Caravan to Vaccares

Epilogue

Beneath the frowning cliffs of Les Baux, the Baumanière slept peacefully in the light of a yellow moon. Bowman, sitting on a chair and sipping a drink, lifted an eyebrow as Cecile emerged from a room, tripped and almost fell over an extension cord. She recovered herself and sat beside him.

‘Twenty-four hours,’ she said. ‘Only twenty-four hours. I just can’t believe it.’

‘You want to get yourself a pair of spectacles,’ Bowman observed.

‘I have a pair of spectacles, thank you.’

‘Then you want to wear them.’ Bowman put a kindly hand on hers. ‘After all, you’ve got your man now.’

‘Oh, do be quiet.’ She made no attempt to remove her hand. ‘How’s that young girl?’

‘Tina’s in hospital, in Arles. She’ll be around in a couple of days. Her father and Madame Zigair are there with her now. The Hobenauts and Tangevecs are having dinner inside. Not a very festive occasion, I should imagine, but I would say they must be experiencing a certain sense of relief, wouldn’t you? And Pierre des Jardins, by this time, must be home in Le Grau du Roi.’

‘I can’t believe it.’ Bowman peered at her, then realized that she had been only half listening to him and was now on another topic altogether. ‘He – he’s your boss?’

‘Charles? He is indeed. Nobody believes anything about Charles. I’m ex-Army Intelligence, ex-military attaché in Paris. I’ve got another job now.’

‘I’ll bet you have,’ she said feelingly.

‘The only other person who knows anything about this is Pierre, the fishing-boat skipper. That’s why he maintained such a marvellous sangfroid. He’s sworn to secrecy. So are you.’

‘I don’t know if I like that.’

‘You’ll do what you’re told. Charles, I can assure you, is much higher up the pecking order than I am. We’ve been together for eight years. For the last two years we’ve known that Iron Curtain gypsies have been smuggling things across the frontier. What, we didn’t know. This time, of all people, the Russians tipped us off – but even they didn’t know what was really happening.’

‘But this Gaiuse Strome–’

‘Our Chinese pal in Arles and elsewhere? Temporarily held by the French police. He was getting too close to things and Charles had him copped on a technicality. They’ll have to let him go. Diplomatic immunity. He arranged it all – he’s the Chinese military attaché in Tirana.’

‘Tirana?’

‘Albania.’

She reached into her handbag, brought out her glasses, looked at him closely and said: ‘But we were told–’

‘We?’

‘Lila and myself, we’re secretaries in the Admiralty. To keep an eye on you. We were told that one of you was under suspicion–’

‘I’m sorry. Charles and I arranged that. There we were, a goodie and a baddie. We could never be seen together. We had to have a channel of communication. Girl-friends chatter. Girls get on the phone to their bosses back home. We had the channel.’

‘You fixed all this?’ She withdrew her hand. ‘You knew–’

‘I’m sorry. We had to do it.’

‘You mean–’

‘Yes.’

‘Strawberry birthmark–’

‘Sorry again.’ Bowman shook his head admiringly. ‘But I must say it was the most complete dossier I’ve ever seen.’

‘I despise you! I detest you! You’re the most utterly contemptible–’

‘Yes, I know, and I’m not worried. What does worry me is that so far we’ve only managed to fix up two bridesmaids and I said–’

‘Two,’ she said firmly, ‘will be quite enough.’

Bowman smiled, rose, offered her his hand and together they walked arm in arm to the balustrade and looked down. Almost directly beneath them were the Duc de Croytor and Lila, seated at, inevitably, a loaded table. It was apparent that Le Grand Duc was under a very considerable emotional strain for despite the fact that he held a paper-sheathed leg of lamb in his hand he was not eating.

‘Good God!’ he was saying. ‘Good God!’ He peered at his blonde companion’s lovely face from a distance of about six inches. ‘I turn pale at the very thought. I might have lost you forever. I never knew!’

‘Charles!’

‘You are a Cordon Bleu cook?’

‘Yes, Charles.’

‘Brochettes de queues de langoustines au beurre blanc?’

‘Yes, Charles.’

‘Poulet de la ferme au champagne?’

‘Yes, Charles.’

‘Filets de sole Retival?’

‘But of course.’

‘Pintade aux morilles?’

‘My speciality.’

‘Lila. I love you. Marry me!’

‘Oh, Charles!’

They embraced in front of the astonished eyes of the other guests. Symbolically, perhaps, Le Grand Duc’s leg of lamb fell to the floor.

Still arm in arm, Bowman led Cecile down to the patio. Bowman said: ‘Don’t be fooled by Romeo down there. He doesn’t give a damn about the cuisine. Not where your friend is concerned.’

‘The big bold baron is a little shy boy inside?’

Bowman nodded. ‘The making of old-fashioned proposals is not exactly his forte.’

‘Whereas it is yours?’

Bowman ushered her to a table and ordered his drinks. ‘I don’t quite understand.’

‘A girl likes to be asked to marry,’ she said.

‘Ah! Cecile Dubois, will you marry me?’

‘I may as well, I suppose.’

‘Touché!’ He lifted his glass. ‘To Cecile.’

‘Thank you, kind sir.’

‘Not you. Our second-born.’

They smiled at each other, then turned to look at the couple at the next table. Le Grand Duc and Lila were still gazing rapturously into each other’s eyes, but Le Grand Duc, nevertheless, was back on balance again. Imperiously, he clapped his hands together.

‘Encore!’ said Le Grand Duc.