‘Not as good as your English. Are you threatening me?’
A Kanak waiter brought coffee, cream and sugar on a tray and Rivages watched his every movement closely. When the operation was over he nodded and favoured the waiter with a smile that would make his day. ‘I don’t threaten people, Mr Hardy. Not any more. I don’t have to. Gabriel Rosito told me what your business is in Noumea. I can assure you that you are on… what do you call it? A wild goose chase.’
I poured myself some coffee from the silver pot and added a couple of cubes of sugar. ‘I find the coffee here a little bitter,’ I said. ‘I’ve been on lots of wild goose chases. Sometimes you catch the goose.’
‘Peut-etre… perhaps. I wouldn’t want you to waste your time.’
I sipped some coffee. Not bitter, never was. ‘I’m being paid for it. And now I’m curious why an important man like yourself would bother to talk to me.’
‘Ah, it’s nothing to do with your business here. I made enquiries about you. You have criminal convictions and-’
‘One.’
‘-a reputation for causing trouble. Noumea is a quiet, law-abiding place, as you must have observed.’
I was getting tired of him with his smooth velvet glove manner. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It strikes me as being like a dull French provincial city on its best behaviour. Needs a bit of livening up.’
That reached him. A flush rose in his face and his hand twitched. For a moment I thought he might toss his coffee cup, still empty, at me. He fought for control and didn’t like doing it. At a guess, he was a man who’d had it all his own way for a very long time and couldn’t handle recalcitrance. He pushed his chair back and stood. I caught a movement behind me that was probably Sione and my skin crept a bit.
‘Be careful,’ Rivages said.
‘Toujours,’ I said. But I was saying it to his back.
I drank the rest of the coffee and thought it over. I had the answer to who searched my room. Gabriel Rosito must have got on the blower to him pretty quick smart, so he wasn’t quite the what-you-see-is-what-you-get guy he came across as. Almost certainly he’d alerted the others so that I could expect a guarded reception from them, or perhaps no reception at all. Probably needed to move quickly. One stray point I’d picked up. Why had Rosito said Montefiore was useful in their dealings with Rivages because he could speak French? Rivages spoke all the English he needed to. But maybe Rosito didn’t know that.
The day had warmed up quickly and the pool was inviting. A quick gym session followed by a dip would have been good, but I had things to scribble in my notebook and places to go and people to see, if they were still around.
9
Penny or Montefiore? The marina or the lie de France tower? I fancied the sea air and drove to the first of the two marinas. No boat called You Beaut, a name that seemed to mystify the French speakers I questioned, or maybe it was just my halting phrase-book French and bad accent. A lot of money bobbing along on the water here, and if you had enough of it yourself you could charter a luxury game fishing boat to go out and catch marlin. Pretend you were Zane Grey or Lee Marvin, Hemingway even. All as dead now as the fish they were so fond of catching.
Noumea came into its own a bit down here. The Gare Maritime des lies had a genuine working port look to it with slightly rusty, battered cargo boats loading and unloading. Apparently there was a lot of trade and cargo shifting between the islands and these ships did most of it. Somerset Maugham territory, possibly still with alcoholic doctors and tormented captains.
The second marina was across the way-more money and frolicking in the sun. I located Penny’s boat moored about halfway along it. I know nothing about boats. The You Beaut was white and big, sharp at one end and blunt at the other. It had a lot of brass railing and a high cabin mounted near the front with a long aerial waving in the light breeze. It looked very clean, almost too clean, and I remembered that Rosito had said Penny was trying to sell it. It had the same look as a house a day or two away from the auction when the owners run around picking up every scrap of paper and wiping away every spot of dirt.
I stood on the dock and hailed the boat in a tentatively loud voice. A number of other owners were working on their boats or lazing about. They took an interest in me and I was out of place as someone obviously non-nautical. ‘Hello, the You Beaut,’ I yelled, feeling silly doing it and even sillier when I had to do it again.
A man’s head followed by his body appeared from the middle of the boat. He was tall and spare and looked as if he’d been born out in the sun and never gone inside. He was the colour of teak with sun-bleached hair and long, toned muscles in all the right places. All he wore was a pair of denim shorts faded to the colour of his eyes. He held a mobile phone in his hand and he gestured for me to wait while he spoke into it. A few words, that was all.
‘Are you Hardy?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Come aboard.’
I eased down onto the short gangplank; a section of the railing had been slid clear and I stepped through to the deck. Penny dropped the mobile into the back pocket of his shorts and stuck out his hand.
‘Gidday. Reg Penny.’
‘Cliff Hardy, but you know that.’ I shook a hand with more calluses on it than smooth skin. ‘Who told you? Rosito or Rivages?’
‘Both, mate. I’ve been expecting you. Gabe said you liked a beer. Want one?’
‘No, thanks. Bit early. So you know why I’m here.’
‘Sure. All about Stewie Master. We’d better get out of the sun, you’re gonna burn. Doesn’t feel that hot but it’s deceptive. Follow me and watch your head.’
Barefooted and agile, he moved forward, instinctively ducking under ropes and other nautical things I’m ignorant of. The boat was bobbing gently at its mooring. I was in deck pants, a sports shirt and sneakers and felt overdressed, again. I followed him to a hatch and down a set of steps to a tight space with a built-in bench, seats and kitchen fittings.
Both big men, we wedged ourselves in on either side of the bench. Penny gestured at the stove. ‘I could make coffee or something.’
I shook my head. ‘No, thanks. I suppose you’re just going to confirm everything Rosito said to me-you don’t know anything about Master and drugs. All news to you. Poor Stewie. Business deal fell through and you’re just here trying to sell your boat.’
He surprised me then by throwing back his head and letting out a bellow of a laugh that ended in an alarming wheeze. ‘That fuckin’ Gabe. He’s full of shit. Most of what he said’s right but I’m not selling the yacht. Yacht, not boat. No way.’
‘Why would he say that?’
He shrugged. ‘Who knows? That’s Gabe. Always sorta big-noting. Him and his Caldoche widow. You heard about that?’
I nodded.
‘She’s a looker all right, but he’s got Buckley’s.’
‘What about Rivages?’
‘What about him?’
‘He fronted up to me at the hotel this morning, or rather his heavy did.’
‘Sione.’
‘Right. Sione.’
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s all just fun and games. Pascal likes to come on as… you know.’
‘The Abe Saffron of Noumea.’
He laughed again. ‘Yeah, and it’s about as real as that. There’s no fair dinkum crime here. The lid’s on the joint real tight. Everyone’s got it too cushy.’
‘So where did Stewart Master get a couple of keys of heroin?’
‘Search me, mate. I’ve got no idea.’
I examined him closely before I spoke again. He was older than he looked, possibly in his mid-forties and keeping the years at bay with physical activity. The hair was receding a bit and on inspection the yacht wasn’t quite as spiffy downstairs as up on top. The paperback books and magazines on a shelf had a well-thumbed look and there was a flat, almost empty, small packet of cigarette tobacco. Rollies, the economic choice.
I leaned slightly towards him across the bench top. ‘I didn’t mention this to Rosito, but I’ve got some money to pay out for information.’