He went inside and took a thick wad of money out of his jacket pocket, counting the bills on the bed. $9,635 and 2,200 francs. He owned the villa free and clear, but selling it would take time. He would have to meet with realtors. And he owned twelve expressionist paintings and a couple dozen others that were, depending on their authenticity, worth either a fortune or nothing. But selling the paintings — going through an auction house or a gallery — would probably take even longer than selling the villa. He knew it was time to leave.
At 4:30 the manager of the service garage phoned to tell Hess his car had been towed to the lot but there was no way to check its functions without the ignition key. Hess said he would bring the key in the morning.
He waited until he was sure the garage was closed before he went to find Marie-Noëlle. She was folding clothes in the laundry room on the lower level.
“I need your help with something.”
“Yes, of course, monsieur. What can I do for you?”
“Drive me to pick up the car. They have it at the garage.”
“Monsieur, are you sure? I can take Claude if you would rather not.”
Forty
Cordell had parked on the street in Antibes. Harry saw Hess walk into the restaurant at 12:10, and now all they could do was wait. At 2:40 Harry was getting concerned. He glanced at Colette and Cordell and said, “What do you think?”
“The French take their time eating but this is ridiculous,” Colette said.
“Maybe he’s not in there,” Harry said. “Slipped out, we didn’t see him, or went out the back.”
“What I was sayin’ earlier. Dude might’ve made us and took off.”
Colette glanced at Harry. “And leave the painting, a priceless work of art?”
“Unless it isn’t,” Harry said. “I’m going in.”
Harry got out of the car, waited for traffic to clear and crossed the street. Looked in Hess’ car. Nothing. He went into the restaurant and scanned the dining room. Only half a dozen tables were occupied and Hess wasn’t at any of them. He checked the men’s room. It was empty. He walked out and went around the block. There was an alley behind the restaurant. Hess could’ve walked through and come out here. But why?
Harry went back to the car. Cordell was on the sidewalk smoking a Davidoff. “Let me guess. Isn’t there, is he?”
“Where’d he go and why’d he leave his car?” Harry said, and saw Cordell focused on something across the street.
“Harry, check it out.”
Harry turned and saw the tow truck parked behind Hess’ Renault.
Colette rolled the back window down. “Maybe this explains it.”
“Maybe.” But Harry didn’t think so. “If Hess had car trouble he would’ve called a tow truck right away and stayed there.” Leaving the painting was another thing that didn’t make sense. He watched the tow truck lift the back end of Hess’ Renault.
They followed it to Nice and up the winding roads into the hills, past Hess’ villa to a garage on the outskirts of the village. They waited in a wooded area across the street from the garage until dark.
“Harry, we know where the man lives, what’re we doin’ here?”
Colette offered to go to the village and get food and coffee. “Let’s just give it a few more minutes,” Harry said.
And then he saw the Fiat drive in, the housekeeper in the spaghetti-western hat behind the wheel, and someone sitting next to her.
It was dark when they arrived in the village, the shops lit up. People picking up food on their way home from work, coming out of the bakery carrying baguettes, coming out of the butcher shop with cuts of meat wrapped in brown paper. Trucks and automobiles parked and double-parked, monsieur alert, looking about.
Marie-Noëlle pulled into the lot and put the car in neutral. The bay doors were closed, the lights off. Monsieur’s Renault was parked on the side of the building.
“I think it is not going to work today, monsieur. I can bring you back in the morning.”
“Where do you live?”
“Just down there.” She pointed north. “Half a kilometer.”
“Is your husband at home?”
“No, monsieur. Henri is delivering parts to Flins, gone for three days.”
“Show me your house.”
Marie-Noëlle glanced at him, wondering if he was serious.
“You have worked for me ten years. I want to see where you live.”
She was nervous now, riding with her boss to an empty house. They were alone in the villa much of the time and he had never made a pass at her. So what was this all about?
“How long have you been sleeping with Claude?”
Marie-Noëlle could feel herself blushing. How did he know that? They had been so careful. “Monsieur, I get lonely.”
“It’s all right. I understand. But Claude? I think you can do better.”
Monsieur sounded as if he was offering himself. But why now? And why her? She was thinking about the German model he had brought to the villa one time, tall and beautiful. She turned off the main road, monsieur staring at her legs working the pedals.
“There it is,” she said, slowing down, pointing to her small stone house, embarrassed, but this was where she lived. “Monsieur, have you seen enough? I can take you back.”
“Let’s go in.”
“Ah, monsieur. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what? We are friends, aren’t we?” Marie-Noëlle didn’t see it that way. He owned the villa, and she worked for him. What was going on?
She drove to the house, parking near the side entrance, her heart pounding now. She opened the door, waited for him to get out and come around the car. She unlocked and opened the door to the house, and they went in. It was completely dark. Marie turned a lamp on in the salon, removed her hat, hung it on a hook and fussed with her hair, self-conscious about the way she looked.
“Are you going to give me the grand tour?”
“Monsieur, there are only four rooms. Come this way.”
Hess followed her into the kitchen that had a wide stone fireplace against one wall, a small refrigerator and a simple wooden table in the center of the room.
“May I offer you something, cognac, Pernod?” She didn’t have anything up to his standards, but had to ask.
“A little Pernod would be nice.”
Hess didn’t believe in coincidence. He had to be sure. He didn’t see the silver Peugeot when they had passed through the village. He didn’t see it when they drove to the garage, or to Marie-Noëlle’s house. But when they came out a little after eight there it was parked on the street between two cars.
They were turning onto the main road, Hess looking in the side mirror, when he saw the Peugeot’s lights pop on, and the car swing out and follow them. Marie-Noëlle was driving, a lipstick-stained cigarette butt clamped between her teeth, window open halfway, cold air blowing in. He had thrown down a quick glass of Pernod at her house as she sat across the table from him, nervous, keeping her distance. Then she had offered to drive him back to the villa.
Forty-one
Colette pulled over. Harry and Cordell got out and crossed the road and stood at the wall in front of Hess’ villa. No car had passed by for several minutes. Cordell hoisted him up and Harry grabbed the tile cap, went over the top of the wall and dropped down in the garden twenty feet from the front door. Harry crouched, listening, heard a dog barking in the distance.