibility of locating him in those dark waters. Not that Bowman relished the prospect of trying to rescue the gypsy: if he were not unconscious he would certainly express his gratitude by doing his best to drown his rescuer. Bowman did not feel sufficiently attached to Lacabro to take the risk.

He went to the Renault, searched it briefly, found what he expected to find – nothing – started up the engine, let in first gear, aimed it for the bank of the river and jumped out. The little car trundled to the edge of the bluff, cartwheeled over the edge and fell into the river with a resounding crash that sent water rising to a height of thirty feet.

Much of this water rained down on Lacabro. He was half-sitting, half-lying on a narrow ledge of pebble and sand under the overhang of the bluff. His clothes were soaked, his right hand clutched his left wrist. On his dazed and uncomprehending face was a mixture of pain and bewilderment and disbelief. It was, by any reckoning, the face of a man who has had enough for one day.

Cecile was still sitting on the ground when Bowman approached her. He said: ‘You're ruining that lovely gypsy costume sitting there.'

‘Yes, I suppose I am.' Her voice was matter-offact, remarkably calm. She accepted his hand, got to her feet and looked around her. ‘He's gone?'

‘Let's say I can't find him.'

‘That wasn't – that wasn't fair fighting.'

‘That was the whole idea behind it, pet. Ideally, of course, he would have riddled me with bullets.'

‘But – but can he swim?'

‘How the hell should I know?' He led her back to the Simca and after they'd gone a mile in silence he looked at her curiously. Her hands were trembling, her face had gone white and when she spoke her voice was a muted whisper with a shake in it: clearly some sort of delayed shock had set in.

She said: ‘Who
are
you?'

‘Never mind.'

‘I – I saved your life today.'

‘Well, yes, thanks. But you should have used that gun to shoot him or hold him up.'

There was a long pause, then she sniffed loudly and said almost in a wail: ‘I've never fired a gun in my life. I can't
see
to fire a gun.'

‘I know. I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry about everything, Cecile. But I'm sorriest of all that I ever got you into this damnably ugly mess. God, I should have known better.'

‘Why blame yourself?' Still the near-sob in her voice. ‘You had to run some place last night and my room – ' She broke off, peered at him some more, looked away and tried to light a cigarette but her hand shook so much he did it for her. Her hand was still shaking when they got back to the hotel.

CHAPTER 6

Bowman drew up outside the hotel entrance. Not five yards away Lila sat alone by a table just inside the patio entrance. It was difficult to say whether she looked primarily angry or disconsolate: she certainly did not look happy.

‘Boy-friend's ditched her,' Bowman announced. ‘Meet me in fifteen minutes. Alleyway at the back entrance of the hotel. Stay out of sight till you see a blue Citroën. I'll be inside. Stay off the patio. You'll be safe in the foyer.'

Cecile nodded to Lila. ‘Can I talk to her?'

‘Sure. Inside.'

‘But if we're seen – '

‘It won't matter. Going to tell her what a dreeadful person I am?'

‘No.' A shaky smile.

‘Ah! Then you're going to announce our forthcoming nuptials.'

‘Not that either.' Again the smile.

‘You want to make up your mind.'

She put a hand on his arm. ‘I think you might even be rather a kind person.'

‘I doubt whether the lad in the Rhône would share your sentiments,' Bowman said drily.

The smile vanished. She got out, Bowman drove off, she watched him disappear with a small frown creasing her forehead, then went on to the patio. She looked at Lila, nodded towards the hotel foyer: they went in together, talking.

‘You're sure?' Cecile asked. ‘Charles recognizes Neil Bowman?'

Lila nodded.

‘How? Why?'

‘I don't know. He's very, very shrewd, you know.'

‘Something more than a famous wine-grower or folklorist, you would say?'

‘I would say.'

‘And he doesn't trust Bowman?'

‘That puts it very mildly indeed.'

‘Stalemate. You know what Bowman thinks of the Duke. I'm afraid my money's on my man, Lila. He disposed of another of the bad men today – ' ‘He did
what
?'

‘Threw him into the Rhône. I saw him do it. He says – '

‘So that's why you looked like a ghost when I saw you just now.'

‘I felt a bit like one, too. He says he's killed two others. I believe him. And I saw him lay out two more. Local colour is local colour but that would be ridiculous, you can't fake a dead man. He's on the side of the angels, Lila. Not, mind you, that I can see the angels liking it very much.'

‘I'm no angel and I don't like any part of it,' Lila said. ‘I'm out of my depth and I don't know how to cope. What
are
we to do?'

‘You're no more lost than I am. Do? Do what we were told to do, I suppose?'

‘I suppose so.' Lila sighed and resumed her earlier woebegone expression. Cecile peered at her.

‘Where is Charles?'

‘He's gone.' Her gloom deepened. ‘He's just gone off with that little chauffeuse – that's what
he
calls her – and told me to wait here.'

‘Lila!' Cecile stared at her friend. ‘It's not possible – '

‘Why? Why is it not? What's wrong with Charles?'

‘Nothing, of course. Nothing at all.' Cecile rose. ‘Two minutes for an appointment. Our Mr Bowman does not like to be kept waiting.'

‘When I think of him with that little minx – '

‘She looked a perfectly charming young girl to me.'

‘That's what I thought, too,' Lila admitted. ‘But that was an hour ago.'

Le Grand Duc was not, in fact, with the little minx, nor was he anywhere near her. In the square where the Rumanian and Hungarian caravans were pulled up, there were no signs of either Carita or the huge green Rolls and neither could have been said to be normally inconspicuous. Le Grand Duc, on the contrary, was very much in evidence: not far from the green-and-white caravan and with notebook in hand, he was talking with considerable animation to Simon Searl. Czerda, as befitted the leader of the gypsies and an already established acquaintance of Le Grand Duc, was close by but taking no part in the conversation: Searl, from what a few signs of emotion that occasionally registered in his thin ascetic face, looked as if he wished he were taking no part either.

‘Vastly obliged, Monsieur le Curé, vastly obliged.' Le Grand Duc was at his regally gracious best. ‘I can't tell you how impressed I was by the service you held in the fields by the Abbey, this morning. Moving, most moving. By Jove, I'm adding to my store of knowledge every minute.' He peered more closely at Searl. ‘Have you hurt your leg, my dear fellow?'

‘A slight strain, no more.' The only obvious strain was in his face and voice.

‘Ah, but you must look after those slight strains – can develop very serious complications, you know. Yes, indeed, very serious.' He removed his monocle, swinging it on the end of its thick black ribbon, the better to observe Searl. ‘Haven't I seen you somewhere before – I don't mean at the Abbey. Yes, yes, of course – outside the hotel this morning. Odd, I don't recall you limping then. But then, I'm afraid my eyesight – ' He replaced his monocle. ‘My thanks again. And watch that strain. Do exercise the greatest care, Monsieur le Curé. For your own sake.'

Le Grand Duc tucked the notebook in an inner pocket and marched majestically away. Czerda looked at Searl, the unbandaged parts of his face registering no expression. Searl, for his part, licked dry lips, said nothing, turned and walked away.

To even a close observer who knew him, the man behind the wheel of the gleamingly blue Citroën parked in the alleyway behind the hotel must have been almost totally unrecognizable as Bowman. He was dressed in a white sombrero, dark glasses, an excruciating blue-and-white polka-dotted shirt, an unbuttoned, embroidered black waistcoat, a pair of moleskin trousers and high boots. The complexion was paler, the moustache larger. Beside him on the seat lay a small purse-stringed bag. The offside front door opened and Cecile peered in, blinking uncertainly.

‘I don't bite,' Bowman said encouragingly.

‘Good God!' She slid into her seat. ‘What – what's this?'

‘I'm a
gardien,
a cowboy in his Sunday best, one of many around. Told you I'd been shopping. Your turn, now.'

‘What's in the bag?'

‘My poncho, of course.'

She eyed him with the speculative look that had now become almost habitual with her as he drove her to the clothing emporium they'd visited earlier that morning. After a suitable lapse of time the same manageress fluttered around Cecile, making gushing, admiring remarks, talking with her arms as much as with her voice. Cecile was now attired in the fiesta costume of an Arlésienne, with a long sweeping darkly embroidered dress, a ruched lace white bodice and a wimpled hat of the same material. The hat was perched on a dark red wig.

‘Madame looks – fantastic!' the manageress said ecstatically.

‘Madame matches the price,' Bowman said resignedly. He peeled off some more banknotes and led Cecile to the Citroën where she sat and smoothed the rich material of her dress approvingly.

‘Very nice, I must say. You like dressing girls up?'

‘Only when I'm being bankrolled by criminals. That's hardly the point. A certain dark gypsy girl has been seen with me. There's not an insurance company in Europe would look at that dark gypsy girl.'

‘I see.' She smiled wanly. ‘All this solicitude for your future wife?'

‘Of course. What else?'

‘The fact that, quite frankly, you can't afford to lose your assistant at the moment?'

‘Never occurred to me.'

He drove the Citroën close to the point where the Hungarian and Rumanian caravans were parked in the square. He stopped the Citroën, lifted his purse-stringed bag, got out, straightened and turned. As he did so, he bumped into a large pedestrian who was sauntering slowly by. The pedestrian stopped and glared at him through a black-beribboned monocle: Le Grand Duc was not accustomed to being bumped into by anyone.

‘Your pardon, m'sieur,' Bowman said.

Le Grand Duc favoured Bowman with a look of considerable distaste. ‘Granted.'

Bowman smiled apologetically, took Cecile's arm and moved off. She said to him,
sotto voce
and accusingly: ‘You did that on purpose.'

‘So? If he doesn't recognize us, who will?' He took another couple of steps and halted. ‘Well, now, what could this be?'

There was a sudden stir of interest as a plain black van turned into the square. The driver got out, made what was evidently an enquiry of the nearest gypsy who pointed across the square, entered the van again and drove it across to the vicinity of Czerda's caravan. Czerda himself was by the steps, talking to Ferenc: neither appeared to have made much progress in the recovery from their injuries.