He left the hotel by a back door and cut quickly through a side street until he reached the Croisette. He crossed to the sidewalk on the shore side and headed towards the Palm Beach Casino. There was still an hour to go before he was due to meet Samantha, and he hoped to enjoy some fresh air and leisurely exercise.
The town seemed to hang in limbo, a no-man’s-time, a long pause in which to reflect or prepare. The beach was deserted except for a handful of diehard sunworshippers soaking up the last rays. In the sidewalk bars and restaurants, waiters were sweeping and laying tables in readiness for the evening trade. There were fewer cars on the road, and fewer people on the esplanade. It was as if a truce had suddenly been agreed, and the Saint welcomed the lull.
It was cooler now, and the leaves of the palm trees along the Boulevard rustled in a freshening breeze. Simon breathed deeply as he walked, to clear his mind and cleanse his body.
He turned in at the driveway entrance of the private marina and began to stroll along its quais, choosing a course that showed no conspicuous purpose but which could not fail to bring him eventually in sight of the Protégé, wherever it was berthed. As, much sooner than later, it did.
For a cabin cruiser, Protégé looked even more opulent at close range than when he had just spotted it that afternoon. Five noughts’ worth of powered luxury were calculated to gladden the heart of any man whose knowledge of the sea and ships extended past the municipal boating lake. Simon stood on the far side of the wharf behind a stack of barrels, ready to duck out of sight if Demmell appeared, but the only activity came from a crewman leaning over the stern rail and sending a grey pall of smoke into the air from an ancient pipe.
He was about to retrace his steps when he saw the black Renault turn through the parking lot. He sank down behind the nearest cover as it cruised up to the stern of the Protégé.
Cartwright was sitting in the back, apparently engaged in a heated argument with his driver. A map was produced, and although the conversation was inaudible the gestures of the two men plainly pantomimed their disagreement. The Protégé’s crewman watched the scene with a half smile, and when the driver wound down the window and in pidgin French asked for his advice he was happy to leave the boat and walk over.
It was one of the slickest models of kidnapping that the Saint had ever had the pleasure of watching, and it appealed to the artist in his soul.
The crewman walked to the car, and as he approached, the driver got out and spread the map on top of the trunk. The sailor bent over to consider it and Cartwright simply opened his door and hoisted the startled man backwards into the car. The driver jumped back in and was slewing the car around even before the rear door was closed. Simon saw Cartwright’s arm rise and fall once, and the sailor gave no further sign of resistance.
The Saint waited until the car had disappeared before rising from his hiding place and turning back from the port, his brain vibrating with questions for which he could find no ready answers.
Cartwright’s interest in Demmell he could understand, but what was Demmell’s interest in Maclett? And why hijack a sailor? Why not take Demmell? Simon again ran over the conversations he had had with Maclett and Curdon, and an idea began to form in his mind. He rejected it at first, but it refused to be dismissed, and the more it was considered the more plausible it became.
He arrived back at the Bellevue without any clear-cut solutions but was the proud possessor of a theory supported more by intuition than by evidence and he had the absolutely firm conviction that there would be more fun and games before the night was over.
6
Gaby swung his car through the obligatory one-way detours to the main road that climbs towards Mougins. Samantha turned to the Saint.
“Where are we going?”
“To the best of the new restaurants on this coast, where they say you can gorge like a discriminating glutton without getting fat. I hope your appetite is up to the challenge.”
“I hope my figure can stand it.”
Again Simon detected the trace of an accent. Scandinavian perhaps, he reflected; that would certainly go with the hair and the eyes.
They had only made the smallest of small talk since leaving the hotel, while each discreetly studied the other. Simon frequently caught her sidelong glances, noticing that behind the ready smile her eyes were suspicious. Her lack of conversation came not from shyness or reserve but was the caution of a businessman intent on not revealing anything which might help a rival.
She had appeared in the lobby precisely at the appointed hour. Such punctuality had not surprised him, somehow it was in keeping with the vibrations he had registered. She had exchanged the sheer white dress of the afternoon for a flowing lemon silk evening gown that swept about her as she moved, reminding him of an exotic butterfly. Her only jewellery was a thin gold chain that hung around a neck which needed no other adornment to underline its grace, and a solitaire diamond ring on her right hand. A more subtle fragrance had replaced the perfume that had invaded his return to consciousness a few hours before.
The car stopped outside a refurbished old stone building a little below the road on one slope of a small ravine which had been worn geological eons ago by the millstream from which the building had originally been designed to profit. Inside, the decor and furnishings were luxurious in a Provençal-antique style and a world away from the functional modernism of equivalent restaurants in Cannes.
They were conducted to a table set for two by an open window overlooking a small lawn and the reed-grown valley.
“An apéritif?” Simon asked, echoing the maître d’hôtel’s automatic question. “Or are you a straight champagne addict?”
“As a compromise, I’ll have a champagne cocktail.”
“For me, a vodka martini-shaken, stirred, on the rocks, and with a twist of lemon.”
The Saint had chosen the Vieux Moulin with care. It was a favourite retreat of his when the constant movement of Cannes began to irritate. It had the advantage of allowing two people to talk without sharing their conversation with hovering waiters and too proximate fellow-diners. The food was sublime and the setting was deliberately, almost overtly, romantic. Modesty had never been one of the Saint’s failings and he knew to the finest part of a degree the effect his personality could have on even the hardest of feminine hearts, especially when aided by fine food and wine and artistic lighting.
Samantha nibbled at an olive.
“For a scientist, you certainly have style.”
“Well, I used to be a marine biologist, but I got in trouble for eating the specimens. Especially the caviar.”
Samantha giggled.
“I don’t believe you’re a scientist at all.”
Simon was saved from finding an instant reply by the arrival of their drinks. When he had ordered their meal, he asked: “What do you do for your yacht and your suite at the hotel and that rock on your finger?”
“I peddle genius.”
“You what?”
Samantha lowered her empty glass and casually reached across and appropriated Simon’s.
“I run an employment agency called Genius Inc. We don’t handle anyone with an IQ of less than 150.”
Simon retrieved his half-empty glass and placed it well out of her reach.
“But surely geniuses don’t need people to find them jobs?”
“You’d be surprised how stupid really brilliant people can be. They’re usually working for about a third of what they’re really worth. We help them to get their market value.”
The waiter brought the artichokes barigoule, a speciality of the house, and they waited while he served it. Samantha reached over and gouged out a sample from the Saint’s plate. Simon watched in amused disbelief as she ate it and then proceeded to attack her own.