Hotel Pastis

by Peter Mayle

  The General looked and shrugged. “A door.”

  Millet’s index finger came up and wagged like a metronome. “Your first mistake. It is a shield of solid steel. Watch.”

  He selected two keys, unlocked the door, and pulled it open. Six or seven centimetres thick, the General estimated. Definitely not a sardine can. He nodded and tried to look impressed.

  Millet gestured proudly at the next obstacle, a second door, this time of square steel bars, each bar the thickness of his wrist. The General inspected it dutifully. “Tell me, Monsieur Millet,” he said, “why is this second door made of bars?”

  Millet chose two more keys from his collection. “We have, of course, electronic surveillance throughout the bank—video cameras, alarms, the latest, most sensitive technology. But we must not forget one thing.” He turned towards the General and brandished a key under his nose. “Discretion, my dear monsieur, discretion. For that reason, there is no surveillance within the strong room itself. Our clients have complete privacy while they are inside this room. And complete security, because they are locked in.”

  He tapped the solid steel door with a key. “This, as you can imagine, is soundproof. Let us suppose it is locked. A client is inside. He has a crise cardiaque—” Millet clutched his breast dramatically—“he collapses, he cries out, but he cannot be heard. There is also, for some, the problem of claustrophobia. We have to think of these possibilities. That is why the first door remains open, and the second door is locked. Voilà.”

  Millet led the General into the strong room. It was in the shape of an L, lined with numbered grey steel boxes, a small table and two chairs placed in the corner, out of sight to anyone standing at the doorway.

  “The boxes can only be opened by the master key used in conjunction with the client’s personal key,” said Millet. “Security, always security.” He turned the master lock on box 263 and handed the General two stubby inches of chromed steel. “Your personal key, made by Fichet, impossible to duplicate.” He stood back, waiting for the opening ceremony to be performed.

  “If I could have a few minutes,” said the General, “I’d like to go through the papers just once more before I put them away.”

  “But of course. Take as long as you wish, monsieur.” He cocked his head and smiled. “Obviously, I will lock you up. A novel experience, no, to be behind bars?”

  The General smiled back. “How does one escape?”

  “Press this red button by the door, and we will come to release you. We treat our prisoners very well here.”

  “I can see,” said the General. “Thank you.”

  He sat down at the table and took out his notebook and a pocket tape measure. Fernand needed to know steel thicknesses to calculate the amount of explosive. Then there was the back door and the floor. The General busied himself guiltily for ten minutes, measuring and sketching in between frequent glances through the bars until he had a rough plan of the room, dimensions of the door, and confirmation, after peeling back a small patch of carpet in the corner, that the floor was reinforced concrete. That was going to be the loudest explosion, he thought. The rest would be muffled by the steel doors. But it would be a noisy night. He looked at the rows of boxes and sucked at the end of his moustache. How much? Hundreds of thousands? Millions? Gold coins? Jewels?

  He had as much as he needed for the time being. He could always come back. He slid the manila envelopes into box 263 and locked up. Yes, it would be a noisy night.

  11

  Liz put a cup of coffee and a stack of correspondence on the table in front of Simon.

  “You poor thing,” she said. “You look exhausted. Was it awful in New York?”

  “Ziegler was his old charming self. He’s like a gorilla on steroids, that man. Still, we got the business.” He handed her a draft press release.

  “Well, I think you’re overdoing it. You should try to take the weekends off, at least. I suppose you were in here again all day Saturday and Sunday catching up.”

  Simon sighed dramatically. “A tycoon’s work is never done, Elizabeth.”

  “You joke about it, but I’m serious.”

  “I know you are.” He sipped his coffee. “Now then. Could you type up the release and then ask Mr. Jordan to canter in here when he has a moment?”

  Liz smiled. “I’ve just seen him. You’re going to love his outfit.”

  Jordan had, as usual, spent the weekend in his country house, and to make sure that the rest of the agency knew it he was wearing his squire’s tweeds—a whiskery suit the colour of dead moss, the jacket deep-vented and multi-flapped, the trousers looking rigid enough to stand up without the benefit of internal support. A tattersall check shirt, a bright yellow tie, ginger suede brogues. Simon wondered if the suit was biodegradable, if it would ever wear out. Probably not. It looked bulletproof.

  “Morning, Nigel. I keep meaning to ask you for the name of your tailor.”

  Jordan sat down, hitching up his trousers to reveal thick, heather-mixture socks. “Chap in Cork Street. Been going to him for years. He gets his tweed specially woven by a little man in Scotland.” He looked with satisfaction at his furry legs. “You won’t find stuff like this easily nowadays.”

  Simon nodded. “I’m sure.” He passed a sheet of paper across the table. “Well, we got it. Three hundred million dollars worldwide, possibly more. That’s a draft press release. We’d better send it out today before Ziegler starts calling every editor in London.”

  Jordan’s hand stopped in midair above the press release. “Good God, that was quick. Congratulations are in order, old boy. Well done. Couldn’t have happened at a better time.” He read through the release, nodded, and put it down. “Spot on. Our friends in the City will be pleased. So will the troops.”

  “Some of the troops,” said Simon. He pulled out the cutting from Campaign magazine. “I gather from this that one or two of the others are restless. A breakaway, it says here—top executives, big pieces of business. What do you think? Is there anything in it, or is it just the usual shit they make up when they don’t have enough news?”

  Simon had never seen Jordan blush before. Patches of red mottled his cheeks, and his neck swelled visibly. He studied the contents of his cigarette case with exaggerated interest before choosing one and lighting it.

  “Ah,” he said, “that. I was going to speak to you about that, actually. It could possibly have been a slip of the tongue. Very unfortunate.”

  “Whose tongue?”

  “Well, mine. Actually.”

  “Go on.”

  “I was in Annabel’s last week with Jeremy Scott—you know, the chairman of Anglo.…”

  “The name rings a bell,” said Simon. Anglo Holdings was one of the agency’s three biggest accounts.

  “Well, we’d had a bite to eat together, and then went on for a nightcap, and we were joking at the bar about the size of the account—they put the budget up again, as you know—and Jeremy said something about Anglo being big enough to support an entire agency.” Jordan stopped to inspect the end of his cigarette. “And then the old whisky started talking, I suppose, and I may have said something silly.”

  “About starting your own agency?”

  “That sort of thing—but just joking, old boy, just joking.”

  “Of course,” said Simon. “But how did it get into Campaign?”

  “Well, I didn’t notice until we were leaving, but there were a couple of chaps from JWT at the other end of the bar who might have heard us and got hold of the wrong end of the stick. A quick phone call to Campaign …” Jordan shook his head. “Bloody disgraceful, really. If you can’t have a quiet chat in Annabel’s without the press picking it up, I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”

  Simon sighed. If you wanted gossip to turn into fact overnight, the bar at Annabel’s was a good place to start. He leaned forward. “Nigel, do you realise what the Parker business is going to do to our share price? To your personal net worth?” God, he thought, I’m beginn
ing to sound like Ziegler’s little echo. “I’m working on some developments here which could be very interesting. I need to know I can count on you.”

  Relief, curiosity, and greed chased across Jordan’s face, to be replaced by solemn sincerity. “Absolutely, old boy. To the grave.”

  “Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.” Simon stood up and clapped Jordan on the shoulder. His suit felt like undergrowth. “Good. I’m glad that’s been cleared up.”

  Jordan left, and Simon realised how fortunate the timing had been. Shifty bastard—of course he’d been planning to take the business and run. But now, with the new account, Simon could wave enough money under his nose to make him stay, and that was essential. Simon’s departure from the agency depended on the continuity that Jordan could provide. All the big clients felt comfortable with him, God only knew why. They probably all went to the same bloody tailor.

  Simon took the press release through to Liz’s office. “Could you send that out, Liz? The usual list, please. And I need to see Ernest. Do you know where he is?”

  “Ernest is with Leonard, Mr. Shaw. They’re having a review of the agency’s plants.”

  “I see. Well, when he pokes his little green fingers round the door, perhaps you could ask him to come in.”

  Simon returned to his office and stared out of the window at Hyde Park. The leaves had gone from the trees, and the joggers—where did they find the time to jog?—were muffled up against the damp, their breath grey in the air. He thought about exercise, and he thought about Nicole’s slender, almost muscular body. She ate like a horse, too.

  He was smiling as he heard a tap on the door and turned away from the window to see Ernest poised in the doorway.

  “Morning, Ern. How are the plants?”

  “Verdant, I’m happy to say, despite young Leonard’s rather heavy hand with the plant food. I think he longs for a jungle. Before we know it, he’ll be putting in a requisition for parrots. You called?”

  “Yes, come in. Better shut the door.”

  Ernest allowed his eyebrows a fractional twitch of surprise. Closed doors meant secrets.

  “Sit down, Ern. I’ve got a surprise for you.” Simon hesitated, searching for the right words. He should have worked this out, not been so impatient. “Ern, I’m thinking of leaving the agency. I’ve seen a place in Provence I’d like to buy.”

  Ernest said nothing, his expression suddenly very serious.

  “It would make a fantastic little hotel, absolutely fantastic, and it could be put together by next summer—restaurant, pool, a dozen rooms, the most extraordinary view. Everything’s there. It just needs finishing. I’d really like to do it.”

  Ernest stared down at his hands, which were clasped tightly round one knee. “It sounds very nice.” He sighed and suddenly looked older. “Oh, well. It had to happen, I suppose, something like this. The agency doesn’t make you happy anymore, does it?” He looked at Simon and tried to smile. “Yes, you’re probably ready for a change. Well … good luck, dear. Good luck.”

  “No, Ern, I’m putting this very badly.” Simon felt clumsy and stupid. “Look, I wouldn’t dream of doing it unless you wanted to come in with me. Not just for old times’ sake, either. I couldn’t run a hotel to save my life—I’ve got money, I’ve got contacts, I’ve got enthusiasm, but that’s not enough. Good hotels—the best hotels—are good because every detail is right. You know what I’m like with detail, completely hopeless. But you … I don’t know, I can just see you there, running the place. I couldn’t do it on my own.” Simon shrugged and grinned. “Besides, I’d probably miss you, even though you are a bloody old nag.”

  It was almost embarrassing to watch the joy come back to Ernest’s face. It lit up as he took a long, deep breath. The slump went from his shoulders. And then he blinked very quickly several times and blew his nose loudly.

  “Well!” he said at last. “I think I’ll have a sherry, if I may.” He got up and went to the bar in the corner. “A hotel! You are the sly one, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not asking you to make an instant decision, Ern. Think about it for a day or two. It’s not like just changing your job.”

  Ernest swivelled around from the bar on his toes, beamed, and held up his glass. “Farewell, Wimbledon!” He took a large mouthful and shuddered.

  “We’ll talk about it this evening, at the flat.” Simon felt exhilarated and impatient, the way he used to feel when the agency had just started. “There’s a lot to sort out, and until we’re ready—” he put a finger to his lips—“not a word, okay?”

  Ernest took another swig of sherry. He seemed unable to stop smiling. “I shall be as silent as the oyster.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Liz looked in. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Shaw, but your eleven o’clock is here.” She noticed the glass in Ernest’s hand. “Celebrating, Ernest?”

  “Medicinal, dear.” He patted his chest. “For the hiccups. I’d better be off, before young Leonard drapes the receptionist in variegated ivy.”

  Liz stood aside to let him through the door, and frowned at Simon. “Is he all right?”

  Simon smiled. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I think he is. Let’s have the next victim. Wheel him in, would you?”

  Ernest was having great difficulty concentrating on the agency’s plant problems. A hotel in Provence! He felt giddy with excitement. He would have followed Simon anywhere, of course, with the possible exception, he had to admit, of Milton Keynes. But this—the chance to decorate and run a little jewel in the sun, away from all those dreary people and the impossible climate—this was the opportunity of a lifetime, something to stretch his creative talents. He would bloom, he was sure of it, and in his private euphoria he was unusually receptive to young Leonard’s requests for kentia palms in the media department. Have a grotto in the underground car park while you’re at it, dear, he thought. I won’t be here to see it. I shall be in Provence. He decided to spend his lunch hour finding out about French courses at Berlitz.

  Simon plodded through the day, resisting the impulse to call Nicole until he was satisfied that Ernest’s initial reaction had survived any second thoughts. Farewell Wimbledon, farewell Ziegler, farewell Jordan, farewell afternoons spent in artificial light. He looked at his watch, willing time to hurry.

  Six o’clock, and the research director was just getting into his stride: a breakthrough in demographic analysis … invaluable marketing tool … charts and documents … hot air, hot air. Simon looked at the group assembled in his office and swallowed a yawn. He had been waiting for a pause in the monologue for ten minutes, but the research director didn’t seem to need as much breath as normal human beings.

  Simon stood up abruptly, feigning a sudden realisation of the time. “God, I’m sorry, Andrew. This is fascinating, but I had no idea it was so late. I’m supposed to be in the City by six-thirty.” He rescued his jacket from the back of the couch. “Listen, help yourselves to a drink and carry on. I’ll catch up tomorrow. I think you’ve really got something there.” He was out of the office before the research director’s mouth had time to recover from its gape of surprise.

  As Simon let himself into the flat, he heard the sound of Beethoven’s “Pastoral,” and found Ernest in the sitting room. A map of southern France was spread out on the table next to a Michelin guide and a handful of language course brochures. Ernest was still wearing the broad smile that had been more or less permanently on his face all day.

  “You haven’t changed your mind, then, Ern.”

  “Moi? Certainly not. I can hardly wait to slip into my espadrilles and scamper through the thyme.” He leant over the map. “But where are we, exactly?”

  “Brassière-les-Deux-Eglises.” Simon found the dot on the map. “There. It’s about forty minutes from Avignon. Very pretty countryside, not too far from the autoroute and the airport, and there isn’t another hotel within ten or fifteen miles. It’s a good position. It could do very well.” He tossed his jacket on a chair and went
into the kitchen. “What are you having?”

  Ernest looked up from the map. “I put something appropriate in the fridge. My little treat.”

  Simon took the bottle out and smiled. Mumm Grand Cordon Rosé. “What an old tart you are, Ern.”

  “There’s nothing like pink champagne to bring a becoming blush to the cheek, I always say. And it is a festive occasion.”

  Simon brought the glasses through and handed one to Ernest. “You’re sure you want to do it? Really sure?”

  “What would I do if you left the agency? Dogsbody in chief to His Lordship Mr. Jordan? Can you imagine anything more ghastly? Besides, this is going to be fun, like the old days. Starting something new. You feel the same way, I can tell.” He sniffed. “So let’s not have any more nonsense. I am positively rigid with resolve.”

  They sat at the table, and Simon started to describe the old gendarmerie and go through a timetable that he’d worked out. During the next few days an offer would be made for the property. Unless there were any snags, they could go over at the weekend to sign the act of sale and brief an architect. Give him a month to prepare plans and estimates, start work before Christmas, finish by the end of May. In the meantime, Simon would extricate himself as discreetly as possible from the agency, and Ernest would take himself off to Berlitz.

  Ernest had been making notes while Simon was talking, and was looking increasingly puzzled. “What I’m just a tiny bit concerned about,” he said, “is how all this can be done from London, even if we pop over two or three times a month. You remember what the builders were like in Kensington—the moment one left them, they either did nothing, or something completely hideous.” He looked down at his notepad. “And then there’s staff, furniture, the chef, the wine cellar—endless things that have to be done on the spot. I’d be thrilled to go there tomorrow, but I don’t know a soul. It would take me months to find the right people. Or am I being an old wet blanket?”