The Dave Bliss Quintet (38 page)

Bliss also spots the fissure as the
Mystère
steams slowly past and he frantically signals to the captain to cut the engines.

“Don't even ask,” says the captain, as Bliss rushes to the bridge and points to the narrow break in the sheer cliffs.

“We'll need a dinghy then.”

“I come,” says Daisy.

Ten minutes later, an inflatable pushes off from the stern of the
Mystère
, Daisy at the helm and Bliss at the oars. Bliss would have preferred the ski boat with the double Johnson outboards, but the captain balked at winching it off the upper deck without a qualified crew.

The throb of the
Mystère
's engines fade as they approach the vertical cliffs that stand sentinel to the channel. Only the gentle
plop
of the oars and the squeak of plastic rowlocks accompany them until they near the rock face, when the air suddenly comes alive with the screeching of panicked herring gulls. Dislodged pebbles drop like hailstones into the sur
rounding sea, and gulls swoop and wheel as they try to drive off the invaders.

“Zhere is nothing,” says Daisy, as she fends off the birds and peers ahead through the gap to a solid rock wall.

Bliss is about to turn back when a new sound halts his rowing.

“Listen,” he says, and under the shrieks of the gulls the unmistakable burble of powerful exhausts bounces off the rock face. They glide through the channel as the sound intensifies, then the rocks open into a sheltered cove where the
Sea-Quester
rides at anchor. There is activity on the aft deck and a bundle of cables snake over the side to feed the remote-controlled mini-sub below.

“Maybe we should call zhe police,” whispers Daisy, shivering in the chill of the sunless ravine.

“I think they are already here,” replies Bliss, spying a familiar figure.

Their approach is masked by the bobbling of the
Sea-Quester
's diesels, and they are almost alongside before a head pops into view over the stern rail.

“Jacques,” breathes Daisy.

“Aha. My dear Monsieur Burbeck and zhe charming Daisy. What brings you here?”

“A touch of wind,” muses Bliss, as he leaps aboard the swimming platform at the vessel's stern.

Leaving Daisy to secure the inflatable, Bliss runs up the stairs to the aft deck and takes in the scene. Five giant amphorae lay at his feet and another is slowly rising from the depths in a crane's sling as two men prepare to bring it aboard. Bliss's sudden arrival sparks a hiatus as the men vacillate between their task, the newcomer, and Jacques.

After a moment's hesitation Jacques pulls out a pistol and lets it waver. “Ah, my dear
inspecteur
, enough of the charade. I have found Morgan Johnson's treasure.”

“Are you pointing that gun at me?” queries Bliss.

Jacques glances at his gun as if he's surprised to find it in his hand, then swings it menacingly towards the two swarthy men.

“
Mais non, mon ami
— my dear friend. Of course not. It is zhese two villains who I arrest.”

The Corsicans' confusion is obvious as they halfheartedly raise their hands on the end of Jacques's weapon. One steps forward as if to remonstrate, but Jacques forces him back with a vicious volley of French. The amphora swings gently — forgotten.

“Quick,” shouts Jacques, turning back to Bliss, “take zheir guns.”

By the time Daisy surfaces, the commotion is over. The two men are lying face down on the deck. Jacques is neatly trussing them, hands and feet, as Bliss stands guard with the French officer's pistol. The amphora still dangles from the davit mid-air, and the Corsicans' guns lay disarmed on a deck table.

“So — what's happening?” asks Bliss, as Jacques binds the wrist of the first man.

“I told you. I work under zhe covers.” He gives the amphorae a nod. “Your Monsieur Johnson was trying to steal treasure from us. And zhese two — zhey are with him; zhey are pirates also.”

They certainly look like pirates, thinks Bliss, recognizing the squat earthy Corsicans he'd seen with Johnson at La Scala.

“But surely you're not alone.”

“
Oui
— yes. Zhere was no time. But now I will radio for assistance. A helicopter will arrive
tout de suite
and zhese villains will be —”

“But what about Johnson?”

Jacques shrugs as he works on the second man. “He is not here.”

“I know. He's in the mortuary in Calvi.”

“What you say? He is
disparu
?” asks Jacques with Gallic phlegmatism.

“If that means dead — yes.”

Jacques stands with the neatly bundled Corsicans at his feet and holds out his hand for the gun, saying, “Zhat is good. It will save zhe
fisc
— zhe taxman.”

“Oh!” exclaims Bliss, as an imperceptible movement of the vessel suddenly sends him lurching across the deck to crash into the table. As he reaches out to steady himself, he swipes the Corsicans' guns over the ship's side and flails wildly to keep himself upright. In a desperate move to save himself from falling overboard, he flings out his hand and drops Jacques's gun into the sea.

Daisy stands, completely unmoved, marvelling at the way she so easily maintained her balance. Jacques rushes to the rail. “
Mon Dieu!
What are you doing?”

Bliss looks mortified as he peers into the depths. “Oh. My dear chap — I can't believe it. I am so clumsy. Maybe we can use the sub —”

Jacques cuts him off. “
Non. Ce n'est pas possible
.” Then his stoicism returns with a “
bof!
” and he turns away. “It is no matter. I will radio for assistance from Calvi. Zhey will come very quickly. My prisoners cannot escape — all will be well.”

Bliss gestures towards the bridge. “You go ahead and radio, Jacques. We'll wait until they arrive.”

“Oh,
non
, Monsieur. Zhat will not be necessary. I would not wish you to change your plans and ruin your holiday — especially as you are spending it with such a delightful lady.” His face puzzles. “But you did not row here from St-Juan.”

Daisy is already flabbergasted by the scene, but she's bowled over when Bliss rustles up his phantom brigade again. “Oh no. There's a whole boatload of us.” He throws his arm around her waist as he continues. “Thought we'd explore, get away from the crowd. They're just out there …”

“In zhat case, my dear
collègue,
please, you must rejoin your friends. Everything is fine.”

“I insist,” says Bliss, adding, “In any case, Johnson was British. I have a duty to assist in your investigations.”

“Zhere is no need,” starts Jacques, but Bliss is adamant.

“Jacques — as a fellow officer it is the least I can do. You radio for help and I'll keep an eye on these two.”

Jacques is clearly reluctant as he backs into the bridge. Daisy is still desperately trying to find her feet. “
Daavid.
I don't —”

Without taking his eyes off the bridge door, Bliss grabs her arm and starts dragging her aft. “Quick, Daisy. Get back to the boat. Tell the captain to call the police.”

“But Jacques. He is un
flic
— a police —”

“Daisy, don't argue. Just call.”

“But I don't understand.”

Her confusion is instantly dispelled as Jacques reappears from the bridge with another gun in his hand. “I zhink Daisy should stay,
Monsieur l'Inspecteur
.”

“My fingers, I zhink zhey are dead,” moans Daisy as she struggles against the bindings on her wrist ten minutes later. Bliss has his ear stuck to the cabin door and shushes her as he tries to work out if anything is happening in the corridor outside. He checks the lock. It's not particularly strong — but is a maddened Corsican waiting with a Kalashnikov on the other side?

The background thrumming of the engines and the whine of a capstan raising another amphora make it impossible for him to hear, so he gives up and hobbles back to the bed. The police-issue plastic bindings cut deeply into his wrists and ankles, but knowing their strength he makes no effort to break free.

“How did you know it was Jacques?” asks Daisy, as Bliss slumps beside her.

“His DNA was on the cigarette ends we found in the château's basement after Grimes was attacked.”

“Jacques's DNA?”

“
Oui. Certainement.
I sent them to London with some that he smoked at L'Escale. The saliva matched. And you remember the Brubeck T-shirt?”

Daisy's voice drops in painful memory. “Roland's?”

“
Oui
, Roland's. Well some of the blood on it was Jacques's. Roland must have put up a struggle — I certainly would if someone was trying to hack off my zizi.”

“Jacques,” she breathes. “But why? Zhat is terrible.”

“My guess is the war widows aren't the only ones who want to keep secrets. When I asked Jacques about the château he said he'd never heard of it, but you told me that he'd searched it after Roland's death. And when he just
bof
'd at the potter's hand in the harbour, I
thought, this is bizarre. Why would he lie? Unless he didn't want me to go there.”

“So you zhink zhat is why he killed Roland — because he found zhe château?”

“Maybe.... And maybe the hand in the water was to warn me off. But why? That's what I don't understand.”

“I zhink I know,” says Daisy worriedly. “At school Jacques has no friends. Zhey spit at him, zhey hit him, zhey say he is
un cochon
— a pig. I am unhappy and tell my mother. “Jacques is just a poor little
garçon,
' I say. Zhen she tells me zhat Jacques's father was in zhe château, but he was not like zhe other men. He would come home at night to his wife. Zhey were from Alsace.”

Bliss's questioning expression invites an explanation.

“It is
français
now, but Alsace was German before zhe war. Jacques's father spoke German. He was a
traducteur …
how you say … a translateur for zhe Nazis, a
collaborateur.
”

Bliss corrects Daisy's English as he echoes, “A translator.” Then a horrific image springs to his mind as he pictures a terrified artisan chained to a steel bench in the château's torture chamber, with Jacques's father standing by with a scratch pad as he waits to catch the dying denunciation of yet another compatriot.

“What happened to Jacques's father after the war?” he asks Daisy

“
Bof
.” She shrugs. “He is
disparu
. My mother says after
la Libération
, first zhey make him dig zhe graves for zhe others, zhen he dig for himself. But I did not see his name on zhe gravestones.”

“That would explain why Jacques wouldn't want anyone going to the château,” he reasons. “He didn't want people asking awkward questions.”

“But I zhink everyone knew.”

“Daisy — of course they all knew. They knew about their husbands, as well, but knowing it and admitting it are two different things. Although I doubt that any of the widows would have murdered and maimed to keep their secret. By the way, what is Jacques's family name?”

“Sauvage.”

“Interesting ...” he muses. “Jacques Sauvage — Jack Wild.”

Bliss lies back on the bed and closes his eyes as he desperately tries to piece together a convoluted jigsaw puzzle and comes up with a Picasso abstract.

“I don't get it,” he says to Daisy, explaining how Johnson wasn't looking for treasure — he was creating it. Handcrafted copies of amphorae that needed a couple of years at the bottom of a sheltered cove to add a crust of barnacles, a few chips, and some ochreous stains. “But the amphora I found on his boat was genuine — the British Museum said so,” he tells her. “He must have stumbled over a genuine hoard,” he continues, “but it couldn't have been from the wreck of a passing galley. It was on the wrong side of the island.”

“Maybe zhey were sheltering from a storm.”

“It's possible,” says Bliss, “but I still can't figure how the château or Jacques became involved.”

Daisy interrupts his musing with the obvious. “
Daavid …
do you think we should try to escape?”

The question has not left Bliss's mind from the moment Jacques and the Corsicans bundled him and Daisy into the cabin at gunpoint. It took little detective skill to conclude that, with two murders and a maiming to his credit, Jacques has little reason to ever voluntarily allow a nosy foreign cop and his sidekick to go free.

“It'll take something sharp to get these off,” he says, examining the bindings, and searches for a knife-edged surface. But this is a luxury yacht — all life's dangerous edges have been neatly rounded or concealed. Then he slips off the bed, sinks to the cabin's sole, and starts working at the carpet.

“Daisy. Come and help,” he says. “There may be a hatch to the engine room under here.”

Fifteen minutes later, with the cabin in turmoil, he gives up and switches his attention to the bulkhead. “Maybe we can get into the next cabin.” He taps lightly. “It's steel,” he says, then jumps when his tapping echoes back with a five-second delay. “What the ...” he starts, then taps again.

The echo responds immediately, leaving him wishing he knew Morse code.

“Someone's there,” he whispers unnecessarily, but who — a Kalashnikov killer? He cups his hand around his mouth and calls into the wall, “Can you hear me?”

Daisy has an ear to the bulkhead. “It is a woman, I zhink.”

“Marcia,” says Bliss, recognizing the faint voice calling for help. Then he looks to the ceiling and has an idea.

Two minutes later, Bliss bashes through the false ceiling of the adjoining cabin and finds three sets of frightened eyes staring up at him. Johnson's widow and son, together with Marcia, all similarly bound. Behind him, in the other cabin, Daisy is beginning to wobble as she buckles under his weight.