A Vintage End Read online

  Burke thanked the officer and asked if he could get a comment or two from an investigating officer. The cop scratched his chin and then nodded. He glanced around before resting his gaze on a gangly man who had just shown up in an unmarked car.

  “That’s Inspector Bonnier. Come with me and I’ll see if he can give you a moment or two. He’s usually happy to talk with the media – if you get my meaning.”

  Burke thanked him again. He left his bike with Rousseau and followed the uniformed officer over to Inspector Bonnier whose suit seemed two sizes too large for him.

  The cop made the introductions and Burke saw how Bonnier’s face switched from stern to interested.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Burke,” the inspector said, offering a bony hand to shake. “You are racing in this event?”

  “I am,” Burke said. “But the race has taken a new turn with these two skeletons.”

  Bonnier nodded and said he had little information since he had just arrived.

  “Is this some kind of practical joke?” Burke asked, pulling out the small notebook and pencil he now carried with him everywhere, even when cycling.

  “It most likely is, but it isn’t a funny one,” said Bonnier, frowning. “When we find out who did this, they will face charges. A swastika and Nazi uniforms are prohibited from display.”

  “And what about the skeletons?” asked Burke. “They don’t look that old. In fact, they seem a little juicy in spots, as if they’ve been pulled out of the ground recently. If they were from some kind of lab at a hospital or university, they’d be much cleaner, wouldn’t they?”

  Bonnier shrugged. “If they are stolen, then we’re talking about some serious charges.”

  “Isn’t it a little odd to have an inspector like you come out to something like this?” Burke said. “And why so many police?”

  “I was in the area and one of the first officers here thought this might be more than a prank,” Bonnier said.

  “Why did he think that?”

  “I expect it was because of the Second World War uniforms worn by the two skeletons,” Bonnier replied. “We will investigate. That’s all I can say now. As for the overall police presence, two of the vehicles were on the race route to provide assistance in case the race organizers needed it. So, they were just in the neighbourhood, you might say.”

  “And you have no idea about where the skeletons came from?” Burke asked.

  “As I said, we will conduct an appropriate investigation,” the inspector said.

  Burke asked for the spelling of his name. Bonnier was pleased to provide it, adding his first name – Daniel.

  Then Bonnier excused himself and Burke returned to Rousseau.

  “I’ll just call Lemaire to give him a quote or two, and then we can get going again,” Burke said. “No more than two minutes.”

  Rousseau nodded and Burke called his editor back, providing a couple of the inspector’s harmless quotes.

  “By the way, Paul, there’s a lot of activity on social media about what you’re looking at,” Lemaire told Burke. “We’ll be busy the next day or two seeing how it all plays out.”

  “What does that mean?” Burke asked.

  “I expect a lot of people are digging around trying to figure out what’s behind the scene with the skeletons and swastika, and the personal attack on Bosco Yablonski.”

  “This is bizarre,” Burke said.

  Lemaire agreed and told Burke to think about a blog that looked at the day’s events.

  “Get it to me by 9 tomorrow morning,” Lemaire said. “That way, it’ll flow nicely out of whatever happens between now and then. It won’t get lost in all the social media fireworks about the race.”

  They ended the call.

  Burke turned to Rousseau to retrieve his bike.

  “You said this was bizarre,” Rousseau said. “I’d say someone out there is a little crazy.”

  Or trying to make something happen, Burke told himself.

  Chapter 4

  Back on their bikes, Burke and Rousseau rode toward Saint-Raphaël, chatting about what they had seen by the roadside. Several times, Burke heard other riders discussing the same topic. A few cyclists were even checking their cellphones as they pedaled and Burke would have wagered they were looking at social media for the latest comments.

  “You look lost in thought, Paul,” Rousseau said.

  “I’m trying to figure out why there was that swastika and why there was that comment on the race website about Yablonski having a background involving shame and treason,” said Burke as the race route turned toward the southeast corner of Saint-Raphaël. “Do you have any ideas, André?”

  “Not one,” Rousseau replied. “The part that really puzzles me is why someone goes to all this effort to blacken Yablonski’s name with vague references to the Nazis. If the person has something, why not go to the traditional media? Maybe try a national newspaper or some TV station.”

  “I’ve wondered about that, too,” Burke said. “I think we’re looking at someone who has a distrust of the mainstream media. Maybe the person expects there’s no chance a big newspaper or TV station will do anything about a powerful businessman.”

  “Maybe.”

  “The person may also recognize that his proof isn’t strong enough and if his identity is ever revealed, he’ll get sued by Yablonski for everything he and his family own,” Burke said.

  “That makes sense,” Rousseau said.

  “If I was to guess, I think we’re looking at someone under 30, with a distrust of mainstream media, a belief in social media and the computer skills to hack into a website.”

  Burke saw Rousseau nodding.

  “I also think we’re looking at more than one person,” Burke said. “To put up that display before anyone came by meant having to work quickly. It would have probably taken too much time for just one person to do it.”

  “It was definitely arranged with care,” Rousseau said.

  “And it would have been wise to have a lookout or two to warn the others about any oncoming vehicles,” Burke added.

  “So, two or three persons?”

  “And don’t forget the hack into the race website,” Burke said. “Someone had to do that. Overall, I think we’re looking at three individuals at least, probably four.”

  Burke could see his friend considering the argument for a group of four.

  “By the way, how are you feeling?” Rousseau said.

  Burke didn’t mind the change in topics since his mind was spinning from different theories about the skeleton scene and the website hack. He also knew it was a reasonable question since, nine months before in July, Burke had been stretched out in a Nice hospital bed with a shopping-list of broken bones. His near-fatal injuries were the result of being run off a road by a man and his mother eager to eliminate Burke from asking too many questions about the murder of a well-known businessman named Yves Vachon.

  “It’s my longest ride by at least 30 kilometres, but the legs are feeling good,” Burke replied.

  However, it had been a struggle reaching this level of fitness and there had been times when he had questioned whether the effort was worth it, considering everything that had happened since the attempt to kill him.

  After almost a month in hospital, Burke had been released. Under the care of his new partner Hélène, he had started to respond to therapy, getting about at first with a walker and then crutches and, finally, a cane. Hélène, who ran the Café de Neptune in the old village, never relented in her support for Burke, encouraging him and sometimes even goading him to get better. Three months after his release and to the surprise of his doctor, he had been able to walk – slowly – without any aid. But there had been a lot of pain and a great deal of frustration along the way.

  In mid-November, on a cool, clear morning, he had tried cycling again, riding with André and Hélène for 10 kilometres which had left him exhausted, but thrilled at being able to handle a bike again. Slowly, he began building his muscles and st
amina.

  And then came the announcement of a series of four vintage bike races across southern France, the first ones to be held in the country. Similar races had been held in Italy to a great response from both participants and spectators; the popularity was so great that one Italian TV station had done a 30-minute special on the final race to solid ratings. The French had noticed and decided to follow the Italian example.

  Burke had read that the idea behind the vintage bike races grew out of the decades-long boom in old-time car rallies across the continent. If it could work with cars, why not with bicycles?

  With sponsors, led by Bosco Yablonski, jumping on board quickly, the French events were planned for spring before the main part of the professional racing season began and were open to anyone who could ride a bike made from before 1980. Participants were also urged to dress in old-time cycling gear; the older the look, the better.

  And when André Rousseau had heard about the races, he had started to push Burke to join him in entering. At first, Burke had been reluctant but, gradually, he had built up his confidence until he finally agreed to join his friend, who owned a top-notch bike shop in Nice, on at least a couple of the vintage races.

  “Well, you’re looking strong on the bike,” Rousseau told Burke. “Actually, you’ve been better than I thought you’d be.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Burke said with a smile.

  “Well, there were times when it seemed like you didn’t want to get over the next hill,” Rousseau said.

  It was true, Burke knew.

  “I know and I’m grateful for all your support, André,” he said. “Without you and Hélène, I wouldn’t be doing this.”

  Then they were on the final climb, a gentle rise by the Mediterranean and along a strip featuring large homes and small resorts. Burke wanted to finish with a flourish and so he stood on the pedals of the 1968, 10-speed Peugeot that André had found for him. To his surprise, he almost immediately passed several riders.

  “Where did that come from?” asked a gasping André from behind.

  “I like to finish strong,” Burke said as they crested the hill and began the last four kilometres down the other side and along a flat road before ending at the race finish by the promenade.

  When they rode under the finish-line banner, Burke felt he had truly accomplished something. He would likely never reach the physical heights he had before the murder attempt, but he felt reasonably fit and strong.

  Pulling over, Burke turned to Rousseau and hugged him.

  All around were people doing the same. Everyone it seemed was in a mood to celebrate.

  As he looked around, Burke also felt he had gone into a time warp back to the 1950s or earlier. Many of the riders had bikes older than his and most were wearing woollen jerseys that pre-dated 1960. Some participants even looked like they belonged to the 1920s with old leather helmets, bulky sweaters and even plus-four trousers.

  “That was fun,” Rousseau said, bending toward Burke to make himself heard in the post-race din. “We definitely have to do the next one in Nice. We should also go to the one in two weeks in Arles.”

  Burke nodded. He’d ride the Nice event which would be shorter at 80 kilometres, but hillier. It would also be close to neighbouring Villeneuve-Loubet where he lived in the old quarter with its beautiful stone buildings and intriguing, twisting lanes. After the race, he’d leave the hustle and bustle of the French Riviera for the small, quiet community that had won his heart a few years before. It was a plan.

  Burke overheard two riders talking about the scene with the skeletons.

  “I see lots of speculation on social media that those two skeletons relate somehow to Oradour-sur-Glane,” said one of the riders staring at his cellphone.

  “Why are they making that connection?” his friend responded.

  “Someone said the Saint-Raphaël website has just been hacked with someone writing about Yablonski’s heritage involving Oradour-sur-Glane.”

  Burke turned to Rousseau to see if he had heard. His friend was staring back at him, looking surprised.

  Burke quickly dug out his cellphone and went online. He hoped he could see Saint-Raphaël’s hacked-in website before someone took it down.

  And there, across the top of the community’s front page, were the words: “The Yablonski heritage – greed, profiteering and Oradour-sur-Glane.”

  Burke knew the attack on Yablonski’s character had just intensified – a lot.

  Born and raised in Canada’s largest francophone community of Montréal, Burke hadn’t been living in France long before learning the story of Oradour-sur-Glane, a small village near Limoges, most of whose inhabitants – 642 civilians including 205 children – had been massacred by Nazi soldiers on June 10, 1944. After the war, the French government had ordered the destroyed village would remain untouched as a memorial and a reminder. Then, in the autumn of 2013, the leaders of the French and German governments had jointly visited the site as a way to mourn the past and solidify their joint future. Burke, when he had watched the TV news of the two leaders meeting at the ruined village, had wondered why it had taken almost 70 years to make the joint pilgrimage.

  “What’s going on here?” Rousseau said.

  “Good question,” replied Burke who was equally puzzled.

  “I mean, this is just some small bike race and now we have people making a connection between one of the main sponsors and Oradour-sur-Glane,” Rousseau said. “It’s more than a little odd.”

  “A connection between Yablonski and Oradour-sur-Glane definitely seems bizarre,” Burke said. “I’m not sure I believe it. I’ve never heard anything bad about him although, to be honest, I don’t spend much time reading the business sections of newspapers.”

  “Maybe someone in his past profited by what happened at Oradour-sur-Glane,” Rousseau said. “But why not come right out and mention Yablonski’s background? Give the details to the world.”

  “Maybe because the person or persons don’t have enough facts and are afraid of being sued,” Burke said. “If you stay anonymous, you stay safe, so to speak.”

  “Do you think the mainstream media will be all over this?” Rousseau said. “There are definitely enough newspapers and TV stations that have shown they like nothing better than bringing down someone big and important – like Yablonski.”

  “I’m wondering about that, too,” Burke said.

  “And why now? Why not go after Yablonski last year or 10 years ago or even earlier?” said Rousseau.

  “That’s another good question, André,” Burke said.

  Rousseau shrugged and then smiled. “All this stuff about Yablonski and the race and the Second World War has left me hungry,” he said. “Let’s get something to eat at the participants’ tent.”

  Burke was hungry, too, and he agreed. He’d get some food and, when he had finished eating, he’d give Lemaire another call.

  A vintage bike race and Oradour-sur-Glane?

  Burke remembered the classic line in Alice in Wonderland: Curiouser and curiouser.

  It seemed to apply to the Saint-Raphaël vintage race.

  Chapter 5

  Lemaire took Burke’s call a half hour later, and said he and his staff were busy following what had happened with the inaugural vintage bike race in France.

  “I’ve got Antoine monitoring what’s on social media and I’ve got a reporter digging into any connection involving Oradour-sur-Glane,” the editor said. “So far, nothing.”

  Burke had some doubts about what they would dig up. If there was a connection, no one had found it yet. Or maybe just one person – or one small group – had.

  “Paul, I want you to get some comments from organizers,” Lemaire said. “Take some photos and video and send them, too. The sooner, the better. We’ll post what you give us on the website and on our social media. And don’t forget your blog for tomorrow. By the way, is Yablonski there?”

  “I don’t know what he looks like, but I’ll check,�
� Burke said.

  “OK, get busy,” Lemaire said.

  They rang off and then Burke asked Rousseau to look after the bikes while he went looking for Yablonski and some quotes. Rousseau nodded, grabbed Burke’s Peugeot and strolled off toward some benches.

  Burke worked his smartphone for a couple of minutes and found an online photo of Bosco Yablonski. He was a stocky, strong-looking man with short brown hair and intense blue eyes. He wore what looked like a grey Armani suit that looked out of place on him.

  Burke put away his phone and, with his notebook and pencil in hand, went exploring.

  When he overheard some riders chatting about the skeleton scene, Burke stopped and got a couple of quotes plus their names. He snapped a quick photo of them, too.

  Then he moved toward the stage where a couple of dozen people, mostly male and mostly in suits, were busy talking. He scanned the faces for some familiarity and spotted Yablonski who was wagging an index finger in the face of a younger man who just kept nodding. It was clear the businessman was upset.

  Burke stood below the stage and tried to get Yablonski’s attention, but he had no luck. He was just another face in a crowd of a thousand faces.

  Then he went to the side and climbed the stairs.

  He got to within two metres of Yablonski when a husky man in an ill-fitting suit stepped in front of me.

  “Where are you going?” the man asked.

  Burke waved his notebook and told the man who he worked for, putting a little righteous indignation into his voice to help his cause.

  It didn’t work.

  “Monsieur Yablonski is very busy right now and can’t be disturbed,” the man said, offering a humourless smile.

  “But it’s just for one or two questions,” Burke said.

  “Not a chance,” said the man moving closer to Burke who instinctively took a step back.