Caravan to Vaccares (21 page)

As they danced, the
toril
gate opened and a fresh bull appeared. Like its predecessor, it was a small black Camargue bull but what it lacked in inches it more than made up for in sheer bad temper for it had no sooner caught sight of the two dancing clowns than it lowered its head and charged. It went for each clown in turn but they, without in any way breaking step or losing the rhythm of the dance, glided and pirouetted to safety as if unaware of the bull's existence: they were, obviously,
razateurs
of the highest order of experience.

Temporarily, the music stopped, but the bull didn't: it charged one of the clowns who turned and ran for his life, screaming for help. The crowd shouted with laughter. The clown, momentarily incensed, stopped abruptly, shook his fist at them, looked over his shoulder, screamed again, ran, mistimed his leap for the barrier and brought up heavily against it, the bull only feet away. It seemed inevitable that he must be either impaled or crushed. Neither happened, but he did not escape entirely unscathed for when he miraculously broke clear it could be seen that his baggy trousers were hooked on to one of the bull's horns. The clown, clad in white ankle-length underpants, continued his flight, still screaming for help, pursued by a now thoroughly infuriated bull who trailed the trousers along behind him. The crowd was convulsed.

The four gypsies weren't. As before, they ignored the action in the bullring. But now they were no longer still. They had begun to move slowly through the crowd, all moving in a clockwise fashion, closely scanning the faces of all whom they passed by. And as closely as they observed others, Bowman observed them.

Down in the
callajon
the accordionist began to play ‘Tales from the Vienna Woods'. The two clowns came together and waltzed gravely in the centre of the ring. Inevitably, the bull charged the dancing couple. He was almost upon them when they waltzed apart from each other, each completing a single turn before joining up again immediately the bull's headlong rush had carried him beyond them.

The crowd went wild. Cecile laughed to the extent that she had to use a handkerchief to dab the tears from her eyes. There was no trace of a smile on Bowman's face: with Czerda not twenty feet away and heading straight for him, he didn't feel like smiling.

‘Isn't it marvellous?' Cecile said.

‘Marvellous. Wait here.'

She was instantly serious, apprehensive. ‘Where are you – '

‘Trust me?'

‘Trust you.'

‘A white wedding. I won't be long.'

Bowman moved leisurely away. He had to pass within a few feet of Czerda who was still scrutinizing everyone he went by with a thoroughness that lifted eyebrows and brought frowns. A few feet further on, close to the exit, he passed behind the politely clapping Chinese couple that he'd seen before in Arles. They were, he thought, a remarkably distinguished looking couple. As it was extremely unlikely that they had come all the way from China, they obviously must be European residents. He wondered idly what manner of occupation such a man would pursue in Europe, then dismissed the thought from his mind: there were other and more urgent matters to occupy his attention.

He circled the arena at the back, walked about two hundred yards south down the road, crossed it and made his way back north coming up at the back of Czerda's caravans which were parked in two tight rows well back from the side of the road. The caravans appeared to be completely deserted. Certainly there was no apparent guard on Czerda's caravan or on the green-and-white caravan, but on that afternoon he was interested in neither. The caravan he
was
interested in, as he was now certain it would be, did have a guard. On a stool on the top of the steps the gypsy Maca was sitting, beer-bottle in hand.

Bowman sauntered leisurely towards the caravan: as he approached Maca lowered his beerbottle, looked down at him and scowled warningly. Bowman ignored the scowl, approached even more closely, stopped and inspected both Maca and the caravan, taking his time about it. Maca made a contemptuous jerking movement with his thumb, unmistakably indicating that Bowman should be on his way. Bowman remained where he was.

‘Clear off!' Maca ordered.

‘Gypsy swine,' Bowman said pleasantly.

Maca, obviously doubting that he had heard aright, stared for a brief moment of incredulity, then his face contorted in rage as he shifted his grip to the neck of the bottle, rose and jumped down. But Bowman had moved even more quickly and he struck Maca very hard indeed even before the gypsy's feet had reached the ground. The combined effect of the blow and his own momentum had a devastating effect on Maca: eyes unfocused, he staggered back dazedly. Bowman struck him again with equal force, caught the now unconscious man before he could fall, dragged him round to one side of the caravan, dropped him and pushed him out of sight of any casual passer-by.

Bowman glanced quickly around him. If anyone had seen the brief fracas he was taking care not to publicize the fact. Twice Bowman circled the caravan but there was no lurking watcher in the shadows, no hint of danger to be seen. He climbed the steps and entered the caravan. The rear, smaller portion of the caravan was empty. The door leading to the forward compartment was secured by two heavy bolts. Bowman slid back the bolts and passed inside.

For a moment his eyes were unable to penetrate the gloom. The curtains were drawn and very heavy curtains they were, too. Bowman drew them back.

At the front of the caravan was the three-tiered bunk he had observed when he peered in late the previous night: as before, three men lay on those bunks. Previously, that had been a matter of no significance: bunks are for sleeping in and one would have expected to find them occupied in the nighttime: one would not have expected to find them occupied in the early afternoon. But Bowman had known that he would find them occupied.

All three men were awake. They propped themselves up on their elbows, eyes, accustomed to deep gloom, blinking in the harsh light of the Camargue. Bowman advanced wordlessly, reached over the man in the lowermost bunk and picked up his right hand. The wrist belonging to that hand was manacled to a ring-bolt let into the front wall of the caravan. Bowman let his wrist fall and examined the man in the middle bunk: he was similarly secured. Bowman didn't trouble to look at the wrist of the man on top. He stepped back and looked at them thoughtfully.

He said: ‘Count le Hobenaut, husband of Marie le Hobenaut, Mr Tangevec, husband of Sara Tangevec and the third name I do not know. Who are you, sir?' This to the man in the bottom bunk, a middle-aged, greying and very distinguished looking person.

‘Daymel.'

‘You are Tina's father?'

‘I am.' The expression on his face was that of a man receiving his executioner and not his saviour. ‘Who in the name of God are you?'

‘Bowman. Neil Bowman. I've come to take you three gentlemen away.'

‘I don't know who you are.' This from the man in the middle bunk who didn't seem any happier to see Bowman than Daymel had been. ‘I don't care who you are. For God's sake go away or you'll be the death of us all.'

‘You are the Count le Hobenaut?' The man nodded.

‘You heard about your brother-in-law? Alexandre?'

Le Hobenaut looked at him with an odd speculative desperation on his face, then said: ‘What about my brother-in-law?'

‘He's dead. Czerda murdered him.'

‘What crazy talk is this? Alexandre? Dead?

How can he be dead? Czerda promised us – '

‘You believed him?'

‘Of course. Czerda has everything to lose – '

‘You two believe him?' Bowman asked. They nodded.

‘A man who trusts a killer is a fool. You are fools – all three of you. Alexandre
is
dead. I found his body. If you think he's alive why don't you ask Czerda if you can see him? Or you, Daymel. Why don't you ask Czerda if you can see your daughter?'

‘She's not – she's – '

‘She's not dead. Just half dead. They flayed her back. Why did they flay her back? Why did they kill Alexandre? Because they were both trying to tell someone something. What was it that they were trying to tell, gentlemen?'

‘I beg you, Bowman.' Le Hobenaut's distress was but one step removed from terror. ‘Leave us!'

‘Why are you so terrified for them? Why are they so terrified for you? And don't tell me again to go for I'm not going until I know the answers.'

‘You'll never know the answers now,' Czerda said.

CHAPTER 8

Bowman turned round slowly for there was nothing to be gained by haste now. Of the shock, of the inevitably profound chagrin, there was no sign in his face. But Czerda, standing in the doorway with a silenced gun in his hand and Masaine, beside him, with a knife in his, made no attempt to disguise their feelings. Both men were smiling and smiling broadly, although their smiles were noticeably lacking in warmth. At a nod from Czerda, Masaine advanced and tested the shackles securing the three men. He said: ‘They have not been touched.'

‘He was probably too busy explaining to them just how clever he was.' Czerda did not trouble to conceal the immense amount of satisfaction he was deriving from the moment. ‘It was all too simple, Bowman. You really are a fool. Shopkeepers in Arles who receive a gratuity of six hundred Swiss francs are hardly likely to forget the person who gave it to them. I tell you, I could hardly keep a straight face when I was moving through the crowd there pretending to look for you. But we had to pretend, didn't we, to convince you that we hadn't recognized you or you'd never have come out into the open, would you? You fool, we had you identified before you entered the arena.'

‘You might have told Maca,' Bowman murmured.

‘We might, but Maca is no actor, I'm afraid,' Czerda said regretfully. ‘He wouldn't have known how to make a fake fight look real. And if we'd left no guard at all you'd have been doubly suspicious.' He stretched out his left hand. ‘Eighty thousand francs, Bowman.'

‘I don't carry that sort of loose change with me.'

‘My
eighty thousand francs.'

Bowman looked at him with contempt. ‘Where would a person like you get eighty thousand francs?'

Czerda smiled, stepped forward unexpectedly and drove the silenced barrel of his gun into Bowman's solar plexus. Bowman doubled up, gasping in agony.

‘I would have liked to strike you across the face, as you struck me.' He had removed his smile. ‘But for the moment I prefer that you remain unmarked. The money, Bowman?'

Bowman straightened slowly. When he spoke, his voice came as a harsh croak.

‘I lost it.'

‘You
lost
it?'

‘I had a hole in my pocket.'

Czerda's face twisted in anger, he lifted his gun to club Bowman, then smiled. ‘You'll find it within the minute, you'll see.'

The green Rolls-Royce slowed as it approached the Mas de Lavignolle. Le Grand Duc, still with a parasol being held above his head, surveyed the scene thoughtfully.

‘Czerda's caravans,' he observed. ‘Surprising. One would not have expected the Mas de Lavignolle to be of any particular interest to our friend Czerda. But a man like that will always have a good reason for what he is doing. However, he will doubtless consider it a privilege to inform me of his reasons. . . What is it, my dear?'

‘Look ahead.' Lila pointed. ‘Just there.'

Le Grand Duc followed the direction of her arm. Cecile, flanked by El Brocador and Searl, the first all in white, the second all in black. The door closed behind them.

Le Grand Duc pressed the dividing window button. ‘Stop the car, if you please.' To Lila he said: ‘You think that's your friend? Same dress, I admit, but all those Arlésienne fiesta dresses look the same to me, especially from the back.'

‘That's Cecile.' Lila was positive.

‘A
razateur
and a priest,' Le Grand Duc mused.

‘You really must admit that your friend does have a marked propensity for striking up the most unusual aquaintanceships. You have your notebook?'

‘I have what?'

‘We must investigate this.'

‘You're going to investigate – '

‘Please. No Greek chorus. Everything is of interest to the true folklorist.'

‘But you can't just barge in – '

‘Nonsense. I am the Duc de Croytor. Besides, I never barge. I always make an entrance.'

The ache in his midriff, Bowman guessed, was as nothing compared to some of the aches that he was going to come by very shortly – if, that was, he would then be in a position to feel anything. There was a gleam in Czerda's eye, a barely-contained anticipation in the face that bespoke ill, Bowman thought, for the immediate future.

He looked round the caravan. The three shackled men had in their faces the uncomprehending and lacklustre despair of those to whom defeat is already an accepted reality. Czerda and Masaine had pleasantly anticipatory smiles on their faces, El Brocador was serious and thoughtful and watchful, Simon Searl had a peculiar look in his eyes which made his unfrocking a readily comprehensible matter, while Cecile just looked slightly dazed, a little frightened, a little angry but as far removed from hysteria as could be.