I walked for a couple of kilometres around to the next bright lights spot, the Baie des Pecheurs, and then back again. A brasserie not far from Gabriel Rosito’s tower advertised itself as ‘Friendly to Aussies and Kiwis’. I’m not proud. I took a seat and had a very good fish dinner with a small carafe of wine for not much more than you’d pay in Glebe Point Road. Better wine too, and great coffee. The waitress was tall, slim and beautiful in that cool French way, and her English was good so that I didn’t have to stumble through the menu. The other diners were mostly tourists, Brits and others, with some locals thrown in.
I sat over the coffee longer than I would normally as the crowd thinned a bit, so that I’d have a better chance of spotting anyone taking an interest in me. I didn’t. There were two ways back to the hotel-around the point on a well-lit footpath with the bay on the right, or across a stretch of rough ground that looked like a car park undergoing reconstruction. Less light. I had the Swiss army knife with me and I opened the small blade and kept my hand on it in my trouser pocket as I crossed the shadowy space. My mind was inventing scenarios the way it does: whoever attacked me in Sydney would send someone to have a go here-Rosito was Master’s enemy and would put someone on my track-the whole Master thing was a fake and I was being set up as a pawn in some bigger game. Such things had happened before and probably would again. Not just now. I reached the street lights on the other side untouched by anything except the salty evening breeze.
People were taking the air along the beachfront and there were even a few in swimming. The local people sat in groups on the grass looking contented. Most of the women wore a long dress that looked to be inspired by the missionary-style Mother Hubbard, but they’d jazzed them up with bright colours and different trimmings. They looked good and if I’d had a woman at home I’d have brought her back one, but there was no candidate.
When I was younger I would’ve set out for the other tower or the marina or had a look-in at the nightspots Master had mentioned in his letters. My ex-wife Cyn had complained about my late hours or, rather, my early hours, which was usually the time I arrived home when I was working on a case. I could still do it when I had to, but after an international flight and the amount of work I’d done, as well as a certain lack of urgency associated with the job, I was ready to call it a day. It wasn’t as if Master was scheduled for execution. In fact, when I thought about it as I climbed the stairs at the hotel, he really hadn’t seemed all that unhappy to be where he was. Or maybe I wasn’t reading him right. He was a con artist, after all.
The hotel contained several restaurants and bars and there was some activity in all of them and some late night frolickers in the swimming pool. I was tired and my mind was drifting. Cyn and I hadn’t had a honeymoon. Both too busy. I’d gone to holiday places with other women. To Bali with Helen Broadway. To Port Douglas with… who? Cyn might’ve liked this place. She could’ve exercised her schoolgirl French. But Cyn was dead and I was working. I worked the key in the awkward lock and opened the door. A welcome waft of cooled air hit me first, and then the realisation that my room had been thoroughly searched by someone who didn’t care that I knew.
Who can get into a locked hotel room? Anyone who really tries. There are lots of ways and I’ve used some of them myself. Had I told Rosito where I was staying? I thought I had. Did I have to revise my assessment of him? I didn’t think so. At least I was able to acquit myself of paranoia. Someone in Noumea was interested in me and was taking steps. I wished them luck. There hadn’t been a single thing in the room that would have told them anything. I had my notebook, the photocopies of Stewart Master’s letters and everything to do with Lorraine Master’s money box in my possession.
It got light early but I had the curtains drawn, the air conditioning on low and I slept well. The hotel must have had a lot of early risers because there seemed to be a lot of used places at breakfast. Maybe they were at church. I opted for the continental and took the juice, fruit, croissant and coffee out to a table near the pool. As I’d been strolling home last night I’d thought I might pay an early morning call to the gym. Maybe later.
I was in shorts, T-shirt and sandals and fitted right in except for the lack of a good tan. Thanks to my Irish gypsy grandmother’s genes, my skin never goes really pale and I’d brown up pretty quickly here. The day was already warm with a clear sky and those tropical smells that tell you you’re a long way north of home. I was mulling over how best to proceed when I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke and was suddenly in the shade.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur Hardy. May I join you?’
A tall, heavily built character with a Polynesian look to him was standing by the table and blocking the sun. He wore black trousers and a white shirt. Balding, forty-plus and with outsized hands the way they get from years of physical labour. The cigarette looked like a matchstick in his thick fingers. You have to watch yourself around hands like that. Not the kind of guy you say no to straight off.
I managed a muttered ‘Bonjour’, and motioned for him to sit down a split second before he did anyway.
‘Are you enjoying your stay in Noumea?’
‘I’m here on business, Monsieur…?’
He took a long drag on his smoke instead of answering. ‘You must try the casino. I assume you got your vouchers when you arrived. Five hundred francs free to begin with, n’est ce pas?’
‘I’m not a gambler. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m trying to eat my breakfast.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry. There’s someone who would like to speak with you. The gentleman over there.’
I looked in the direction of his inclined head. A man wearing a suit something like the one hanging up in my room, except that it wasn’t wrinkled and he wore it with a shirt and tie, was sitting at a nearby table. He wasn’t looking at us.
‘He’d like you to join him.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He will tell you.’
I tore the rest of my croissant in half and applied a dob of the butter that had pretty well melted while we were talking. I put it in my mouth, chewed and took a sip of the cooling coffee. ‘He’s welcome to join me. I’m happy here, except that you’ve made my coffee get cold.’
He got up smoothly and walked across to where the other man sat. I noticed that he butted his cigarette in an ashtray on a empty table before he got there. He stood and they had a brief conversation. The man in the suit smiled and waved the other guy away as he moved towards my table. The man who hadn’t identified himself melted into the background, but I had the feeling that he’d never be very far away from whoever this was.
‘Mr Hardy. I am Pascal Rivages. Welcome to Noumea.’
The voice was low and pleasant, heavily French-accented. He knew I’d know the name and that it would catch me on the hop just a bit, and he enjoyed his moment. Couldn’t blame him. He was a well-preserved fiftyish with a fair skin he’d protected from the sun and a facial bone structure that would carry the years well. His dark hair was clipped close, like his moustache. Faint touch of grey.
‘Bonjour,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘I’m sorry about sending Sione to you. That was a little heavy-handed.’
‘He looks like a handy type.’
‘I’m sorry. My English… handy…?’
‘Useful.’
‘Yes, very useful. I understand that your coffee is cold. Some more?’
‘If it’s no trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble, Mr Hardy. I have an interest in this hotel. A considerable interest. I also have an interest in the car hire firm you’ve used.’
He signalled to a waiter and I pushed my cup and plate aside. ‘Mr Big?’ I said.
The melodious laugh came again. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Not at all. Just un homme d’affaires. How’s your French?’