Алистер Маклин - Caravan to Vaccares

‘That man I have seen before,’ Searl said. ‘A wealthy nobleman, I believe.’

‘A wealthy nobleman by the name of Gaiuse Strome?’

‘I do not know. I do not wish to know.’

‘This is the third time I have seen this man on the pilgrimage. It is also the third year I have been working for Gaiuse Strome. He asked questions last night. This morning he was down looking at the damage that had been done to our caravan. And now he’s staring at us. I think–’

‘Keep your thinking for Bowman,’ Searl advised. ‘That apart, keep your own counsel. Our patron wishes to remain anonymous. He does not care to have his privacy invaded. You understand?’

Czerda nodded reluctantly, thrust the silenced pistol inside his shirt and left. As he did, Le Grand Duc peered thoughtfully at him over the rim of his glass.

‘Good God!’ he said mildly. ‘Shriven already.’

Lila said politely: ‘I beg your pardon, Charles.’

‘Nothing, my dear, nothing.’ He shifted his gaze and caught sight of Tina who was wandering disconsolately and apparently aimlessly across the grass. ‘My word, there’s a remarkably fine-looking filly. Downcast, perhaps, yes, definitely downcast. But beautiful.’

Lila said: ‘Charles, I’m beginning to think that you’re a connoisseur of pretty girls.’

‘The aristocracy always have been. Carita, my dear, Arles and with all speed. I feel faint.’

‘Charles!’ Lila was instant concern. ‘Are you unwell? The sun? If we put the hood up–’

‘I’m hungry,’ Le Grand Duc said simply.

Tina watched the whispering departure of the Rolls then looked casually around her. Lacabro had disappeared from the steps of the green-and-white caravan. Of Maca and Masaine there was no sign. Quite fortuitously, as it seemed, she found herself outside the entrance to the black confessional tent. Not daring to look round to make a final check to see whether she was under observation, she pushed the flap to one side and went in. She took a couple of hesitating steps towards the booth.

‘Father! Father!’ Her voice was a tremulous whisper. ‘I must talk to you.’

Searl’s deep grave voice came from inside the booth: ‘That’s what I’m here for, my child.’

‘No, no!’ Still the whisper. ‘You don’t understand. I have terrible things to tell you.’

‘Nothing is too terrible for a man of God to hear. Your secrets are safe with me, my child.’

‘But I don’t want them to be safe with you! I want you to go to the police.’

The curtain dropped and Searl appeared. His lean ascetic face was filled with compassion and concern. He put his arm round her shoulders.

‘Whatever ails you, daughter, your troubles are over. What is your name, my dear?’

‘Tina. Tina Daymel.’

‘Put your trust in God, Tina, and tell me everything.’

In the green-and-white caravan Marie, her mother and Sara sat in a gloomy silence. Now and again the mother gave a half sob and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.

‘Where is Tina?’ she said at length. ‘Where can she be? She takes so long.’

‘Don’t worry, Madame Zigair,’ Sara said reassuringly. ‘Tina’s a sensible girl. She’ll do nothing silly.’

‘Sara’s right, Mother,’ Marie said. ‘After last night–’

‘I know. I know I’m being foolish. But Alexandre–’

‘Please, Mother.’

Madame Zigair nodded and fell silent. Suddenly the caravan door was thrown open and Tina was thrown bodily into the room to fall heavily and face downwards on the caravan floor. Lacabro and Czerda stood framed in the entrance, the former grinning, the latter savage with a barely controlled anger. Tina lay where she had fallen, very still, clearly unconscious. Her clothes had been ripped from her back which was blood-stained and almost entirely covered with a mass of wicked-looking red and purplish weals: she had been viciously, mercilessly whipped.

‘Now,’ Czerda said softly. ‘Now will you all learn?’

The door closed. The three women stared in horror at the cruelly mutilated girl, then fell to their knees to help her.

Bowman’s call to England came through quickly and he returned to his hotel within fifteen minutes of having left it. The corridor leading to his bedroom was thickly carpeted and his footfalls soundless. He was reaching for the handle of the door when he heard voices coming from inside the room. No voices, he realized, just one – Cecile’s – and it came only intermittently: the tone of her voice was readily recognizable but the muffling effect of the intervening door was too great to allow him to distinguish the words. He was about to lean his ear against the woodwork when a chambermaid carrying an armful of sheets came round a corner of the corridor. Bowman walked unconcernedly on his way and a couple of minutes later walked unconcernedly back. There was only silence in the room. He knocked and went inside.

Cecile was standing by the window and she turned and smiled at him as he closed the door. Her gleaming dark hair had been combed or brushed or whatever she’d done with it and she looked more fetching than ever.

‘Ravishing,’ he said. ‘How did you manage without me? My word, if our children only look–’

‘Another thing,’ she interrupted. The smile, he now noticed, lacked warmth. ‘This Mr Parker business when you registered. You did show your passport, didn’t you – Mr Bowman?’

‘A friend lent it to me.’

‘Of course. What else? Is your friend very important?’

‘How’s that?’

‘What is your job , Mr Bowman?’

‘I’ve told you–’

‘Of course. I’d forgotten. A professional idler.’ She sighed. ‘And now – breakfast?’

‘First, for me, a shave. It’ll spoil my complexion but I can fix that. Then breakfast.’

He took the shaving kit from his case, went into the bathroom, closed the door and set about shaving. He looked around him. She’d come in here, divested herself of all her cumbersome finery, had a very careful bath to ensure that she didn’t touch the stain, dressed again, reapplied to the palms of her hands some of the stain he’d left her and all this inside fifteen minutes. Not to mention the hair brushing or combing or whatever. He didn’t believe it, she had about her the fastidious look of a person who’d have used up most of that fifteen minutes just in brushing her teeth. He looked into the bath and it was indubitably still wet so she had at least turned on the tap. He picked up the crumpled bath-towel and it was as dry as the sands of the Sinai desert. She’d brushed her hair and that was all. Apart from making a phone call.

He shaved, re-applied some war-paint and took Cecile down to a table in a corner of the hotel’s rather ornate and statuary-crowded patio. Despite the comparatively early hour it was already well patronized with late breakfasters and early coffee-takers. For the most part the patrons were clearly tourists, but there was a fair sprinkling of the more well-to-do Arlésiens among them, some dressed in the traditional fiesta costume of that part, some as gypsies.

As they took their seats their attention was caught and held by an enormous lime and dark green Rolls-Royce parked by the kerb: beside it stood the chauffeuse, her uniform matching the colours of the car. Cecile looked at the gleaming car in frank admiration.

‘Gorgeous,’ she said. ‘Absolutely gorgeous.’

‘Yes indeed,’ Bowman agreed. ‘You’d hardly think she could drive a great big car like that.’ He ignored Cecile’s old-fashioned look and leisurely surveyed the patio. ‘Three guesses as to the underprivileged owner.’

Cecile followed his line of sight. The third table from where they sat was occupied by Le Grand Duc and Lila. A waiter appeared with a very heavy tray which he set before Le Grand Duc who picked up and drained a beaker of orange juice almost before the waiter had time to straighten what must have been his aching back.