Some Day I'll Find You (31 page)
Armand was thoughtful as he sipped the tiny cognac he had poured for himself.
‘Well, it’s certainly somewhere near St Paul de Vence,’ he said at last. ‘I know she usually walks to the taxi-rank there before coming down here in the mornings, and she
quite often arranges for the cab to pick her up from here and take her home. There are only about five drivers working the rank. I’ll bet they all know where she lives.’
Hélène stared at him. ‘How clever you are, Armand! I should never have thought of that.’
He ducked his head modestly. ‘Ah well, I have my uses.
Alors
, what are we waiting for? I’ll shut up shop and drive us up to St Paul.’
‘No, that’s impossible, Armand,’ Hélène shook her head. ‘The situation is very complicated. We must tread carefully.’
He looked at her in surprise. ‘But surely we have to—’
She held up a hand for silence. ‘Listen to me,’ she said firmly. ‘Pay me your fullest attention, old friend.’
Armand nodded. ‘I’m listening, Hélène.’
‘Good.’ She took a long swallow of her coffee before continuing. ‘I believe there has been a terrible accident of fate.
Madame
– Diana – may very well be
married to two men. The husband who works in Cannes and Marseilles, and the man you saw her going off with yesterday.’
‘
What?
You mean Le Loup is her
husband
? I can’t believe it!’ Armand poured himself more cognac.
Hélène pointed a finger at him. ‘Believe me when I say I am certain of this. I told you before, don’t you remember? Yesterday’s man is thought by the world to be
dead. He was a British fighter pilot and he was shot down over the Pas de Calais less than a year into the war. But it seems he did not die, and for reasons of his own he came here to Nice, and
never returned home to his wife. Now she has found him again – but she can have no idea what he has become, what he does here. We have to warn her, but we can’t just go walking into her
house. What if her husband – her second husband, I mean – is there? What would we say to him? This is a matter of great delicacy. No, Armand, somehow we have to get word to Diana by
other means.’
Armand rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘You are right, it is very complicated. I can’t think what to do. We can’t just sit here every day hoping she’ll turn up.’
‘No,’ Hélène agreed, ‘that’s no sort of plan at all. Let me think . . .’
Across the road from them, a teenage girl slipped out of the doorway to her family’s apartment. She was clutching several letters, and as Hélène watched, the girl skipped to
the post box on the corner of the street and dropped them through the slot.
‘That’s it, Armand!’ Hélène exclaimed, banging the table with the flat of her hand. ‘We’ll write her a letter, explaining everything. You can take it
in your car to the taxi-rank in St Paul and ask one of the drivers to deliver it. Get the address while you’re at it, we may need it later.’
He beamed at her. ‘Now who’s the clever one, eh? Well done!’ He paused, and an expression of concern crossed his face. ‘But wait a moment . . . What if her husband
– the new one – opens the envelope first?’
Hélène shook her head. ‘That is most unlikely. Diana told me he is a gentleman, very kind and proper. He would not do such a thing with a letter addressed to his wife, I am
sure. Anyway, it is a chance we must take.’
‘All right. But you write the letter, Hélène, I’m no good with words. I’ll sign it with you, though.’
‘Of course, it must come from us both. I shall go and buy paper and an envelope immediately. We mustn’t waste any more time.’ She gathered her bag and stood up.
‘We have to save her.’
An hour later, Hélène looked up from the table where she had been writing their letter. Armand was watching her from inside the café. She beckoned to him.
‘Come – it’s finished. Read it and tell me what you think.’
The
patron
hurried over, fumbling with his reading glasses. ‘You have been frank, Hélène?’
‘I don’t think I could have been any franker.’
He took the letter and sat down opposite her. ‘Give me a little time. I am not a fast reader, and my English is limited. I may need some assistance.’
Armand bent over the pages, and his lips began to move silently as his finger traced the words which Hélène had written to their friend.
Madame (or perhaps I may address you as ‘Diana’. After all, this is, as you will see, a most personal letter)
Dearest Diana, then. It appears my advice to you earlier this week was quite wrong. Your first husband is alive and well and living here in Nice, just as you thought. Armand saw your
encounter yesterday outside the café, and from his description of your reaction, it is plain that this is the man you have been searching for.
So your instincts were correct all along, my dear, and mine were not. I apologise.
We truly wish you had come to the flower-market this morning, as we have much to tell you about the man you met yesterday. My dear: what or who he was when you married him, he cannot be now,
it is quite impossible. The man you described to me two days ago is not the man who lives in Nice today. I can only think that he hid his true face from you when you knew him in England, or
that he has changed, and changed so completely it is beyond any understanding.
Here in Nice, the man you described to me so fondly is known by the name
Le Loup Anglais
(the English Wolf, of course). It is a terrible name, for what I must tell you, my dear
Diana, is a terrible man.
No one knows where he came from or exactly how long he has been on the Côte d’Azur, but all are afraid of him. Even the
gendarmes,
whom he pays to close their eyes to
what he does.
There are many rumours and stories about him, not all of which can be true, but I will tell you what Armand and I know to be so. You must please prepare yourself to be very shocked,
Diana.
This man’s business is what we in France call ‘extorsion’. He threatens to do terrible things to anyone with a business who does not pay him for his
‘protection’. Poor Armand for years had to pay thirty francs a week to
Le Loup
; now it is fifty francs.
He picks on the smallest businesses, the ones the Nice Mafia cannot be bothered with. I am lucky he has not come to me for money. I think my little stall is too small for him to notice. But
his threats must be taken with the utmost seriousness, Diana. He and those who work for him do not hesitate to make an example of those who refuse to pay.
There was a man who owned a patisserie just off the Rue de France, near the station. It was very profitable, people catching their trains to and from work would stop and buy their croissants
and pastries from this man.
Le Loup
offered him his ‘protection’, but the man refused. He told
Le Loup
that he had fought in the Resistance against the Germans and
was not frightened of a ‘Merde Anglais’. He said this in front of his customers, Diana, shouting at
Le Loup
. He told him that if he ever came into his shop again, he would
shoot him like a dog and that Nice would thank him for the favour.
The next morning this man was found dead in an alley behind the Gare de Nice; he had been stabbed in the eye. It is not thought
Le Loup
did this personally, there are plenty of men
in Nice who would do such a thing for money.
People said even the Mafia would have given the baker a warning of some kind, a chance to see sense. The man’s wife took over the running of the patisserie; she had herself and her
children to clothe and feed. Now this woman pays
Le Loup
forty francs a week. Forty francs, Diana, to the man who had her husband murdered.
I must tell you that there is worse. Armand had a great friend who owned a small café in Cagnes sur Mer; it’s not even in Nice, Diana, but
Le Loup
’s territory
grows each year. This man was paying him sixty francs a week but asked for a meeting with
Le Loup
, where he explained it was too much and would eventually put him out of business. He
offered forty francs.
Le Loup
let it be known amongst what he calls his clients that this conversation had taken place. A few days later, Armand’s friend disappeared: he has never been seen again.
The talk is that his body is buried at the bottom of one of the gorges high in the Alpes Maritimes, but of course no one knows for certain what became of him and the police just shrug their
shoulders and blow out their cheeks.
There are more such stories, Diana, too many for me to write here. But I know them to be true.
One more thing, my dear. Recently there have been rumours in Nice about
Le Loup
having a disagreement with the Mafia here. Perhaps you are aware how much of this city is controlled
by the Mafia. They came here from Sicily many years ago. Even our mayor is known to be under their influence.
Now they have realised
Le Loup
is making a great deal of money and they want their share, or they will simply take over his business for themselves.
It is all meant to be a secret, but people talk. They say he has proposed an arrangement where he will pay them what they ask, but in return they must be responsible for his financial
arrangements with the police. Armand has heard that the Mafia have agreed, but are insisting
Le Loup
give them a large sum first for the privilege of being allowed to join their
organisation. Everyone is frightened he will raise the money by demanding large special payments from his so-called clientèle.
Diana, Armand and I have no way of knowing if you plan to see this man again, or perhaps are even with him as I write this. Please believe me when I tell you that the man you married is now
very, very dangerous; truly one of the cruellest men on the Riviera. Do not believe any of the lies I am certain he will tell you.
I am also certain he will want to take advantage of you in some way. Be on your guard. When you read this, show it to your husband, your real husband who cares for you and your daughter.
Also, please come to the flower-market as soon as you can. Armand and I wish to do all we can to advise and help you.
Sincerely yours,
Your friends, Hélène and Armand
Armand laid the pages on the table. Hélène looked questioningly at him. ‘Well? What do you think?’
He smiled at her. ‘It’s a
tour de force
, my dearest Hélène. She must take heed of it. She
will
take heed of it. You’ve only made one mistake
that I can see.’
She bridled slightly. ‘Really? And what is that?’
He sighed as he folded the letter and slid it into the envelope, marked simply
Diana
.
‘I don’t pay the bastard fifty francs a week. Since January, it’s been bloody sixty.’
The medieval church that sat at the very top of St Paul de Vence’s fortified hilltop was striking one o’clock as Diana walked into the village. For once, she
ignored the taxi-rank, heading instead for an unobtrusive wooden door set in a high stone wall. Opposite was the Café de la Place, busy with lunchtime customers. Some of them glanced at the
young woman on the other side of the square as she approached the door and pushed it open.
A girl nudged her boyfriend and gestured urgently with her cigarette. ‘Quick! Over there! Do you see her? That beautiful woman in the white lace dress? Look at those gorgeous shoes
she’s wearing! They’re by Roger Vivier, or I’m a nun. I’m sure she’s a film star.’
Her partner grinned at her. ‘You say that about every beautiful well-dressed woman you see going into La Colombe d’Or.’ He swung round in his chair in time to see Diana smile
at someone in the doorway, before she slipped inside and disappeared. ‘Wow. You’re right about one thing though – she’s a peach.’ He winced as a stilettoed shoe made
sharp contact with his ankle under the table. ‘But not as lovely as you,
chérie,
truly . . .’
Diana was standing on the sunlit terrace of one of the most famous and exclusive restaurants on the Côte d’Azur. It attracted locals, tourists and a constant stream of writers,
actors and artists. She loved coming here, and when James had asked her where she would like to meet for lunch after she had impulsively phoned him earlier, she hadn’t hesitated.
‘Oh, La Colombe! They’ve been serving lunch on the terrace for weeks now and it’s such a glorious day. Let’s meet there in an hour – if you think we can get a table
at such short notice.’
This is all Douglas’s fault
, she’d told herself as she made her way to the kitchen to phone James. Telling her who she could and couldn’t see.
She knew perfectly well that she was deliberately inflaming her irritation into anger in order to justify phoning James. But she was glad of any excuse, however contrived. Her misgivings of the
day before had faded during the night, and she had woken hungry to see him again.
James had promised her he would have no trouble getting them a reservation at La Colombe d’Or. He had an account there, he said, and often took his more valued clients to the restaurant to
finalise deals.
He chose not to add that the last time he had dined there, his guest had been a man close to the very top of the Nice Mafia. The agreement they’d hammered out would elevate James into the
top drawer of organised crime in the city. Assuming he could get the entry fee together, of course. It was astronomically high and he was still working on the problem. But he knew he’d come
up with something. He always did.
Now Diana looked at the busy tables that were sheltered from the sun by large white canvas parasols. Others were shaded by ancient fig trees that lined a low wall opposite, from where diners
enjoyed stunning views across the valley that fell steeply away from the village walls.
The dark doorway that led into the cool interior of the hotel seemed to wink and flash as white-coated waiters moved briskly in and out of the sunlight, carrying plates and bottles and menus.
The air hummed with the sound of dozens of conversations and occasional bursts of laughter.
