The Templar Cross by Paul Christopher Read Free Book Online Page B

over almost a hundred miles,” said Rafi from the backseat. “He can’t be making much money.”
    “It’s the last stop that’s the important one,” said Japrisot obscurely.
    Valador climbed wearily up into the Citroën and drove off. He headed for the service road that led to the parking lot on the other side of the overpass. The little truck disappeared.
    “Where the hell is he going?” Holliday asked.
    “Watch,” murmured Japrisot.
    A few minutes later the van reappeared. The gold lettering on the side of the truck had been covered by a magnetic sign that read Camille Guimard—Antiquaire, 28, rue Felix Faure Le Suquet, Cannes.
    “Who’s Camille Guimard?” Rafi asked from the “Who’s Camille Guimard?” Rafi asked from the backseat.
    “Felix is,” said the French policeman. “In Marseille Valador is a smelly fisherman. In Cannes he is a sophisticated antique dealer named Guimard. Une grandes blague, n’est-ce pas? A neat trick, yes?”
    “And Le Suquet?” Holliday asked.
    “Like El Souk in the Kasbah of Marrakech,” explained Japrisot as Valador’s transformed Citroën rattled by. “The old quarter of the city, up on the hill.” He put the Peugeot in Drive and followed the van at a discreet distance. Ten minutes later, driving along the Boulevard du Midi at the water’s edge, they reached Cannes and Le Suquet, a rabbit warren of narrow, twisting streets that rose up from the stone quays of the Old Port to the formidable square tower of the eleventh-century castle built by the Cistercian monks of Lerins.
    “Cistercians again,” said Rafi after Japrisot explained the geography. “They’re everywhere.”
    “Pardon?” the Frenchman asked, frowning.
    “A private joke,” said Holliday.
    They followed the Citroën around the harbor then turned up the lush treelined boulevard of rue Louis Pasteur and started to climb the hill. Valador turned right onto rue Meynadier. They crossed the wider rue Louis Blanc, then turned abruptly into an alley that seemed to take them down the hill again. It was fully dark now but Japrisot was driving with only his parking lights.
    “I’m lost,” said Holliday.
    “I’m not,” said Japrisot.
    “We’re going around in circles.”
    “It’s the one-way streets,” said Japrisot, cocking one bushy eyebrow. “They’re everywhere.”
    The policeman slowed and they watched Valador turn right and disappear from view.
    “He’s getting away,” said Rafi.
    “No, he’s not,” answered Japrisot, his voice calm. He cracked his window, flipped out his cigarette butt and lit another. Holliday had long ago lost track of how many the burly man had smoked, but strangely enough he found himself enjoying the rich earthy scent of the tabac noir . They waited in the alley for almost ten minutes. Holliday could hear Rafi fidgeting in the backseat. The French cop smoked. Finally Japrisot glanced at the illuminated dial of his wristwatch.
    “Bien,” he said and nodded. “On y va . ” Let’s go. He eased the shift back and they rolled slowly out of the alley. According to the sign they were now on the rue Felix Faure, another one-way street, this one lined with small shops. Japrisot slid the Peugeot into a parking space on the far side of the street. At the end of the block Valador was unloading the van. He was parked in front of a narrow shuttered storefront, unloading the last of the fish boxes. Beside the store, taking up the entire corner, was the awning-covered façade of a restaurant with a brightly lit green and yellow sign that read Huitres Astoux & Brun .
    “An oyster bar,” said Holliday, realizing that they hadn’t eaten since lunch in Marseille.
    There were a dozen or so plastic tables under the white fabric awning, all empty. A fat man in a long white apron was chaining plastic stacking chairs. The restaurant was closing.
    “What now?” Rafi asked.
    Japrisot shrugged.
    “We wait. We smoke. Perhaps we talk about women.” He paused and smiled. “Who