Two laps into the next training session, Annette distracted him by saying, “Someone very good is on our tail, and I think I know who it is. Hang on tight.”
Bruno hadn’t thought it was possible to go any faster, but Annette raised her pace. Still, he was starting to anticipate each place on the paper roll by the way she shifted gears and braked and by the direction of the g-force upon him at each bend. He learned to start reading out the next instruction as she accelerated out of each bend and to brace his legs to stop the paper from ballooning when the car briefly took flight as she topped each hill.
“He’s very good,” he heard Annette say as Bruno’s tailbone made him wince when she slammed through a dip in the road. “He’ll be the one to beat.”
Bruno saw her eyes flick to the rearview mirror and was amazed that she could spare time or attention for anything but the road ahead. He felt he had never gone so fast in his life and had never heard anything louder than the roar of the engine as she pushed the tachometer into the red zone. But he kept up his commentary on the road ahead and felt he was beginning to know the route well enough to take the occasional brief glance at the road.
“That was our fastest yet,” said Annette, slowing and braking to turn into the assembly area. “I think we’ll be fine. How do you feel?”
“I feel very grateful we have air bags,” he replied. “As long as they’re working, I’ll be okay.”
She turned to him in surprise as the car drew to a halt. “They aren’t working. We have to dismantle all the air bags for serious rally cars. Some of the jolts we take when we land after a hillcrest would trigger them.”
Now she tells me, thought Bruno, trying to keep his face from revealing his dismay.
Half-a-dozen rally cars were already gathered, most of them with their hoods up, drivers leaning over their engines. Small knots of spectators were strolling around the cars, and Philippe Delaron, the local Sud Ouest correspondent, was taking photos, posing excited small boys against the cars.
“What about that car behind us?” Bruno asked.
“There won’t be a car behind us in the rally. We race against the clock, not against one another. That would be too dangerous. Here they are now.”
A white Volkswagen pulled up sharply beside them, two figures inside, unidentifiable in their crash helmets. The driver pulled off his helmet, and Sylvestre’s face emerged.
“I didn’t know you went in for this sport,” Sylvestre said to Bruno while waving at Annette. He called across to her, “I bet you’ll be the fastest woman on the circuit. But where’s George?”
“He’s sick,” she replied calmly. “Bruno stepped into the breach. He’s my secret weapon. Go too fast, and he’ll give you a speeding ticket.”
As Sylvestre smiled and drove off, Bruno’s mobile rang. He had to release his seat belts to get to it and saw it was Fabiola.
“I’m at the funeral parlor, looking at the late Monsieur Hugon,” she said. “I can’t see much out of the ordinary. He’s been dead at least thirty-six hours, maybe more. And the undertaker washed him down and cleaned him when he arrived, so there’s no body waste to examine. There’s some interesting irritation around the nose and mouth and in his throat. It could be no more than a cold, and he was certainly a prime candidate for a heart attack.”
“Gelletreau was treating him for heart trouble,” said Bruno.
“I’m not in the least surprised. In fact, I’d have been surprised if he wasn’t being treated for it. He’s very overweight and florid, so he must have had high blood pressure. There are nicotine stains on his fingers, so I assume he was a fairly heavy smoker. I found a bit of bruising that could well have happened when he collapsed. Are you sure this is a suspicious death?”
“No, I’m not sure, but there are some circumstantial things that worry me.” Bruno explained his doubts about the absent file and notebook.
“I see.” She paused and then said, “I presume you asked for an autopsy. What did J-J say?”
“He was reluctant but said to ask if you could take a look to see if you thought an autopsy was justified.”
“Not so far, it isn’t. But I’ll take some swabs and get back to you. Will you be at the rally, watching Annette? I may see you there.”
“You certainly will, and you may get a surprise.” He laughed, closed the phone and looked at his watch. It was noon; there would be no more time for practice laps.
“Tell me what happens in the real race,” he said to Annette.
“They already drew lots, and we go off fifth. That’s good because the track and corners won’t be too badly roughed up. There are twenty-four contestants, and we start at three-minute intervals. Those who finish first and second in this regional heat qualify for the national championship. Can I buy you some lunch? I need a sandwich.”
“No, thank you. I think I’d lose it on the first turn.”
“Make sure you drink some water, though. We need to meet up by one-thirty. Regulations require flame-retardant gear, just in case, so you’ll need to change. I’ve got them in the back along with George’s overalls, which should fit you. Can I drop you somewhere?”
“Drop me in town. Give me the clothes, and I’ll change in the mairie. We can meet there later. I ought to show my face at the Alsace market first, just to say hello to the various stallholders. You could get something to eat there.”
“Good idea, but stay away from the wine kiosk,” she said with a smile. “I want you keeping all your wits about you, so not even a taste of Riesling, please. But I’ll buy you a bottle after the race.”
The midday sun was warm, and the square in front of the mairie was full of people gathered around the dozen or so stalls. Annette paused at one that was offering embroidery and lace, oven gloves and aprons with Alsace motifs. She bought a set of tea towels, murmuring to Bruno that she felt she ought to support them. Bruno leafed through a picture book at a stall run by the Alsace tourist board, recognizing one of the old concrete forts from the Maginot Line that he’d visited with Thomas and Ingrid. He pointed it out to Annette.
“That’s just outside the town,” Bruno said. “It’s a museum now with a good account of the battle that took place there. The French held out for two days. You can see it had two turrets. The Germans knocked out one with artillery and the second with an attack by Stuka dive-bombers.”
“I thought it was supposed to be impregnable,” she said.
“Nothing is impregnable. The Germans simply went around it and invaded through Belgium, while half of the French army was locked up in the Maginot Line, barely able to get involved in the war.”
They walked on, glancing at a stall where Alsace sausages and cheeses were being sold. Bruno greeted his friend Stéphane, the cheese maker, who was tasting the wares while chatting with his visiting counterpart. The busiest stall was the one offering tastings of Riesling, Sylvaner and Pinot Gris. Bruno heard his name called. It was Thomas, who had been called in to help the stallholder cope with the demand.
“A glass for you, Bruno?”
He gestured at Annette behind him and called back, “Not when I’m driving.”
Annette bought herself a flammküchen. Every table on Fauquet’s terrace was taken, but Bruno bought two bottles of water, and he and Annette walked over to the stone balcony overlooking the river. She asked about Fabiola’s call, saying it sounded like it could mean work for her or some other magistrate. It was too soon for that, Bruno said, but told her of his concerns over Hugon’s death.
“Was that an overweight, elderly man, used to work for the archives in Périgueux?” she asked. Bruno nodded. “I knew him. We hired him from time to time to do research on cases, tax issues mainly. He was a perfectionist and had a very good reputation. I can’t imagine him not keeping all his notebooks up to date.”
“His wife may have ditched them to try and avoid tax claims,” he replied before drinking some water from his bottle. “But she was very open about what he was being paid for the latest job, and there were a thousand euros in his wallet. If she was worried about taxes, I think she’d have pocketed the money before I turned up.”
“I hardly think she’d have been thinking about taxes if she walked in to find her husband dead. How long were they married?”
“Over forty years.”
“And what was he working on?” asked Annette, finishing her flammküchen and pouring some of the water onto her hands before drying them with a paper napkin.
“It’s not clear, but it had something to do with the war and the Resistance,” Bruno said. “I’ll try to find out what he was researching at the archives. Maybe that’s where he left the missing file and notebook.”
Bruno stood up as he saw the mayor heading toward him, waving to friends right and left as he bustled through the crowd. He began speaking from five meters away.
“I hear you’re going to be taking part in the race, so good luck to you both, but a couple of things have come up,” he said. He apologized to Annette and then took Bruno’s arm and led him a few steps away, his voice dropping to a murmur.
“First, there’s Jérôme’s amusement park—he wants to buy some land from the town to enlarge the place and put in some new attractions. Could you go see him and get an idea if it’s the kind of thing we should approve? He doesn’t want to go to the expense of hiring an architect and getting a survey done if it doesn’t have much chance of getting past the council.
“Another thing: that fellow with the Bugatti, Sylvestre Wémy, buttonholed me this morning to ask for my help regarding some property his grandmother left him. You know the place, that pretty chartreuse on the road to the St. Chamassy cemetery.”
The term meant “charterhouse,” but in this part of France it was used for a historic building that was larger than a manor house but not quite big enough to be called a château. It was usually a long, low building just one room wide with a single floor, although sometimes there were mansard windows to allow small bedrooms in the roof. Sylvestre wanted to turn the place into several expensive apartments and then sell them, the mayor explained. But the inheritance was divided between him and the St. Denis side of the family, and some kind of family feud had now developed. Sylvestre was hoping that the mayor might find some way to resolve matters, since St. Denis stood to lose the extra property taxes and the prospect of employment for gardeners and cleaners.
“You know the family, the Oudinots. He’s a stubborn old devil. Could you go and see him, Bruno, and find out what the problem is from his side?”
Fernand Oudinot and his wife, Odette, were in their early sixties and still ran their farm raising ducks and geese; they also kept bees and ran a very productive walnut plantation. Bruno knew Fernand through one of the local hunting clubs, and he had a soft spot for Odette. She used her own honey and nuts to make the best tarte aux noix in the district; although she had shown Bruno how to make it, he could never get his pastry to turn out like hers.
“I’ll find out what the problem is, but I don’t want to get involved in a family quarrel,” Bruno said. “I’m too attached to Odette’s tarte aux noix.”
“So am I,” said the mayor. “But I had a call from my colleague in Alsace, one mayor to another, asking if I could help. You know how it is.”
Bruno nodded and said, “I’ve got to do this rally first, but I can talk to Sylvestre later and then see the Oudinots tomorrow. They’re decent people. And I’ll go and see Jérôme, too.”
“There’s no rush on the amusement park. If you could get us a preliminary report for the next council meeting, that would be fine.” Returning to Annette, the mayor kissed her cheeks as he wished her luck in the race. “Just don’t damage our town policeman. He’s got too much to do.”
“I’ll do my best,” she said, looking at her watch. “And now Bruno and I have to get into our driving clothes.” They went into the mairie to change, Bruno using his office and Annette the ladies’ room. They emerged in white Nomex overalls, all but their hands and faces covered in the material. They got some startled glances as they walked back to the car.
“I’m not sure I can operate that paper roll if I’m wearing gloves,” he said.
“I’m the same—I hate driving with gloves. And don’t forget to hit the stopwatch when we start because I’ll have my hand on the gearstick.”
They went through the ritual of shaking hands with the other drivers before getting into the Citroën, donning their helmets and heading for their place in the queue of cars lined up before the start. The lead car took off at the marshal’s signal. Bruno felt his heart pounding as they rolled forward to the starting line. He looked across at Annette, wondering if he should wish her good luck, but settled for the all-purpose French word that team members exchanged at the start of a rugby match.
“Merde,” he said.
“And merde to you,” she replied, her voice sounding odd through the headphones. A second later the marshal’s arm flashed down to release them. Bruno hit the stopwatch on the dashboard and was then rammed back into his seat by the acceleration, Annette taking off faster than ever before, and began reading from his roll.
“Eighty meters on tarmac then a ninety-degree left turn onto gravel.” He remembered the phrases and the sequences as she slammed the car into a skidding turn.
“Forty meters straight to a sixty-degree left turn into a dip. Watch for the bad camber…”
And on it went, his body lifting and then slamming back down, jerking from left to right. He tried to brace himself with only his feet, which were pressed hard against the bulkhead. Annette’s hands were braced on the steering wheel, but his were occupied by the roll. He knew when the straightaways were coming and, from time to time, could risk a quick glance at the road.
“Ninety-degree right turn at the bottom of this slope and onto tarmac for two hundred meters…”
A blur of faces marked the turn, the people safely sheltered behind hay bales. They were waving, but because of his helmet he could hear nothing except the howl of the motor and the new thrust as the turbo kicked in. Then almost at once she was braking for the next bend, and he was telling her to watch for the tunnel after a thirty-degree right turn.
He almost lost it once when the paper ballooned up and he had to use his knees to hold it down in the well of the car, but he found his place just in time to warn Annette of the next bend.
“Beware of water in the dip at the bottom of this slope, then make an immediate ninety-degree left turn going into the S-bend…”
As she hammered the car around the sharp turn, he was aware from the corner of his eye of another car on its side in the ditch along the side of the road.
Then they were through the S-bend and onto gravel, a short straight stretch rose steeply ahead, and then they seemed to sail through the air for a long second before slamming down and into a sixty-degree left turn with a bad camber. There were more faces and hay bales and a short straightaway with a banner over the road and a marshal holding a checkered flag. She went past him at high speed and began braking hard as Bruno hit the stopwatch. It read 15:08. Fifteen minutes and eight seconds. Annette had said they would have to beat fifteen minutes in order to win.