Leonie (58 page)

Gilles knew something must have happened but he couldn’t think what, his mind didn’t seem to be working properly. He forced his eyes open and looked around: everything was black. Panic rushed along his spine, he could feel himself trembling. He pushed desperately. His face was pressed into the black leather seat. Where was Hoskins? Or had he been driving? Oh, God, Armand. He pushed ineffectually at the weight above him, he had to get to Armand. Wait, he could hear voices, there were people, they would help him reach Armand. “Here,” he called, his voice sounding thin and cracked, “here, help me. We must get my son.”

The weight was lifted from his chest and a florid, anxious face looked down at him. “Don’t move,” said the man. “We’ve sent for the ambulance, you’d better just stay still until the doctor gets here and the police.”

“But my son,” he cried weakly, “you must help my son.”

The man looked away from him. “All right,” he said, “they’ll be here in a minute.” Poor devil, he thought sympathetically,
looking across the road to where the young man lay. He’d already checked him and there was no doubt he was dead.

Sebastião watched Gérard pacing slowly up and down the corridor of the hospital. He wished desperately there were something he could do, something he could say that would help. He felt ill remembering Marie-France’s stricken face, remembering what she had said. “Why wasn’t it Gilles?” she’d screamed. “Why couldn’t it have been him instead!” Gérard had put his arms around her and held her, his own agony visible on his stark face. “Maman,” he whispered. “Maman, please.…” Her normally sweet face had set in a stony resolve. “I must go with you to the hospital,” she said. “My husband is there. It is my duty.”

Her duty! thought Sebastião in amazement. What could these people’s lives be like? She was at her husband’s bedside now. They had operated on his legs and he was still unconscious, but she refused to leave until she had spoken to him. And he knew that was what Gérard was worried about. What was she going to say to him?

“Gérard,” he said, taking his arm, “let’s go for a drink, there’s no point in waiting here. The doctor said he won’t come around for hours yet.”

“I can’t leave her here alone, Sebastião. I must stay with her.” Sebastião returned to his seat. “Very well,” he said, “we’ll wait.”

Was it dawn, or had all the world suddenly lost its color? wondered Gilles, peering through half-closed eyes into a veiled gray twilight. He could make out a ceiling and a light in the middle. He turned his head slightly to the left and a pain shot through it, red pain like heat. Someone was there just by the bed. Damn, he wished he could see who it was. He tried to speak but his mouth felt odd; he couldn’t move his tongue, it felt thick and heavy. He needed a drink of water, wouldn’t someone give him a drink of water? He must speak! “Léonie?” he forced his tongue around the syllables. “Léonie?”

She leaned over him and he waited for the familiar scent. He couldn’t see her properly, but he would know it was her by the jasmine.

“Gilles.” It was Marie-France’s voice, high-pitched and icy. “Gilles,” she said, “I’ve been waiting here for you to wake up,
because I wanted to be the one to tell you. Armand is dead. Dead because of
your
faulty car … 
your
negligence. You killed our son, Gilles.” Her face was implacable and her voice relentless. “You called for Léonie just now, Gilles, but she left you years ago. And I’m leaving you now. I never, in my whole life, want to see you again.”

He heard the click as the door closed quietly behind her and he was alone again with the terrible truth. Armand was dead. His son was dead! He wanted to scream, to blast his agony from him in a spear of sound. This was how it felt when your son died, this tearing agony. An image of Charles d’Aureville’s young smiling face framed in his binoculars flashed through his mind, he must have been about Armand’s age when he had died. And his family had felt what he was feeling now. Except Charles’s death was no accident, he had killed him … and now she said he had killed Armand. “Oh, God,” he cried. But God was not merciful.

–
• 52 •

A chill wind blew from the ocean, crackling the tarpaulins lashed across the small boats in the marina at Deauville, gusting viciously along the pier. Jim turned up his coat collar, lengthening his stride as he turned the corner into a side street just off the seafront. The street was narrow, lined with two-story gray buildings, mostly small shops—a chandler’s, a sail maker’s, a garage, a small warehouse that smelled strongly of fish, and a couple of bars, both with nautical names, the Pêcheurs and the Trident. The Bar des Pêcheurs on the left at the end of the street was the one he was looking for.

The bead curtain rattled in the wind and a faded green shutter flapped against the window, swinging back and forth on a single hinge. Jim pushed through the curtain and found himself in a small lobby facing a shabby wooden door. The wind swept in after him as he pushed it open and went inside. The bar was brightly lit and cleaner than he had expected. Behind the familiar French zinc-topped counter a small mustached man was drying glasses and smoking a Gauloise, coughing. A couple of old fishermen playing dominoes in the corner looked up as he came in.

Jim took a seat at the counter. “Beer, please,” he said, placing his wallet on the counter.

The man eyed it warily. “Alsace or Normandy?”

“I’ll take Alsace.”

He opened the bottle and poured the beer carefully, placing it on the counter in front of him. The foam was cream color and the beer tasted cold and good. “Have one yourself,” suggested Jim with an amiable smile in the barman’s direction.

“Merci, monsieur.” The barman thanked him laconically, pouring himself a shot of Pernod.

“Not too busy today,” said Jim.

“We’re never too busy at this time of the year.”

“I don’t suppose there’s much fishing from Deauville anymore,” said Jim. “It’s become too smart for that. Too many yachts now, there’s no room for fishing boats.”

“That’s true, monsieur.”

“I hear you’re a pretty good sailor yourself.”

“Who told you that, monsieur?”

“The barman at the Grand, Jean-Luc Grenier, he said to mention his name.”

“My wife’s cousin,” said the barman, permitting himself a faint smile.

“Yeah. He told me you sometimes crewed for the races—when they need someone to fill in.”

His face lit up suddenly. “Yes, monsieur, and I’m very good. But you can’t be looking for a crew now, the races are over until next season.”

“No. No, I’m not. I’m looking for someone else. Someone who also picks up a casual job crewing. A big guy, sort of reddish hair, running to fat a bit.” He picked up the wallet and opened it suggestively. “He must have been around for years now, probably disappeared for a while and then came back. And he’s not a local man.”

The barman leaned on the counter eyeing the wallet. “Why do you want to find this man?” he asked, sipping his Pernod.

Jim sat back, closing the wallet with a snap. “I think that’s my business.”

The man jumped. “Yes, yes of course. I was just curious. Well, I suppose I could tell you what I know.…” His eyes were on the wallet and Jim took out a note and laid it on the counter. He took out a second note and laid it next to the first. “Well?”

The man swept the notes into his pocket and took another sip of Pernod. “There is only one man who looks like that, and he’s here only in the summer … and not every summer. He picks up a casual job for the season, ferrying pleasure trips or working in the marina, a bit of painting, a bit of carpentering, things like that. He was here last season, but he’s not popular—there have been fights, drinking.…” He shrugged. “He is not a good man to know, monsieur.”

Jim took out another note, placing it on the counter. “After the season,” he said quietly, “where does he go then?”

“I think he goes south, monsieur, that’s all I know. I’d guess
that he goes to Cannes or Monte Carlo—their season goes on much later, right into the winter. There’s always work to be had in the marinas there.”

“And his name?”

The barman refilled his glass with Pernod. “That I can’t tell you, monsieur, but if you ask at the marina someone there might know—he worked quite a bit for Lesage this summer.”

Jim finished his beer in a gulp and made for the door. “Thank you,” he called over his shoulder.

The barman sipped his Pernod, shivering in the draft that whipped in through the door as Jim closed it behind him.

Was this it? thought Jim excitedly. Had his hunch paid off? He had guessed the man must be an itinerant laborer, moving from resort to resort as the mood and the season took him. Deauville was a smart resort, there was plenty of money to be made there, plenty of jobs. Why wouldn’t he have returned after a few years, when everything had blown over? After all, he had been accused of nothing—there was nothing to be accused of. And people’s memories were short. Now all he needed was a name.

Lesage was the biggest proprietor on the marina. Their premises took up half the pier and their boats—pleasure steamers for day trips, small boats for hire for fishing, and the smart yachts of their customers keeled for the winter—ranged along the waterfront.

The gray-haired man behind the desk put on his jacket hastily as Jim entered the office.

“Good morning, sir.” He smiled. “What can I do for you?”

“Good morning. You’ve got some nice boats out there.”

The man beamed. “We have several for sale, if you’re interested. Unless, of course, you prefer one specially made to your specifications. We have our own yard, sir, just down the coast.”

“I might be interested in a boat,” Jim replied casually, “a smallish one—my wife fancies herself a sailor. Although with her on board I expect I’ll have to pick up someone extra to crew for me.”

“No problem, sir, there are always extra hands looking for work in the season—they’ll crew, sir, and keep the boat clean and in trim. We can arrange that for you.”

“A friend of mine said he had a good fellow last season, a reddish-haired chap. I forget his name.”

“Red hair, sir? You must mean Marigny. Oh, but I wouldn’t recommend him, sir—he’s a good worker all right, but he’s an odd
fellow. No, we weren’t happy with him at all.” He sucked in his cheeks and rubbed his hands together agitatedly. “A little too fond of the brandy, sir, to be honest. I think we can do better than that for you. Now, can I show you our craft, sir? We have several that would be suitable for your needs.”

“If you don’t mind,” said Jim, heading for the door, “I’ll come back later. I’m late for an appointment.”

He just made the three o’clock train to Paris and settled back against the cushions studying the name he had written in his notebook. Marigny. Possibly the man who assassinated Charles d’Aureville. And hopefully the key to Léonie’s freedom from her past. All he had to do now was find this Marigny. He glanced at his watch, if he were lucky he might make the night train to Nice. It would take time, but he’d comb every marina, every harbor and pier between Menton and Marseilles until he found him.

Maroc picked up the copy of the French newspaper
Le Monde
from the shop in the arcade near Brown’s Hotel in London, meaning to read it later, after the show. He glanced at the headlines and ran his eye quickly over the page. The report of the serious injuries to the Duc de Courmont and the death of his younger son in an accident involving the latest de Courmont sports car blazed from the page in graphic captions and heavy type.

Folding the paper carefully so that the wind couldn’t blow it, he read the report quickly. Although Monsieur had suffered crushing injuries to the chest and legs, he was expected to live. My God, he thought bitterly, why couldn’t it have been him!

He strode back along Dover Street and into the hotel. They had two more nights left in London, should he tell Léonie now, or after she’d completed the shows? He remembered the last time he’d held back information from her. But this was different—he’d tell her now. She’d want to know.

Léonie was up and dressed and planning on doing some shopping. She wanted to buy things for Jim—nice English things, soft cashmere pullovers and striped silk pajamas—there were such wonderful places in Burlington Arcade and Jermyn Street. She smiled as she brushed her hair, it was so much nicer when you loved someone. And when you were loved. “It took you a long time, Léonie Jamieson,” she told herself, “but you finally found out what it was that makes you ‘belong.’ ”

Maroc called to her from the sitting room and she put down the
brush and walked through to see him. “Hello,” she said, kissing him lightly on the cheek, “would you like to come shopping with me?”

“There’s some news in the paper, Léonie. It’s about Monsieur. There’s been an accident.”

She stared at him, eyes wide with apprehension.

“He’s not dead, Léonie, but he is badly injured. It was in one of his own cars; his younger son was killed.”

“Killed!” She remembered the two little boys solemnly eating ice cream in the Café de Paris in Monte Carlo all those years ago—poor, poor little boy. And Monsieur was still alive. God, it was ironic—an innocent boy dies and he lives! She held the paper in trembling hands, serious injuries to the chest and legs—an image of his strong hard body pressed close to hers flashed through her mind. No. He couldn’t be injured, nothing could ever hurt him. He was invincible. Hadn’t he proved that over the years? She didn’t want to think of his body broken like that, he was better dead; he should have died.

Maroc took the paper from her hand and she gazed at him despairingly. “Oh, Maroc, why? Why wasn’t it he who died? Is there no justice?”

“I don’t know about justice,” he replied, “but you could call it retribution—a young life for a young life. He’ll suffer now, Léonie, make no mistake about it.”

–
• 53 •

The Hotel Villa d’Aureville on Copacabana was exactly like a small and exquisite country house. Its walls were plain and white and its ceilings dark-beamed. The polished wooden floors were dotted with wonderful rugs brought by Isabelle from the Château d’Aureville—the opulent blue of Kermans, the glorious golds and lilac of a Kashan prayer rug, a creamy golden Senne, and the multitude of reds of Ferahan and Bokhara. The most delicate and rare examples decorated the walls, glowing silkily from dim corners, alongside portraits of past d’Aurevilles and vast canvases of glorious flowers, so exquisitely painted by a long-dead Dutch artist that you could almost smell the perfume of the roses and peonies, whose living cousins crowded from vases and bowls on tables and cabinets and were massed in baskets along the corridors.