Алистер Маклин - Caravan to Vaccares

Bowman turned into a post office, located an empty telephone booth, raised the exchange and asked for a Whitehall number in London. While he was waiting for the call to come through he fished out the garbled message he had found in Czerda’s caravan and smoothed it out before him.

At least a hundred gypsies knelt on the ground in the grassy clearing while the black-robed priest delivered a benediction. When he lowered his arm, turned, and walked towards a small black tent pitched near by, the gypsies rose and began to disperse, some wandering aimlessly around, others drifting back to their caravans which were parked just off the road a few miles north-east of Arles: behind the caravans loomed the majestic outline of the ancient Abbey de Montmajour.

Among the parked vehicles, three were instantly identifiable: the green-and-white caravan where Alexandre’s mother and the three young gypsy girls lived, Czerda’s caravan which was now being towed by a garishly yellow-painted breakdown truck and Le Grand Duc’s imposing green Rolls. The cabriolet hood of the Rolls was down for the sky was cloudless and the morning already hot. The chauffeuse, her auburn hair uncovered to show that she was temporarily off-duty, stood with Lila by the side of the car: Le Grand Duc, reclining in the rear seat, refreshed himself with some indeterminate liquid from the open cocktail cabinet before him and surveyed the scene with interest.

Lila said: ‘I never associated this with gypsies.’

‘Understandable, understandable,’ Le Grand Duc conceded graciously. ‘But then, of course, you do not know your gypsies, my dear, while I am a European authority on them.’ He paused, considered and corrected himself. ‘ The European authority. Which means, of course, the world. The religious element can be very strong, and their sincerity and devotion never more apparent than when they travel to worship the relics of Sara, their patron saint. Every day, in the last period of their travel, a priest accompanies them to bless Sara and their – but enough! I must not bore you with my erudition.’

‘Boring, Charles? It’s all quite fascinating. What on earth is that black tent for?’

‘A mobile confessional – little used, I fear. The gypsies have their own codes of right and wrong. Good God! There’s Czerda going inside.’ He glanced at his watch.

‘Nine-fifteen. He should be out by lunch-time.’

‘You don’t like him?’ Lila asked curiously. ‘You think that he–’

‘I know nothing about the fellow,’ Le Grand Duc said. ‘I would merely observe that a face such as his has not been fashioned by a lifetime of good works and pious thoughts.’

There was certainly little enough indicative of either as Czerda, his bruised face at once apprehensive and grim, closed and secured the tent flap behind him. The tent itself was small and circular, not more than ten feet in diameter. Its sole furnishing consisted of a cloth-screen cubicle which served as a confessional booth.

‘You are welcome, my son.’ The voice from the booth was deep and measured and authoritative.

‘Open up, Searl,’ Czerda said savagely. There was a fumbling motion and a dark linen curtain dropped to reveal a seated priest, with rimless eyeglasses and a thin ascetic face, the epitome of the man of God whose devotion is tinged with fanaticism. He regarded Czerda’s battered face briefly, impassively.

‘People may hear,’ the priest said coldly. ‘I’m Monsieur le Curé, or “Father”.’

‘You’re “Searl” to me and always will be,’ Czerda said contemptuously. ‘Simon Searl, the unfrocked priest. Sounds like a nursery rhyme.’

‘I’m not here on nursery business,’ Searl said sombrely. ‘I come from Gaiuse Strome.’

The belligerence slowly drained from Czerda’s face: only the apprehension remained, deepening by the moment as he looked at the expressionless face of the priest.

‘I think,’ Searl said quietly, ‘that an explanation of your unbelievably incompetent bungling is in order. I hope it’s a very good explanation.’

‘I must get out! I must get out!’ Tina, the dark crop-haired young gypsy girl stared through the caravan window at the confessional tent, then swung round to face the other three gypsy women. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face very pale. ‘I must walk! I must breathe the air! I – I can’t stand it here any more.’

Marie le Hobenaut, her mother and Sara looked at one another. None of them looked very much happier than Tina. Their faces were still as sad and bitter as they had been when Bowman had watched them during the night, defeat and despair still hung as heavily in the air.

‘You will be careful, Tina?’ Marie’s mother said anxiously. ‘Your father – you must think of your father.’

‘It’s all right, Mother,’ Marie said. ‘Tina knows. She knows now.’ She nodded to the dark girl who hurried through the doorway, and went on softly: ‘She was so very much in love with Alexandre. You know.’

‘I know,’ her mother said heavily. ‘It’s a pity that Alexandre hadn’t been more in love with her.’

Tina passed through the rear portion of the caravan. Seated on the steps there was a gypsy in his late thirties. Unlike most gypsies, Pierre Lacabro was squat to the point of deformity and extremely broad, and also unlike most gypsies who, in their aquiline fashion, are as aristocratically handsome as any people in Europe, he had a very broad, brutalized face with a thin cruel mouth, porcine eyes and a scar, which had obviously never been stitched, running from right eyebrow to right chin. He was, clearly, an extremely powerful person. He looked up as Tina approached and gave her a broken-toothed grin.

‘And where are you going, my pretty maid?’ He had a deep, rasping, gravelly and wholly unpleasant voice.

‘For a walk.’ She made no attempt to keep the revulsion from her face. ‘I need air.’

‘We have guards posted – and Maca and Masaine are on the watch. You know that?’

‘Do you think I’d run away?’

He grinned again. ‘You’re too frightened to run away.’

With a momentary flash of spirit she said: ‘I’m not frightened of Pierre Lacabro.’

‘And why on earth should you be?’ He lifted his hands, palms upwards. ‘Beautiful girls like you – why, I’m like a father to them.’

Tina shuddered and walked down the caravan steps.

Czerda’s explanation to Simon Searl had not gone down well at all. Searl was at no pains to conceal his contempt and displeasure: Czerda had gone very much on the defensive.

‘And what about me?’ he demanded. ‘I’m the person who has suffered, not you, not Gaiuse Strome. I tell you, he destroyed everything in my caravan – and stole my eighty thousand francs.’

‘Which you hadn’t even earned yet. That was Gaiuse Strome’s money, Czerda. He’ll want it back: if he doesn’t get it he’ll have your life in place of it.’

‘In God’s name, Bowman’s vanished! I don’t know–’

‘You will find him and then you will use this on him.’ Searl reached into the folds of his robe and brought out a pistol with a screwed-on silencer. ‘If you fail, I suggest you save us trouble and just use it on yourself.’

Czerda looked at him for a long moment. ‘Who is this Gaiuse Strome?’

‘I do not know.’

‘We were friends once, Simon Searl–’

‘Before God, I have never met him. His instructions come either by letter or telephone and even then through an intermediary.’

‘Then do you know who this man is?’ Czerda took Searl’s arm and almost dragged him to the flap of the tent, a corner of which he eased back. Plainly in view was Le Grand Duc who had obviously replenished his glass. He was gazing directly at them and the expression on his face was very thoughtful. Czerda hastily lowered the flap. ‘Well?’