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Then he remembered that Antoine was singing the role of Jesus. A burly man, he had wide and powerful shoulders from a lifetime of paddling and manhandling canoes. He led the way through the thickening market crowd and back to the river, suddenly aware that most of the choir seemed to be following, along with Father Sentout.

Passersby and some of the stallholders looked up at the swelling line behind Bruno, and with the automatic curiosity that draws a crowd when people sense a drama unfolding they joined behind. Soon they were clustering at the side of the bridge as Bruno and Antoine spotted the vessel they were expecting tracing lazy circles as it drifted with the current. Among them, camera at the ready, was Philippe Delaron from the photography shop, who doubled as the local correspondent for Sud Ouest.

Bruno groaned inwardly.


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  • A ghoulish newspaper photo of a corpse in a boat was not the image of St. Denis that he or the mayor would seek to portray. They used them for hunting wildfowl in the old days before they built the dams upriver, when we still had wetlands with the flooding every spring. Bruno had forgotten they still made them. And it might still get stuck on the sandbank. Follow me.

    Three fishermen sat on their folding stools, each watching his own float and casting the occasional sidelong glance to see if his neighbors were having better luck. None of them seemed to pay much attention to the crowd on the bridge. Patrice half turned and eyed Antoine sourly. He mumbled something through closed lips. It was something Bruno had seen the baron do when they went fi shing. Maggots were sluggish in the chill of the morning, and a devoted fisherman would put some in his mouth to get them warm and energetic enough to attract fish once they were on the hook.

    He paused, squinting against the sun. That probably explained the amount of time he spent fishing, Bruno had often thought. He had learned back in his army days that a little flattery was the easiest way to turn a reluctant conscript into an enthusiastic volunteer. Across the river, a white open-topped sports car with sweeping lines raced around the corner of the medical center to the bank where the trailers parked. It braked hard and stopped, wheels spitting up gravel. A fair-haired young man climbed out dressed as if for tennis in the s.

    He wore a white sports shirt and cream trousers with a colorful belt and ran toward the riverbank shedding his shirt. He paused on the bank to remove his white tennis shoes. Her face was pale and her hair covered in a black turban. The way she moved made Bruno think of a ballerina.

    She advanced to the bank beside the fair-haired man, and they looked upriver as if trying to assess when the punt might be in reach. The man began wading into the shallows as Bruno called out to him to stop. Patrice had his line out of the water. This will be a hell of a cast. But something close to three feet tall and black was standing up in the punt, almost like a very short mast.

    Antoine shrugged when Bruno asked him what it might be. Bruno heard cheers and whistles coming from the crowd on the bridge as the young man plunged deeper, assuming that the shallows ran all the way to the sandbank. Patrice tensed, lifted his rod over his head and cast high and far.

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    Bruno watched as the line snaked out and the hook and sinker landed just on the far side of the punt, and held. The man in the water suddenly stopped. He must have reached the sandbank. He stood and staggered across it to where the punt was fast moving out of his reach and launched himself into a desperate, flailing dive almost as if he wanted to land inside the punt itself. One hand landed hard on the fl at rear corner, and the punt rocked so that water slopped over its side.

    As the punt tipped toward him, Bruno caught a glimpse of the woman, her fair hair glin Convert currency. Add to Basket. Death On the Marais. Adrian Magson. Death On the Pont Noir. October Death On the Rive Nord. A Taste for Vengeance. Martin Walker. The Corpse with the Silver Tongue. Cathy Ace. Erasing Memory.

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    The Devil's Cave : Bruno Chief of Police : Book 5

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