WE SAT IN THE BAIE des Anges Café on the second floor of the Nice-Cote airport. A Swissair Boeing rumbled into the air and across our field of vision, but the double glazing was efficient enough to dim the sound of the aircraft’s two engines and we did not even have to raise our voices.
Aristide Pertois sat opposite me. He looked like the proverbial cat that has swallowed the perfectly cooked canary and I told him he had every right to do so.
“My chief is very pleased at this successful resolution of the case,” he said.
“I didn’t mean that,” I told him. “I meant figuring out where I was and then coming and saving my life.”
He shrugged as if he saved lives every day.
“Naturally, we had been keeping close track of all those involved in this case. When Mam’selle Ballard drove out to the ultralight airfield and left with Suvarov in his aircraft, I was informed immediately. I had the flight log checked. Their château destination coincided with a fair known to be held there, a fair where both vineyards had exhibits. When Madame Ribereau told us—”
“Surely she’s not a police informer!” I was horrified.
Pertois continued smoothly as if I had not interrupted. “She told us that a German girl had picked you up in a red Maserati. We alerted all road patrols, who reported her very distinctive car to be heading in the same direction as the ultralight. I arrived at the local gendarmerie that night and was aroused the next morning when phone calls came in concerning a huge explosion in the sky.”
He paused to sip his pastis. “I hoped you were not in that explosion but I had no doubt that you were involved in some way.”
“It should have been me in that ultralight,” I said. “I feel responsible for both their deaths—Arundel and Suvarov.”
“You cannot blame yourself,” Pertois said firmly. “The man with the crossbow was also the explosives expert—he planted the plastique.”
“Tell me something … if Masterson hadn’t been killed, would you have had enough evidence to convict? With his money, he could have assembled a formidable defense.”
“My colleagues in the Huitième Bureau had been very active,” Pertois said. “They had compared dates and times of vessels in and out of the port of Ajaccio with the death by drowning of Andre Chantier. They interviewed all the officers and crew members of all those vessels. Among them was Windsong, M’sieu Masterson’s boat. Then one of our people investigating the theft of the crossbow from the museum at Porticcio found that one of the museum staff had heard of an ex-Legionnaire known to have participated in many crossbow contests. It was found that he was in the employ of the viscomte, who had recently bought the chateau to which you had gone.”
“Masterson received an urgent phone call last night from Gregali, the captain of Windsong. He must have been reporting your inquiries.”
“He was,” said Pertois. “We monitored the call.”
“You tapped his phone? Isn’t that unlawful?”
Pertois gave me a look of surprise. “Is it? I didn’t know that. Anyway, we are now making further interrogations of Windsong’s crew. So far, we have confirmed that Chantier and Morel had been on the vessel. More revelations will follow, I am sure.”
“Congratulations! You’re an ingenious group in that Huitième Bureau.”
“We are ingenious,” he agreed. “And you—you are very lucky…” He nodded over my shoulder and I turned to see Veronique and Simone approaching, both looking stunning. “Lucky to have two such lovely ladies here to bid you farewell. It might have been three”—I looked askance and he went on—“however Fraulein Monika is still in our custody and likely to remain so for some time.”
“What are you charging her with?” I asked curiously. “She was Masterson’s mistress, obviously, but since when has that been a crime in France?”
“Poof!” he said contemptuously, “of course it is not. But in such a position, she must know a great deal about his operations and we intend to detain her until she tells us all she knows.”
“Can you do that?”
His black eyebrows went up at least two millimeters. “Certainly! Why ever not?”
He finished his pastis and nodded to the waitress who was passing. He evidently had an “arrangement” here too. He rose to his feet and put on his cap. “Ladies,” he said, bowing to Veronique and Simone, “I must go. I have other crimes to attend to. I leave this fellow in your gentle hands. Please make sure that he does not miss his flight. If he stays in France any longer, I fear for the future of our wine industry.”