The Dave Bliss Quintet (40 page)

“Everyone thought the Nazis dumped the stuff they stole from the Jews in some lake in Austria,” Marcia explains, “but they didn't. They sent it by train to the château in St-Juan —”

“And packed it in Roman amphorae,” concludes Bliss, as the Dali turns into a Monet and everything becomes clear. “Then they took them by subs or small boats to secluded offshore islands where they could dig them up after the fuss had died down.”

“If the fuss did die down,” says Johnson's widow.

“And if they survived,” adds Marcia.

“I guess they didn't,” continues Bliss. “But how was Jacques involved?”

“I zhink I know,” says Daisy. “His father was in zhe château. Maybe he sees what zhey are doing. Maybe he tells Jacques....
Non
, Jacques is just a
bébé.”

“The winds!” exclaims Bliss. “Jacques knows all the winds.” He turns to Daisy. “How many of the winds did you know?”

“Zhe mistral and sirocco,” she says, then shrugs. “
Bof
.”

“Precisely,” says Bliss. “But Jacques knew them all. I bet his father made sure he knew them — maybe he wrote them down for his son.”

“He left a map,” explains Marcia. “Morgan saw it, but all it showed was the names of the winds. They didn't understand it.”

Daisy reaches out for Bliss's hand and beams at him. “But you did,
Daavid
. You understood it. You found zhe treasure from zhe map.”

“It was fairly obvious,” he says, shrugging off the compliment. “So, how did they find the treasure then?”

“Luck,” pipes up Johnson's widow. “Just pure bloody luck. Typical of Morgan, that. He drops a dodgy pot in the sea, pulls out a real one, and then finds it's stuffed with gold.”

“Won't do him any good now, though, will it?” scoffs Marcia.

“Easy come, easy go,” says Bliss. Then, with the combined widows of the Holocaust, the Château Roger, and the London policemen in mind, he adds, “I suspect it'll make a lot of old women happy, though.”

Mention of merry widows leaves Daisy questioning, “What about your book,
Daavid
?”

Twenty minutes later the small craft are stowed on the
Mystère
's deck, Jacques is stowed in a secure locker, and Captain Jones has fired up the engines. Bliss and Daisy are back on the foredeck and looking out for rocks as the vessel slowly edges its way out of the channel and away from the island of Gargalo.

“What about “Zhe Truth Behind zhe Mask,'
Daavid.
What will you do?” persists Daisy.

With the manuscript lost and the Château's victims still on his back, he's already decided to drop the idea. He'll stay in the police force — assuming Richards does-n't find a way to squeeze him out. The senior officer was so infused with anger when Bliss called him by ship's phone to tell him of Johnson's demise that he sounded close to breaking.

“Edwards bloody walked,” Richards lamented. “You really screwed up, Bliss. The first time we've had anything concrete to lever the bastard out, and you —”

“Hang on, Guv,” Bliss shouted. “Is this being recorded? I wouldn't want you slagging the chief superintendent off.”

The line died with a
bang
.

“That wasn't so bad,” he told Daisy with a smirk, following the call. “I've decided not to publish the book,” he informs her disingenuously, reluctant to admit that he's been whipped by the mistral and a bunch of misguided faith-keepers.

“But who was the
l'homme au masque de fer?”
she wants to know.

“He is … He is …” He smiles. “He is just like the prisoners of St-Juan — immortal. And he will remain so
unless some meddling historian or novelist discovers the château and makes public his name — but not me, Daisy. If your mother can keep a secret for sixty years, so can I.”

“Zhank you, zhank you,” she calls delightedly and kisses him on both cheeks — twice.

Policemen line the quayside in Calvi, and a small flotilla of commandeered craft ride their wake as Captain Jones, with a clean shirt and freshly combed hair, brings them alongside with the aplomb of a royal yacht commander.

Jacques isn't talking, but by the time Bliss and Daisy have outlined the evidence to the local police chief his future seems secure. Marcia Grimes and Petra Johnson share the same police car and are still bickering over which of their kids killed Johnson. Natalia went down with the
Sea-Quester
, and a doctor is peering into Nathaniel Johnson's eyes in the hope of finding something — anything. Captain Jones lunched on a particularly filling Côtes du Rhône and is examining the inside of his eyelids as Bliss gives final directions to a Police Nationale dive team on the quayside.

“We should be able to leave soon,” he tells Daisy, as the officers pore over the map of Gargalo island.

“OK. I get some food.”

“Hang on, Daisy,” he calls as she heads to a quayside store. “Don't buy the
spécialité de la Corse
— I know what it is.”

The sun is setting as the
Mystère
eases off the Calvi quayside and heads for the open sea.

“Phew … what's that stink?” asks Bliss, nosing around in the galley as Daisy prepares supper.

“It is
fromage
— cheese,” she says, as she takes the plate out on deck. Her face falls. “You no like?”

“Cheese, I like. But that smells like —”

“It is
brebis.”

“Oh,
merde
! Not the dreaded
brebis
?”

“Well you told me not to buy zhe donkey.”

“But not zhat. Not
brebis
.”

Daisy smiles. “You said, “zhat.'”

“
Non
.”

“
Oui.
You said, “zhat.'”

“
Non. C'est ne pas possible.
”

“
Oui
.”

“
Non. Moi, j'ne parler français pas
.”

“
Oui
,” she laughs. “You speak French like zhe Spanish cows.”

A flight of gulls and a school of dolphins escort them as they head northwest under a sapphire sky, towards home and the Côte d'Azur. The tempestuous winds of summer have abated and the soft balmy air brushes over them like billows of feathery down. The descending sun sets fire to the horizon and is slowly extinguished until only a warm memory remains. The adventurers stand on deck in awe as the heavens turn on the stars and light the moon. Venus — the evening star — shimmers so brilliantly above the western horizon that the slender shaft of its light touches them as they glide across the indigo sea.

“I'll be back,” whispers Bliss, and he heads to the bridge to see if he can slip a bottle of liquid sunshine out from under the old sea dog's nose.

“An occasion like this demands champagne,” says Captain Jones, digging a fine Krug out from his supply.

“Thanks,” says Bliss, assuming that it'll go on the bill. “Would you like some?” he asks, as he selects some glasses from a fiddle rack.

“No thanks — already eaten,” laughs Jones, adding, “We should be in St-Juan in about nine hours.”

Bliss leans forward and eases the twin throttles back to the halfway mark. “I'm not in any rush — John Smith is paying.”

Daisy is radiant in the glow of the moon as Bliss slips a CD in the player and emerges onto the aft deck with champagne and glasses. “Love walked in,” starts Brubeck, as Bliss pops the cork and pours.

“
Daavid
,” she queries, “why you no like me?”

“I do,” he protests as he gives her a glass. “I like you very much, but my mind has been on so many other things.”

“And now … now zhose zhings are gone, maybe you will have zhe time for me …
oui
?”

“Listen,” he says, tenderly taking her hands and gazing into her eyes.

No one touches the volume control, but as the CD starts the next track the music slowly swells above the swish of the bow wave and the gentle burble of exhausts.

“It is beautiful,” whispers Daisy. “What is it?”

“Dave Brubeck,” he says, smiling as he gently pulls her towards him with a kiss readied on his lips. “It's Dave Brubeck playing “When You Wish Upon a Star.'”

With particular thanks to Mr. Dave Brubeck for his inspiration and for the five decades of listening pleasure he has given to the world. My thanks to you, Dave, and to Richard Jeweler, for your kind permission to centre this novel around your music.

My gratitude goes to Mme Beatrice Deroide of Provence for her tireless effort in straightening out my French.
Merci bien, Beatrice.

Author's Website:
www.thefishkisser.com