Jeremy suggested, “Let’s see if Monsieur Felix can use his connections to track down Venetia’s private wedding car on the train bleu.”
He telephoned Monsieur Felix, who apparently had something to tell him, too. Jeremy listened intently without saying a word, until finally he said, “Okay, good idea,” and ended the call. He turned to me, saying, “Felix wants to meet with us at the airport. He thinks there’s someone skulking around the villa, looking to start tailing us again.”
“I left Le Bug at the townhouse in London, just as he suggested,” I objected.
“Yes, well, perhaps they’ve got wise to that,” Jeremy said. “But, this is actually good news.”
“How d’ya figure?” I asked.
Jeremy said, “It means Drake hasn’t found the coins. Yet.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
When we arrived at the airport in Nice, I immediately began glancing over my shoulder for signs of the man who was tailing us, whom I christened The Follower. I soon began imagining that everyone I saw was a suspicious candidate. At the terminal, I thought one particular scruffy, bearded guy was especially shady-looking, leaning against a wall beside our gate, in a manner that struck me as creepily aimless—but it soon became obvious that the poor guy was merely waiting for his wife and little kid to come out of the ladies’ room.
Meanwhile, Monsieur Felix was lurking nearby, too, in his own spy-versus-spy mode. With his great hulking, bearish frame and long floppy hair, you’d think he’d always be utterly conspicuous. Yet, somehow, even out in broad daylight, he managed to become invisible when he was in public on a job. So, neither Jeremy nor I spotted him, until he stepped out of the shadows, at which point I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“I have a car, come with me,” Monsieur Felix said. As he drove away from the airport, he took his own mysterious circular route—just in case—even though he was confident that The Follower hadn’t cottoned on to our arrival yet.
“Shall I drive you to the villa?” he inquired. Jeremy told him that we needed to stop by our yacht and speak to the captain, so Monsieur Felix headed toward the harbor in Nice. The summer surge of tourists was evident in the heavy traffic on the Promenade des Anglais and along the pebbled beaches, where throngs of vacationers lay under umbrellas, on chairs and blankets, gazing at the shimmering Mediterranean Sea.
As Monsieur Felix expertly steered his way around clogged traffic lanes, he explained that he believed Drake might be getting antsy over our absence. “Perhaps he is afraid that you have already beaten him to the treasure,” he said.
“But we haven’t!” I exclaimed in exasperation. “We are no closer to finding that tapestry or the coins. And now we can’t make a move, for fear that Drake’s going to figure out what we’re up to.”
“Maybe it’s not so terrible,” Jeremy said thoughtfully. “I’ve got an idea.”
“I’m listening,” I said.
“Drake will keep looking for the Lunaire gold until somebody finds it,” Jeremy said logically. “The only thing that will stop him from looking, is if either a) he finds it first, or b) we do.” He grinned. “If he thinks we’ve snaffled it already, he will stop looking.”
“You mean, like, we fake that we found it?” I said, catching on.
“Correct,” Jeremy replied. “Now—how would you and I behave if we’d found a pot of gold?”
“We’d be thrilled,” I said, picturing it. “We’d probably want to stash it away somewhere safe, while we were contemplating our next move. Some place where nobody else could steal it.”
“Right,” Jeremy said. “We might, for instance, put it in a bank vault. And then walk around acting miserly and smug.”
“That would make you a most sensible couple,” Monsieur Felix commented. “Many people in this part of the world would want to flaunt what they had.”
“Either way, it would make Drake think he’d lost the contest,” Jeremy said. “There would be no need for him to have his man tail us anymore. Which would buy us some more time.”
“Unless, of course, in a fit of fury, Drake just decides to, you know, kill us or something,” I said.
“Then,” said Felix, “I will shoot him.” I actually couldn’t tell if he was serious or not.
“No, Drake will keep his powder dry,” Jeremy said. “I am willing to bet that he’ll at least try to meet with us, and pretend he wants to do business, while he’s trying to figure out the best way to get his hands on the Lunaire gold. So, all we need now is to put on a little drama, to convince the guy who’s tailing us that we’ve got the goods.”
“Excellent,” Monsieur Felix approved. “I will send you the Go! message when the fish bites the hook. Then you will know that it is time to make your move.”
“Meanwhile,” Jeremy said, “we need your help in tracking down an old railroad car from the train bleu.” He repeated what Venetia had told us.
Monsieur Felix listened, then nodded vigorously. “Let me see what I can find.”
We’d reached the harbor, a horseshoe-shaped affair with three-story buildings ringing the road around it. The shops and bistros were doing a bustling business, their doors flung open to entice the Riviera’s visitors. Here and there an aproned waiter lounged outside, resting against the doorway, surveying the scene. At the harbor, the boats were lined up in neat rows; and out at sea, splendid sailboats and big yachts passed to and fro. Overhead, the seagulls swooped in joyous arcs.
Monsieur Felix parked several yards away from where Penelope’s Dream was berthed, and he instructed us to wait in the car while he scoped out the harbor for any signs of The Follower. Jeremy and I sat back, gazing out at the small waves splashing against the boats, and the occasional duck bobbing on the water’s gentle ups and downs, and the sun brilliantly glittering on all the polished decks, and the sea itself, which looked as if somebody had scattered sapphires into it. We watched idly as other boaters were chummily calling out to one another while hosing their decks and loading supplies.
“Can’t wait to put out to sea again,” Jeremy murmured, inhaling the salty, invigorating air.
“Let’s just go straight to the honeymoon, and worry about the wedding later,” I joked in agreement. “Just float away, all by ourselves.”
“Know what?” Jeremy said. “There’s nobody on earth I’d rather be stranded with on a desert island than you.”
“Same here,” I agreed. “But, must we get stranded? Let’s just find a secret cove to call our own.”
“Okay,” Jeremy said. “Can we still be primitives? I want to score you a fish with my bare hands.”
“Sure,” I said, feeling pleasantly lazy already.
Monsieur Felix returned to us now, and he reported that The Follower wasn’t hanging around our yacht. “However, that fellow Rollo awaits you there,” Monsieur Felix said, nodding toward a man standing on the sidewalk in front of Penelope’s Dream.
“That figures,” Jeremy said. “What could he want now, do you suppose?”
“Well, I told him to check in with me whenever he’s back in town,” I explained. “I’m trying to keep tabs on him while he’s at the Riviera.”
Monsieur Felix said he’d go ahead to Antibes to check out our villa, to see if The Follower was lurking there. We got out of the car, and he drove away. As we walked toward the yacht, I said to Jeremy, “I’ve been thinking about what Monsieur Felix said. You know, about flaunting the gold.”
“Yes?” Jeremy inquired.
“Well, if I actually had some of those great old coins, I could make a fantastic charm bracelet.”
“Fine,” Jeremy said. “When we get our hands on them, you’ve got dibs.”
“I’d need about five of them,” I continued, as we approached the yacht. “And since no one in recent memory knows exactly what they looked like . . .”
“Ahh!” Jeremy exclaimed, catching on. “We flaunt a couple of fakes, so Drake’s man is convinced that we beat him to it. Beautiful. It’s about time that we ‘up the ante’.
But, this will require the help of a good forger.”
We were now only a few feet away from Rollo, who always manages to feel right at home on our yacht. He stood on the pavement near the passerelle, leisurely smoking a cigarette.
“Perhaps we should consult our trusty guide to the underworld,” Jeremy observed. “Let me deal with the yacht first; then we’ll see if Rollo’s up for it.”
Rollo saw us now. “Ahoy, mates!” he cried. In his light-colored linen suit, expensive leather boat shoes, Panama hat, sunglasses, and casual attitude, he looked as if he were the yacht’s owner. I was surprised that he wasn’t on board already, lounging in a deck chair, until he explained.
“Your captain wouldn’t allow me to smoke on deck,” Rollo complained mildly. “Made me walk the gang- plank.” He took one last puff, then dropped the cigarette on the ground and stepped it out with the toe of his shoe.
“You did instruct me to look you up when I’m back in town,” he reminded me, with a sidelong glance at Jeremy.
“Yes, I did,” I agreed. “Come on up.”
Penelope’s Dream was sitting pretty in her berth, getting all spiffed up by the crew for our big honeymoon voyage. The yacht was built in the 1920s, just perfect for old-fashioned romantics like me and Jeremy. Her burnished wood flooring, brass rails, mahogany panelling and cabinetry, and teak steamer chairs with striped cushions, all contributed to her jaunty, cozy aura, as if we could float off not merely to sea, but to an elegant yesteryear. Her furnishings and fittings were old-fashioned and sometimes eccentric, with inviting salons and decks to lounge about in; yet Jeremy and the crew had carefully updated her engine and equipment, so that she could part the waves with the best of them.
There’s always a wonderful first moment, when you walk up the passerelle and are momentarily suspended between land and sea. Then a quick hop, and you’re on deck. The crew greeted us with their usual formal pleasantries, and after ensuring that we were comfortable, they discreetly left us and went on with their work. Rollo and I ensconced ourselves on the steamer chairs on the aft deck, while Jeremy went up to see Claude in the pilot house at the topmost level, to go over the final details of plotting our honeymoon course.
“I wouldn’t say no to a whiskey,” Rollo called out to Jeremy, who answered that he’d bring it over on his way back.
“Rollo, how’s your mum?” I asked. Dorothy is such a tough, imperious, unpleasant old woman, who sees all other human beings as potential enemies, so it’s hard to imagine her ever being human enough to be ailing. But I asked solicitously, mostly for Rollo’s sake, and to size up how he was faring.
“She’s actually much better, thank you,” he said as he sat down comfortably with a grunt. I regaled him with a few details about the wedding, which he listened to in amusement. When Jeremy rejoined us, he looked purposeful and businesslike.
“Rollo, it seems we may need your expertise again,” Jeremy said, handing him his glass of whiskey, with the ice clinking gently.
Rollo gave Jeremy an appraising grin. “Oh? Well, I certainly hope this assignment is easier than the last one you put me on, in Corsica.”
“Hopefully, yes. We need fake antique coins,” Jeremy said. “They’d have to be first- rate, to confound the experts. And, there must be no loose lips to sink ships. Can it be done?”
Rollo raised his eyebrows. “Will these coins be used as, er, counterfeit currency? In other words, are we bucking the law here?”
“No,” said Jeremy. “It’s to trap a rat.”
“Well, that’s all right, then,” Rollo said. I told him the time period of the Lunaire coins, and I showed him my copy of sketches we’d gotten from the coin gallery curator. Rollo studied them closely, and asked for a few more practical details, but only what he needed to do the job; he never once asked any nosey questions about what we were really up to. I made a duplicate of my sketches for him while he and Jeremy worked out an estimate of the cost of the pieces. Jeremy told him it must be made of real, solid gold, properly “antiqued”, and that we needed only a few pieces, rimmed by a setting with a loop on top, so that they could be easily slipped on to any charm bracelet.
“Yes, I see, charm bracelet, right,” Rollo said. Thoughtfully he added, “You going to wear this, Penny? Ah, then, you’ll be wanting a man who’s more on the honest end of the spectrum, not someone who’ll double-cross you and start minting some of these for himself. I think I know just the man. French. Artist type, craftsman. Could use the money. I’ll tell him it’s for a birthday gift. He’ll be fine. And he’s fast, very fast. I’ll get on it right away.”
“Great!” I said enthusiastically.
“Of course, we haven’t calculated a fee for yours truly,” Rollo noted. He glanced slyly at Jeremy. “This Lunaire gold. Any chance of the real McCoy turning up on this case?”
Jeremy said, “Possibly, but it’s quite a long shot.”
“Ah,” said Rollo with satisfaction. “Well, if so, I wouldn’t mind trousering one.”
“Even if they did turn up, we’d have to consult the owner,” Jeremy said. “But I think he’d be amenable. Can’t promise.”
“Fine,” Rollo said. “In the event of failure, you can buy me dinner at the restaurant of my choosing.”
“Deal,” Jeremy agreed.
I grinned. Rollo is the sort of man who lounges about indolently for long periods of time, punctuated by sudden, excited bursts of energetic activity. This, I surmised, was why he was prone to gambling. He was easily bored, and needed a high degree of stimulus to get him going. It made him more open to risk than most people. Add that to his love of antiques, and he was what you might call a natural for the occasional odd job for the firm of Nichols & Laidley.
“Have you eaten today?” Jeremy asked him, rather unexpectedly.
Rollo looked surprised, then said appreciatively, “Yes I have, thanks.” He began punching a number into his new phone. A moment later he said briefly, “Hullo, Luc? Got a little job for you. Care to talk about it? How long will you be there? Fine, I’m on my way.”
All business now, he finished his drink with evident enjoyment, then stood up briskly. “I’d better get a move on,” he said, but paused to caution me, “Do be careful, Penny dear. People in this neck of the woods play for high stakes.” Then he quickly adopted a lighter attitude, and, tipping his hat, he added, “But I am on BlackBerry if you need me.” And with that, he sauntered down the passerelle and headed for his parked car.
Jeremy looked at me suspiciously. “Rollo is ‘on BlackBerry’?” he queried. “Since when?”
“Since last time we saw him. I suggested it,” I confessed. “To keep an eye on him. He checks it regularly, and he likes to send me funny e-mails.”
Jeremy shook his head reproachfully. “One of these days,” he predicted, “we’ll get an e- mail from him saying, Took off with your yacht. Must dash. See you whenever. Just don’t say you weren’t warned.”
His telephone rang. It was Monsieur Felix. Jeremy listened to the brief update, then hung up and told me, “Felix spotted The Follower driving past our villa, but then the guy headed onto the highway back to Monte Carlo. So for now, the coast is clear in Antibes. Felix says he’ll let us know when the guy is tailing us again. Now all we need is a little luck.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Rollo came up with the goods quite quickly, just as he’d promised. Nevertheless, we had a fairly nerve-wracking spell of waiting, because The Follower took a brief hiatus. It was like watching for a shark to return to take the bait. Finally, Felix sent us a signal. Go! It was time to put our plan into action.
I let Jeremy drive my blue Dragonetta, so I could concentrate on my little starring role in this caper. As we headed for Nice, Jeremy glanced up in the rearview mirror and announced, “Red alert. The Follower is now on our tail, travelling in a white Peugeot at six o’clock.”
“Why can’t you just say he’s right behind us?” I inquired.
“Less fun,” Jeremy answered. “Hah. Th
ere’s Felix, coupla cars behind at nine o’clock.”
Left lane, I surmised. But once we swung onto the main road beside the Promenade des Anglais, it was harder to keep track of who-was-where in all the dense summer traffic. Jeremy just concentrated on driving, which was dicey enough, even with the aid of white-gloved policemen who were sternly, vigorously directing traffic, to impose order over potential chaos. At one point, when all the cars slowed to a crawl and then came to a dead stop all around us, I thought I would go mad with suspense.
Finally we inched our way off the Promenade, onto a smaller street with a parking lot. Jeremy parked the car. The Follower parked his a few feet away to the left. And Monsieur Felix parked his a few feet away to the right. All the chess pieces were now in place.
“Okay, it’s showtime,” Jeremy muttered. He got out of the car and came around with a flourish of courtesy as he opened my door. I stepped out and looked about, with exaggerated caution, clutching my handbag as if it contained the Hope Diamond, with a smug little smile on my Sarah Bernhardt face. We headed toward a shopping area tucked behind the big hotels and apartment buildings. No traffic was allowed here. There was a wide pedestrian walkway, flanked on both sides by rows of shops and restaurants that are popular among summer visitors.
Jeremy and I slipped into a posh little jewelry store where we had to be buzzed in to gain entry. Once inside, we walked right up to a display case that contained women’s gold bracelets. The Follower got himself buzzed in a moment later, pretending to look at cuff links. Monsieur Felix waited outside, ever watchful.
“Bonjour!” sang out a saleswoman as she swooped down on us eagerly. She was dressed in a tightly fitted red suit that revealed just a bit of her cleavage.
“Here it is, darling,” I said to Jeremy, loudly enough for The Follower to hear every word I uttered. “These are solid gold charm bracelets. Aren’t they adorable?” The saleswoman took a bracelet out of the case, and spread it out on a black velvet mat so that we could admire it.
A Rather Charming Invitation Page 30
