“The property is registered in the uncle’s name?”
“As far as we know,” Colette said.
Gascon looked at her quizzically. “The system of land registration in France is cadastre. It is maintained by the French public land registry under the auspices of the tax authority, the Direction Générale des Finances Publiques.”
Gascon might as well have been speaking Chinese for all Harry could understand.
“To find the owner of a specific plot, you must consult the matrice cadastrale. You go to the local land registry, the Centre des Impôts Fonciers.”
Harry said, “Is it in Nice?”
“Yes, of course, Nice. On rue Joseph Cadei.”
They took a taxi to the office, waited an hour for the only clerk who spoke English. Gilles, a young longhaired Frenchman, escorted them to an office and sat across a table from them. Harry explained who they were and what they wanted.
“What proof do you have that M. Chartier is your uncle? How do I know you are related to this man? Do you have a passport? A birth certificate?”
Harry could see they weren’t going to get anywhere with this guy unless he took a chance. “I have something better than a passport.” He slid a wad of francs across the table. The clerk stared at the money, Harry wondering what he was thinking.
There was a long silence and then the clerk picked up the bills and put them in his pocket.
Harry said, “Where is the corniche des Oliviers? I don’t see it.” The concierge studied the map that was open on the mahogany hotel counter and pointed to an area north of the city. “You do not see the street name because it is not there. But here you see route de St Pierre de Féric?” The concierge traced the road with his index finger.
Colette leaned in close.
“This road becomes the one you look for.” The concierge pointed again to show Harry. “Right here, past the church.” Harry looked at the maze of winding roads. “How do we get up there?”
“You see boulevard Gambetta?” The concierge pointed to a heavier line on the map that went straight up from the Mediterranean. “Take this to boulevard du Tzarewitch, go left and follow this.” He highlighted the route in red marker.
Harry thanked the man and gave him a ten-franc note and folded up the map. He and Colette sat on a couch in the lobby that was always crowded, always full of people walking around. Harry said, “Are you ready?”
“What are we going to do?”
“Drive up and find the villa.”
“And then what? Are you going to ring the bell?”
“I haven’t gotten that far.”
Colette frowned.
“If you don’t want to come–”
“I want to, I’m just nervous, wondering what’s going to happen.”
“Probably nothing. First we have to find it. Then we’ll decide what to do. How does that sound?”
“Okay, Harry. I’ll be your navigator.”
The valet brought the Peugeot and Harry drove along the promenade des Anglais, past the joggers and walkers and blue-and-white beach chairs lined up facing the water. “This is it,” Colette said, the map spread open in her lap. “Turn right.”
Now they were on boulevard Gambetta passing shops and cafes, markets and bakeries. He went left where Colette told him to turn and they climbed a steep incline in a residential neighborhood. He went left again and then right on avenue du Dauphine, climbing higher into the hills on a narrow winding road that didn’t look wide enough for two cars. Driving alongside a brick wall about five feet high added to his feeling of claustrophobia. Harry saw a bus approaching and got over as far as he could. The bus passed inches away. Harry let out a breath. They went around a blind 180-degree turn and through a one-lane brick tunnel, halting at a stop sign at the top of a hill. Harry looked at Colette. “You have any idea where we are?”
“Harry, this is it, this is the road, turn right,” Colette said, looking up from the map.
He turned and they drove up a steeper stretch of road. Out the right side he could look down the valley and see the city of Nice spread out stretching all the way to the Mediterranean. They were on route de St Pierre de Féric. Harry saw a church on the left, and according to the concierge, the road now turned into corniche des Oliviers. Fifty yards further on, Colette pointed to her right and said, “There, Harry.”
He hit the brake and saw number 26 on a black metal gate, the entrance to the villa. Driving by he could see the top floor set behind a six-foot wall made of stone. Harry wanted to stop but there was no place to pull over. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw a truck bearing down on them and sped up. Just ahead they came to a small café on the left and pulled in.
“Harry, I can’t believe we’ve found him.”
They’d been lucky to say the least, lucky Anke Kruger had remembered the name Vincent Chartier, and lucky they’d been able to trace the property through tax records. But it didn’t prove Hess was living there, and if he wasn’t there, where was he?
Harry convinced Colette to drop him on the road near the villa.
“I want to go with you.”
“You can’t. There’s no other way to get close. Give me twenty minutes, I’ll meet you at the cafe.”
“I have a bad feeling about this. I think we should come back with Cordell.”
“I just want to see what the place looks like. If I’m lucky Hess will be sitting outside reading a book. I’m not going to take any chances.”
Harry got out of the Peugeot just north of the villa at 26 corniche des Oliviers, using the wall for cover. He walked to the entrance. Looking through an opening in the gate he could see the villa, built on the side of a hill on two levels. The upper level was where you entered. The lower level opened to a deck with lounges and a long dinner table and chairs on one side and a swimming pool on the other side.
Harry saw a stocky woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat, cape and scarf come out of the house and walk toward a Fiat parked on the driveway just inside the gate. Harry moved north along the outside wall, walking on the road. He saw a car approaching and turned his back. He heard the gate open and saw the Fiat drive out heading south, and on impulse, he ran back and slipped through the gate as it was closing and ducked behind the garage.
From this vantage point, he could see across the valley, clouds resting on higher hills in the distance. Looking south he could see the red tiled roofs of Nice and beyond it the Mediterranean. Stone stairs led to another level of the property. There was a small shed or cottage at the bottom of the slope. Harry went down to the pool deck. The afternoon sun was slanting through the sliding glass doors and he could see into the house. It was a big room with a lot of furniture, and no one appeared to be in it. A wall overflowing with flowering plants ran north parallel to the villa. A man in a work shirt was trimming a palm tree on the far side of the property.
Harry went back up to the garage and followed the stone walk — looking down at the pool — to the main entrance, assumed the door was locked but it wasn’t. He opened it and stepped into a small marble entryway. Stood listening, but heard nothing. There were two bedrooms on his left. There were stairs that went up and stairs that went down. He went down into an office that had a desk, chair and typewriter. He could see the gardener through the window, wiping his brow and then drinking water out of a bottle.
He sat and opened drawers and found envelopes addressed to Vincent Chartier, a phone bill that listed calls — though nothing long-distance from Germany or the U.S.. He found a water bill, tax bills, bank statements. Okay, so Vince lived here, but he already knew that or assumed it. What was his connection, if any, to Hess?