A Vintage End: The Paul Burke Mysteries

By D'Arcy Kavanagh

A series of bicycle races honoring the sport's history turns into a deadly puzzle for ex-pro cyclist and blogger/columnist Paul Burke. 

 

It's another beautiful day on the French Riviera until Paul Burke and a group of bicyclists participating in a vintage bike race come across a disturbing scene: two skeletons dressed in Nazi memorabilia linking major race sponsor Bosco Yablonski to one of the worst periods in history.

 

Although the authorities dismiss it as a hoax aimed at discrediting the sponsor, Burke isn't convinced. As he continues to cover vintage races for his newspaper, more bizarre incidents occur. And when two bodies turn up, Paul knows serious threats to Yablonski and the cyclists loom in upcoming events. But who would want to harm the race or its sponsor?

 

Paul soon finds himself involved in a mystery with deadly consequences as the vintage bike race escalates into a national news story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BHC Press
• Release date: Mar 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781643972886

Book preview

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Edited by Tori Ladd

Proofread by Jillian Lawrence

A Vintage End

Copyright © 2022 D’Arcy Kavanagh

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please write to the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by BHC Press

Library of Congress Control Number:

2021944650

ISBN: 978-1-64397-286-2 (Hardcover)

ISBN: 978-1-64397-287-9 (Softcover)

ISBN: 978-1-64397-288-6 (Ebook)

For information, write:

BHC Press

885 Penniman #5505

Plymouth, MI 48170

Visit the publisher:

www.bhcpress.com

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The Bastard Is Dead

For Keely, Lynda and George

my companions on countless

overseas cycling adventures…

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Provence, in the southern part of France, is a region famed for its scenic wonders, its historic importance and its ultural uniqueness. Its qualities have made it popular with visitors from around the world.

And those qualities have also made Provence an attraction for all kinds of cyclists, including cycling blogger-columnist Paul Burke. Four Provence communities are featured: Saint-Raphaël, Nice, Arles and Vaison-la-Romaine.

Nice is the largest with a population of about three hundred fifty thousand.

Vaison-la-Romaine is the smallest with slightly more than six thousand people.

Each has a spectacular setting.

Each has a history going back many centuries.

And each has a present that sometimes collides with the past.

As Paul Burke discovers.

TP_Half_FLAT_fmt40755

The leader of the vintage bicycle race followed the Mediterranean coastal road around the bend and studied the next stretch ahead. It wasn’t going to be fun. The road ramped up at a 10 percent elevation gain—a steep climb for anyone riding a new, lots-of-gears carbon fiber bike, but a nasty challenge for someone using an old-time steel machine with half the gears.

But that was fine since he had trained for the race and was well ahead of everyone, feeling strong on his 1970 Peugeot bike and cycling in flawless spring conditions—sunny, mild, no wind. Plus, the finish line in the French working-class resort of Saint-Raphaël was not much more than thirty kilometers away.

Ahead were two people sitting in lawn chairs under a beach umbrella by the roadside. There had been plenty of spectators along the out-and-back 110-kilometer-long route that had started in Saint-Raphaël, gone to Antibes and then backtracked along the winding, scenic coastal road. But for this patch, there was virtually no one around—except for this couple.

When he was seventy-five meters away, they seemed a little odd, as if they were frozen in motion. They were also wearing bulky clothes and strange-looking headgear.

When he was fifty meters away, the headgear resembled German helmets worn by soldiers during the Second World War.

At twenty-five meters, he could have no doubts about what he was looking at.

The two people weren’t people—not anymore.

They were skeletons.

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By the time Paul Burke came around the same bend a half hour later, there were three police cars, a police van and a few dozen riders congregated around the two skeletons in chairs.

Burke pulled to the side, joining the crowd. His friend André Rousseau did the same. They tried to get a good look at what was happening, but all the people made it difficult.

A few police were keeping the riders away from the scene. Everyone was clearly curious, but the scene was oddly quiet with people talking little or in hushed tones.

This doesn’t look good, Rousseau said to Burke.

Two officers started to push the crowd back while another two began staking out the area with yellow crime-scene tape.

You should continue your race, one officer told the onlookers. This is a police matter.

A few riders mounted their machines and slowly began pedaling away. One rider, thin, wiry and in his late twenties, was arguing with some race officials in a car, saying he had been at the front of the race, and now he couldn’t possibly win because he had to stay and talk to the cops.

The people in the car shrugged and said there was nothing they could do.

But I was going to win, whined the rider who had found the skeletons. His face was red as he pounded his chest, which was covered by a 1960s Renault Elf jersey with black, yellow and white stripes.

It’s up to the police, one of the race officials said. Besides, this isn’t really a competitive event. It’s for pleasure and camaraderie.

It’s still a race! snarled the rider.

Rousseau looked at Burke. So much for this being a fun outing.

Burke nodded. Then he saw an opening and pushed through the crowd. Rousseau followed.

They saw the two skeletons.

Damn! Rousseau said.

You can say that again, Burke said. Look at the cooler between the two skeletons, André.

Damn! Rousseau repeated.

On the large white cooler was emblazoned a blood-red swastika and a message that read: Courtesy of B.Y. International Travels Inc.

What kind of company is that? Rousseau added.

Not a reputable one unless this is some kind of bad joke.

As a former professional cyclist, Burke had seen hundreds of strange roadside scenes, many involving people in some kind of performance. He had also witnessed countless fans dressed in bizarre outfits during races: an individual running beside cyclists while inside a three-meter-high water bottle, a woman in full Viking regalia, a group of overweight males unfortunately sporting thongs and nothing else and, most celebrated of all, a German who made an international name for himself by showing up at races dressed as the Devil in a red suit and holding a trident. Burke knew there had been hundreds more bizarre figures and moments, but, as a racer, his concentration had largely been on the riders surrounding him.

He had never witnessed a scene with skeletons wearing Nazi uniforms, though. He expected Rousseau felt the same.

I know it’s illegal to display Nazi flags and uniforms in public, but this is still a large police turnout, said Rousseau, surveying the scene.

A swastika will do it every time.

Maybe it’s some kind of weird protest.

Burke knew protests had been a fact of life at major cycling races for generations for the simple reason they attracted media attention. But this wasn’t a major race, just an informal, fun event.

The police continued to push away the cyclists, but Burke and Rousseau held their ground.

You notice anything odd? Burke said, nudging Rousseau.

Besides they’re skeletons dressed in old German uniforms, wearing helmets from the Second World War and supposedly drinking from a cooler with a swastika on it?

Besides that, yes, Burke replied.

Well, they look like someone posed them—like a piece of unhinged artwork.

Burke nodded. Exactly. They look like they’ve been carefully arranged, uniforms, helmets and everything. Check out how their arms are gripping the sides of the chairs in the exact same way. Then check out how one skeleton’s leg is crossed at the ankle from the left while the other skeleton’s leg is crossed from the right. It’s all symmetrical.

Like whoever did this wanted to send some kind of message. But I don’t get the reference to B.Y. International Travels Inc. Who’s that?

No idea, Burke replied.

A couple of flics started to approach.

Stall them, André, Burke told his friend.

How?

Come up with something but just do it.

Rousseau moved forward and placed his bike like a barrier before the oncoming officers. Then he asked them what had happened.

One of the officers ignored the question and told Rousseau to move on.

That brief exchange gave Burke enough time to take out his smartphone and snap a couple of photos of the skeleton scene. He also managed a few seconds of video, hoping he wasn’t moving his hand too quickly to blur the images.

Hey, forget taking pictures! the other cop said to Burke. This isn’t some kind of show.

Burke smiled sheepishly and apologized. He had his photos and video, which he’d send shortly to François Lemaire, the editor of the small newspaper group which ran his blogs and columns about cycling. Burke didn’t know if Lemaire would be interested in the photos and video, but at least he was showing the newsman he was alert to events.

Burke and Rousseau turned and got out of police range.

A van shot up right beside them, and a TV camera crew jumped out. A moment later, a car featuring the logo of another TV station pulled over, and two men hopped out, one carrying a camera and the other a microphone.

This can’t help the race, Rousseau said.

Maybe that was the point, Burke replied.

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Burke texted the photos and video to Lemaire with a brief explanation about what was happening. He also sent them to the newspaper’s tech expert, Antoine Pastore, in case the editor wasn’t working.

Burke followed up with a phone call to Lemaire, but his boss didn’t answer. He tried Antoine and got him on the second ring.

What’s happening, Paul? Antoine asked.

Did you see the photos and video I sent you? Burke asked.

There was a moment’s pause, and then Antoine said, I just got them. What’s going on? Two skeletons dressed in German uniforms? A swastika on a cooler? Where are you? Aren’t you riding in that vintage bike race?

I am. During the race I bumped into these two skeletons by the roadside, Burke explained. I thought you guys might be interested.

Wait a minute, Antoine said.

Burke heard tapping of computer keys.

I just saw some posts on a couple of social media sites that said something was happening in your vintage bike race that involved Nazi memorabilia and skeletons, Antoine said. He paused for a moment. Now someone is saying people should check the race website.

More tapping, and then Antoine uttered an oath.

What’s happening, Antoine? Burke asked.

"It looks like someone has hacked into the vintage bike race website and right on the front page has written, ‘Bosco Yablonski—a heritage of shame and treason.’"

Burke knew the name. It belonged to the main sponsor, an extremely wealthy businessman with a love of cycling and a reputation for privacy.

I wonder if the race organizers know what’s happened, Antoine said.

I expect they will soon. By the way, have you heard of B.Y. International Travels Inc.?

Burke heard more tapping on the computer.

It’s a huge travel company specializing in all kinds of customized group trips, Antoine said. And it seems the B.Y. stands for Bosco Yablonski.

The main sponsor of the race.

One and the same. Just a second. The site’s just gone down. I expect someone alerted the race organizers, and they took the site offline.

I wonder how many people noticed the message, Burke said.

Good question, but I expect a fair number, Antoine replied. The message might have been up there for more than a few minutes. I expect the security on the race site was weak because their tech person never figured someone would want to hack into it.

Well, the scene here is probably going to be on TV soon. There are a couple of television crews filming away.

And I’m seeing some new photos and video showing up on social media.

Burke looked around and spotted several people, mostly riders, punching away at their cellphones.

Instant news.

Burke wondered how the mainstream media would treat the scene in front of him.

Is Lemaire around? Burke said.

He’s in the newsroom. He’s working with a reporter on this swastika-Yablonski thing.

So, he’ll run a story on it? Burke said, moving slightly to stay away from the nearest flics, who were once again moving the crowd.

Yes, but he’ll have to be careful with the possibility of libel. I’m no journalist, but I know what’s happening has danger all over it from a libel perspective. But Lemaire knows his stuff, so we won’t get into trouble with any lawyers for Yablonski—and I expect he has a few on his payroll.

There was a voice in the background, and Burke heard Antoine mention his name.

Paul, it’s François, came the editor’s familiar voice. I see you’ve sent some photos and video. Got anything else?

Burke said he didn’t. Lemaire replied he already had a reporter on the story, but it would help if Burke could get a quote or two from spectators and the police.

Get them to me as fast as possible, Lemaire said. You have your smartphone with you, right?

I do.

Then stop talking and get to work.

Lemaire ended the call.

Burke shook his head. This vintage ride had started so well with a couple of old-time champions cutting the ribbon to start the race, which had attracted almost a thousand riders of all ages with nearly everyone dressed in cycling gear dating from 1900 to 1970. Lots of old caps, goggles, wool jerseys and bicycles dating back decades. Two participants had even shown up on penny farthings although they had pulled out after just a kilometer. With a few thousand spectators plus several television crews filming the start, it had seemed like a big deal.

Now there was this scene.

Move on, move on, said a new cop, waving for Burke and Rousseau to get back on the road.

Burke told the officer his name and how he was a columnist and blogger for a small group of newspapers and websites running out of Antibes.

You’re also on TV, right? That sports panel show? the officer asked.

That’s me, said Burke, knowing his face had become recognized after he had started a gig on a sports show on a Nice TV station a few months before.

I like the show, the cop said. I like what you say, too. Good work.

Once again, Burke couldn’t believe how his life had changed in a year. Before that, after retiring as a pro cyclist, he had been living a lazy existence, unwilling to do much beyond writing the occasional column or blog, and watching his bank balance dwindle. Then he had gotten involved in murders connected to the Tour de France and, suddenly, he had discovered new character traits within himself as he helped solve the crimes. And with his involvement in those investigations, Burke had also seen his public profile expand with more writing assignments and then the Nice TV show.

Burke thanked the officer and asked if he could get a comment or two from an investigating officer. The cop scratched his chin and 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 was 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, 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.

Do you think this is 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. The swastika and Nazi uniforms are prohibited from display.

And what about the skeletons? 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, we’re talking about some serious criminal charges.

Isn’t it a little odd to have an inspector like you come out to something like this? 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.

Why did he think that?

I expect it was because of the Second World War uniforms worn by the two skeletons. 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. They were just in the neighborhood, 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.

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

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 becoming very bizarre.

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

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

They ended the call, and 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.

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Back on their bikes, Burke and Rousseau rode toward Saint-Raphaël, discussing what they’d 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 thought they were looking at social media for the latest comments.

You’ve gone silent now, Paul, Rousseau said. What are you thinking about?

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. The part that really puzzles me is why someone goes to all this effort to damage Yablonski’s name with vague references to the Nazis. If the person has something, why not go to the mainstream 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 distrusts the mainstream media. Maybe the person expects there’s no chance a big newspaper or TV network will do anything about a powerful businessman.

Maybe.

The person may also believe 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.

That makes sense, Rousseau said.

If I was to guess, I think we’re looking at someone under thirty, 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.

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. Someone had to do that. Overall, I think we’re looking at three individuals at least, probably four.

Burke could see his friend was 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. It was a reasonable question since, nine months before, 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 murders of a well-known businessman named Yves Vachon and his bodyguard.

It’s my longest ride by at least thirty kilometers, 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 partner Hélène, he had responded 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 part of Villeneuve-Loubet just outside Nice, 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 ten kilometers, which left him exhausted but thrilled at being able to handle a bike again. He was rebuilding his muscles and stamina.

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; the popularity was so great that one Italian TV station had done a thirty-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 professional racing season began and were open to anyone who could ride a bike made before 1980. Participants were urged to dress in old-time cycling gear; the older the look, the better.

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

Well, you’re looking strong on the bike, Rousseau told Burke. Actually, you’re doing better than I thought you would.

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

There were times when it seemed like you didn’t want to get over the next hill.

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

Then they were on the final climb, a short, steep rise. Burke wanted to finish with a flourish, so he stood on the pedals of the 1968 ten-speed Peugeot that André had found for him, and to his surprise, he passed several riders.

Where did that come from? asked a gasping André after they’d reached the top.

I wanted to see what I could do, Burke said.

Ten minutes later when they rode under the finish-line banner on the promenade, Burke grinned. He’d overcome near-fatal injuries, and although he’d never reach the physical heights he had before the murder attempt, he felt fit and strong.

Pulling over, Burke turned to Rousseau and hugged him. All around were people doing the same.

Burke pulled out his phone and took some photos and videos. It was a remarkable scene. Many of the riders had bikes older than his and most were wearing woollen jerseys that predated 1960. Some participants even looked like they belonged to the 1920s with old leather helmets, bulky sweaters and plus-four trousers. Everyone was smiling.

That was fun, Rousseau said, bending toward Burke to make himself heard in the post-race din. The next one in Nice should be even better. And you know, Paul, we should consider doing the third one in Arles.

Burke was looking forward to the event in Nice, which was a few minutes from old Villeneuve-Loubet, where he and Hélène lived. As for Arles, he wasn’t sure. His schedule was loaded, and he didn’t know if he wanted to push himself to do three races on successive weekends. He felt good, but he was still on the mend.

Burke’s thoughts were interrupted when he heard 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’d heard. His friend was staring back at him.

Burke tapped away on his cellphone. 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.

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