There's Something About St. Tropez (45 page)

“Of course I do.” Mac took another sip of the wine.

“Surprise, surprise, he gets around. On the quiet though. And in his own plane. Always takes his racing greyhound with him. A brindle. Never raced in its life. It's said to be the only thing he loves. There's been a succession of them, all exactly the same. Apparently Maria Callas gave him the first and he's had one ever since. Odd thing, though, his dogs never seem to get old. One day they're living the high life, eating off silver plates. Next there's a new one. Same breed. Same color. Just younger.”

“Like rich men with their trophy wives,” Mac said thoughtfully. “Trading them in for younger models.”

“Rumor is he kills 'em off. Shows what a sadistic bastard he truly is.”

“I never heard of anyone doing that with wives though. But as always, you're right on the mark.”

“Keep me posted,” Perrin said. “And remember, your room is waiting.”

Mac was smiling as he closed his phone. The thing with the dogs was troubling though. And now he knew for sure it was Joel Krendler Sunny had seen in Nice airport. Who else would have a brindle greyhound?

 

64.

 

 

Later, Sunny and Mac sat on their terrace, holding hands, gazing silently into the deep blue midnight, hearing the soft swish of the waves hitting the shore, and catching the glimmer of phosphorescence on the water, like aquatic fireflies. They were both thinking about Caroline Cavalaire.

Sunny was the one who finally broke the silence with a deep sigh. “Poor, poor Caroline,” she said sadly. “All that scheming, all those lies, and all for so little. You know what I think?”

Mac turned his head to look at her. “What do you think?”

“I think there has to be a man involved. Caroline wasn't dressing so fancy just for her own amusement. Remember Valenti at the Casino?”

Mac nodded. “I'd already thought of him, and how aggressive he was with her, how angry she was. And you know what else, Sunny Alvarez, Assistant Private Eye?”

Sunny grinned. “Tell me.”

“A man like that, flashy, a player, man-about-town . . . a man like that, Sunny Alvarez, would have a speedboat. A fast one.”

Remembering the sailboat and the excited look on Valenti's face as he sped through the water, Sunny agreed. “So why would he have a speedboat anyway?”

“For getting stolen works of art away from enormous houses on the water, instead of running the gauntlet of possible private security police on the prowl on the roads.”

Sunny's eyes widened. “Wow,” she said. “You really think Valenti is the art thief?”

“Here's how I'm thinking it happened. Valenti comes here to the hotel, for a drink, dinner, whatever. He meets Caroline, recognizes her for what she is, an attractive young woman on the make. My bet is he seduced her—not too difficult a task, he was attractive, rich. I'm sure she was willing. Then he used her to get information on wealthy guests and locals and to make the acquaintance of high-rolling punters at the Casino.”

“But they couldn't all be art collectors.”

“No, but I'm betting that Valenti had a nice little business on the side, in stolen jewelry and cash, similar to Caroline's, only bigger. How else did he keep his lifestyle going? A sailboat like his costs, and so does a summer season in the South of France.”

“You think he works alone?”

Mac thought about that for a long time before he said, “No, I don't. Valenti's not the mastermind. Krendler is.”

“Mac!”

“Alain Hassain at Interpol checked Krendler's flights out of Paris and Zurich. In the past three years he's flown here, or to airports close to here, at least a couple of dozen times. And six of those were around the time the art robberies took place. I think Valenti was part of an international gang, headed by Krendler, that met here in the South. They would arrive at night by boat, robbing rich houses of paintings and works of art, and others of jewelry and antiques. Usually the thefts went undiscovered until the owners returned, despite high-tech security that somehow or other had always failed. They used the speedboat to get their loot away. Then stashed it on Valenti's sailboat until the heat was off.

“By chance, Caroline found out about the bigger game Valenti was up to. Then, foolish woman that she was, she attempted to blackmail him. Instead he told her she could be a part of it, make far more money than she would working at the hotel, or working a scam. Valenti knew she was a thief, he must have implied that thieves always banded together, that Caroline was one of them. And she fell for it. When he dumped her, she threatened to tell all. Valenti invited her onto the boat, he was laughing at her, gave her her share of the ‘guilt money' . . . then he ran her down in the dinghy.”

“Valenti murdered her.”

“He did. On Krendler's orders.”

 

65.

 

 

Bertrand and Laureen were in the hotel parking lot and Bertrand was pumping up the tires of an old
vélo
, one of the half dozen bicycles available to guests. It had probably been there since the day the hotel opened. A small satchel was buckled to the back of the leather saddle. Inside was a tin box with fancy lettering, and inside of that was a puncture kit for fixing mini-blowouts while on the road. The pump clipped onto the inner strut and the handlebars were complete with a bell and a wire basket. All in all Bertrand considered it a fine feat of engineering along with customer satisfaction. He pumped some more and the flat tire grew rounder.

“I've never seen a bike like that.” Laureen crouched next to him, gravely inspecting his work.

“I wish it were mine.” Bertrand patted the old leather saddle the way Laureen might have patted a horse. He had never owned a bike.

Laureen handed him a straw hat and put on her own, bought at a shop on the Quai Suffren. She'd reluctantly replaced the “stolen” ones on the hat-stand in the hall. Her hair was dragged into two bunches, one over each ear with the princess tiara on top, and she wore white sunglasses, almost as big as Bertrand's own. And, of course, the pink tutu.

“Let's go for a ride,” she said.

“Where?”

“Oh, you know . . . anywhere . . .” She was vague but somehow he knew she was thinking of Chez La Violette. It was morning, bright and sunny.

“Okay. You take that bike.” He pointed to the one next to his, the second best of the lot, and said, “Follow me.”

Laureen straddled the bike, hitched herself and her tutu over the saddle and wobbled after him. Bertrand was already heading out the gates into the narrow lane. She waved hello to the stocky man leaning against the gatepost, reading his newspaper in the shade of a sycamore tree. It wasn't Lev but she knew he was one of Belinda's guards. He waved back and then she was pedaling madly after Bertrand. She knew where he was going, and why.

“Bertrand,” she yelled plaintively. “Please slow down.”

He glanced over his shoulder. Her plump legs were going at a terrific rate but she simply couldn't keep up and he slowed.

“We're off to see the villa,” Laureen sang out suddenly. “The wonderful villa of Oz . . .”

“It's not the villa of Oz,” Bertrand said.

“Of course not, silly. It just fits the tune that's all.” She began to sing again. “We're off to see the villa . . .”

“The wonderful villa of Oz,” Bertrand found himself joining in.

Cycling side by side they looked at each other and grinned. Quite suddenly the burden of everything Bertrand had been through lifted. Mac and Sunny had saved him from the police. He did not have to go to jail. He had told what he knew and been praised for it. Praise was rare in Bertrand's world and it made him feel good. There had been no word from his mother but now he had Mac, who he knew somehow would always help him. And Sunny, who had explained things to him. He had Little Laureen, his friend. And her father, who had asked him please to call him Billy from now on, and had given Laureen permission to spend time with him. “As long as you don't get into any more trouble,” Billy had added with a grin. Now Bertrand was out bicycling and even dreaming maybe, just a little bit, of becoming a famous Tour de France winner one day. Of course he would have to start training right away.

He realized he was smiling and glanced sideways at Laureen. Her pink tutu fluttered in the breeze caused by their speed and her tiara had flattened against her brown hair so that now
PRINCESS
looked upside down. She too was smiling.

Laureen's smile was rare and Bertrand's grew even broader. In fact he burst out laughing, causing her to swerve in surprise.

“Bertrand!” she yelled. “You're laughing!”

He threw back his head and laughed some more, reveling in the sound of his own mirth. Laureen blinked then she joined in. Laughing giddily, the two sped toward Chez La Violette, with never a thought to any ghost.

This time Bertrand led the way through the almost hidden door into the
kitchen garden. Laureen propped her bike outside next to his and followed him in. They stood for a moment, looking apprehensively around but today everything seemed normal. The bright sunlight left no room for shadows, except under the trees, and the crickets were chirruping loudly in the rosemary bushes. A pair of doves, startled by their presence, flew out of the bougainvillea where Bertrand pointed out they had a nest complete with two babies, all beak and as yet no feathers. Then, from round the corner of the house, padded a yellow dog.

“Ohhh,” they exclaimed in astonished unison, looking apprehensively for its owner to appear. But no one did.

The dog was obviously some kind of Lab mix. Its yellow fur was rough and matted. Tongue lolling, it sat and waited for what they would do next. Its patience seemed to say it did not expect much from any human.

“What are you doing here, boy?” Bertrand spoke to it in French, which he knew would be its native language.

The dog's ears pricked up. It put its head to one side as though listening.

“See, he's intelligent,” Laureen said.

“He's thin. I can see his ribs.” Bertrand patted his own skinny ribs. They matched the dog's.

“Do you think he's starving?” Laureen's voice was as anxious as the dog's eyes. “Do you think he belongs to anyone?” she added, even more anxiously.

Bertrand thought about it. He and the dog looked at each other. He whistled and the dog lifted its head. “
Viens ici, chien
,” Bertrand commanded and the dog lumbered to its feet but didn't move.

“He's afraid.” Laureen was full of sympathy now. “
Viens ici, chien adorable
,” she commanded, and the dog suddenly ran at them, stopping in a flurry of dust, just out of reach.

“No collar,” Bertrand pointed out.

“He's nobody's dog.” Laureen clapped her hands and the dog cowered back, frightened. “Oops, sorry, dear
chien
,” she cried, on her knees now, hand held out to it.

Bertrand crouched next to her. He remembered he had a small piece of leftover breakfast baguette in his shorts pocket. It was stale but better than nothing. He fished it out, scattering fluff and crumbs and offered it to the dog.

It sniffed the air, then approached cautiously. Bertrand held his hand flat with the piece of bread still stuck with a few bits of butter and ham. With
a sudden move the yellow dog snatched it from him. In about two seconds it was gone.

Bertrand stared longingly at the dog. It stared longingly back at him. “We can't keep him, of course,” he said, because that was what his mother would have said.

Laureen sighed. “No,” she agreed, in a small voice.

“We have to go inside now,” Bertrand said to the dog.

The two walked carefully round it. It sat exactly where it was, twisting its neck to look after them.

“He's so pretty,” Laureen whispered, turning to look and meeting its hopeful eyes. “I'll bet he's a good dog.”