On a hunch, after a moment I followed her. I sat down at the far end of the bar and motioned to the bartender. “That lady?” I inquired.
“The Countess La Roche?”
“Ah. Yes. I thought that’s who it was. We met two seasons ago . . .” I let the sentence trail off. “Bring me a very dry vodka martini with an olive,” I told him.
The Countess La Roche, Christian name Denise, was one of the three possibilities I’d uncovered before. I decided to be blatant about my approach. When the barkeep brought my drink, I got up, strode down the length of the bar, and sat down right next to her.
“Why, hello there,” I greeted her like a long-lost friend. She stared at me haughtily and made no reply.
I pretended I hadn’t noticed the ice that was forming. “And where’s Armand?” I inquired. “Playing chess, I suppose, as always.”
That struck a responsive chord, and the ice melted a bit. “Of course,” she replied. It came out bitter. “Have we met before?” she remembered to add.
“I’m devastated.” I tried to look devastated. “You don’t remember. . . ?”
“I’m sorry . . .” I’d succeeded in flustering her. “You do look familiar, but . . .”
“It was right here, Countess. Two years ago.” I gambled.
“I’m sorry, M’sieur. You must be mistaken. This is our first visit to the Grand Palais.”
“I meant here on the Riviera.” I tried for a recovery.
“I’m afraid not.” The frost was creeping back into her voice.
“Surely you’re mistaken. You are the Countess Denise La Roche, are you not?”
“Oui, but—”
“And your husband is the Count Armand La Roche, who is an inveterate chess player?”
“It is an obsession with him; that is true.”
“Well, then!” I spread my hands as if I’d successfully completed an equation in logic.
"But who are you?” Her eyes were dancing now. She’d gone the full route. She knew damn well that I was trying to pick her up, she’d paid lip service to her station, and now she was allowing herself to be intrigued.
“Steve Victor. Now do you remember?”
“Not in the slightest.” A mischievous smile softened her lips.
“It’s the story of my life,” I sighed. “The Reader’s Digest will doubtless run it under the heading ‘The Most Forgettable Character I Ever Met.’ ”
“Surely you exaggerate. If we had met before, I’m sure I’d remember.”
“You’re merely being polite,” I said morosely. “You’ve forgotten me. But I could never forget you. Such a lovely lady forsaken by a husband who would rather play chess.”
“It is a sickness with him.” Now that she’d found a sympathetic ear, she let the question of our former acquaintanceship go by the board. She was working on her second stinger, and that also helped. “There are times when I wonder why he married me. He should have married Bobby Fisher. He’d rather play chess than--than— than, well, anything!”
“Anything?” I shot her my most insinuating look.
“Yes! Anything! You’ve no idea, Mr. . . .”
“Victor.” I repeated the name. “But I’d like it if you’d call me Steve. And I’ll call you Denise, if that’s not too presumptuous.”
“I suppose not— Steve. Anyway, the nights I lie in bed all alone because Armand would rather play chess than…”
“The man is insane!” I sympathized. “But surely if he is so blind, there must be other alternatives open to a woman as attractive as yourself.”
“You move very quickly, and you are frank, aren’t you, Steve?”
“Your charms have made me impetuous, I fear.”
“Ahh! It’s been a long time since I’ve been paid compliments like that. Three years, to be exact. Since I married Armand. Ever since then it’s been nothing but talk of ploys and gambits and mating.”
“Mating?”
“Checkmating. Of the other kind, there has been a dearth.” She sighed and motioned to the bartender for another drink.
“I don’t play chess.” I looked deep into her eyes. I sensed that she was nibbling at the bait, and there seemed no reason not to push it. Hell, time was of the essence. Once I’d scored with her myself, I figured I’d be in a good position to lead up to the matter of Ali Khat and his harem. “But I do play other games. The mating game for instance . . .”
“I like a man who comes right out and says what’s on his mind.” She took my hand in hers and held it warmly. Her cheeks were flushed and the liquor working on her.
“If I could trust you to be discreet . . .”
“Steve Victor!”
A hand like a T-beam landed on my shoulder and spun me around on the barstool. I found myself looking up at the craggy, browned face of the Australian competition, Archibald Snoopleigh. “Oh, hello, Archie.” I returned his greeting with something less than enthusiasm. His timing was lousy-—-lousy for me, that is. He couldn’t have picked a worse moment to interrupt. I wondered if he’d been eavesdropping and done it deliberately. “What are you doing here?” I asked him.
“Same as you, bucko. Blimey, doesn’t that say we’re both pros though? We know what streams to fish, rain-right! Well, come on now, Steve. Mind your manners. Introduce me to the lady.”
There was no avoiding it. I performed the introductions. And that killed my game. Archie stuck it out until dinner, and there was no chance to pursue the amorous line I’d struck with the Countess.
When her husband finally tore himself away from the chess game and fetched her for dinner, Archie excused himself and I was left to eat by myself. I sat across the dining room from the Count and Countess. But neither of them paid any attention to me. I decided I’d just have to bide my time until Armand got caught up in another chess game. Then, perhaps I could get Denise alone and pick up where we’d left off before.
But, as it turned out, that wasn’t necessary. As I was having my coffee and dessert, the waiter came up to my table and discreetly handed me an envelope with a note inside it. I slipped it under the table, removed the note, and read it surreptitiously.
It was from the Countess Denise. It was frankly amorous and contained explicit directions. Her husband would be playing chess all evening. There was an unused summer cottage about fifteen miles away which could be reached by a dirt road, although the last mile would have to be walked. It was very secluded and we could be alone there. She would be waiting for me there with trembling eagerness.
I gazed across the dining room at her and nodded. She pretended not to notice. I admired her coolness. If a lady is planning to cuckold her husband, there’s no sense advertising it.
I finished my coffee and went out to the front desk where I arranged to rent a car. The liaison was for eleven o’clock, which left me time for a short after-dinner nap before I had to set out. I didn’t want to get involved with Snoopleigh, and it was undoubtedly smarter to stay away from Denise until we were alone. So I slept, and awoke feeling refreshed and eager to keep my appointment and perhaps push on to the ultimate business I was contemplating with Denise.
That dirt road was murder! It was as rutty as a cross-plowed field! The drive took me twice as long as I’d anticipated. And when I got out of the car, I discovered that the path leading up to the cottage was a sheer forty-five-degree angle of slimy mud. I arrived at the darkened cottage feeling somewhat less than sparkling clean. Where mud had failed to blemish my clothes, sweat had succeeded. And I was panting more from exertion than passion.
The front door was open. I entered the cottage and called out, “Denise?”
“In here.” The answer came from the back of the place.
I stumbled through a dark hallway until I came to an equally pitch-black room. “Denise?” I called again.