The Dave Bliss Quintet (11 page)

Bliss heads to the town centre in search of Daisy, his bouncy estate agent.

“She'll know the tenants,” the concierge told him, explaining it was her agency that handled all the leasing arrangements for the building.

Ten minutes later he's outside her office, pretending to peer at the properties for sale, still trying to come up with a devious pretext to get her to open her books.

“Hello,” she drools, as she spots him, and, taking his hand, guides him in. “What can I do you with?”

“What can I do
for you
,” he corrects, but she misunderstands.

“No. I asked to do you first,” she says, and Bliss drops the devious pretext, realizing from her expression that there is little she would hold back, if asked.

“This isn't possible,” he breathes a few minutes later, his eye on the building's tenant register.

“Is zhis a problem?” she asks, sliding an arm around his waist as she leans over his shoulder.

“Could this be a mistake?” he asks, his finger firmly on the entry.

“No,” she replies. “No mistake. The apartment belongs to Mr. Morgan Johnson.... Why — you know him?”

“Do you?” he enquires with an innocent mask.

“Oh, yes. He was here zhis morning.”

“What for?” he asks, barely containing his eagerness.

“He collects the rent. He owns many of zhe apartments in zhat building,” she explains, running her finger down a column. “Yes, I thought so,” she adds. “He owns the one zhat you have — 401.”

I bet Richards would love to know that, he thinks, but he's filled with confusion and consternation as he tries to construct a jigsaw puzzle out of a handful of mismatched pieces. Although, it is something of a relief to know Johnson leased out the apartments — he was beginning to think that, in addition to dealing in drugs, scamming investors, and seducing schoolgirls, he was also keeping a boy in a cage.

“But,” he wants to know, “who is the tenant in 101?”

“Zhere is no rent for 101,” she says, closing the book. “Morgan Johnson's wife lives there.”

Bliss jumps at the news. “His wife?”

“Yes. He wanted her to have zhat apartment because it has a garden. I remember him saying to me zhat all English women like it in zhe garden. Would you have dinner with me zhis evening?”

The request, coming out of nowhere and tacked on
to an intriguing piece of information, catches him by surprise and leaves him stumbling. “I … I don't …”

“It is all right,” she says, turning away. “I understand. Your wife would not like. Yes.”

“Yes … No … I mean, yes. Sorry, no … OK,” he says, finally getting his brain and mouth working in unison. “I would like to have dinner tonight, but I've already got plans. What about lunch — tomorrow, perhaps?”

It is partially true, he tells himself. He does want to get hold of Marcia as soon as he can, hoping she may know where Johnson and her daughter might have gone, and hoping she will show up at L'Escale. He also has it in mind to have another bash at the husband — there are too many unanswered questions, like: How come he's not trying harder to get his daughter away from Johnson?

In any case, there is another problem with dinner, a problem he is determined to avoid: the unspoken innuendos between two singles spending an evening together, and the inevitability of the momentary awkwardness afterwards when either, or both, will have their minds on etchings.

Having agreed on the lunch — something special, she promises him, not just
un
s
andwich dans le Snack-Bar self-service —
Bliss wanders thoughtfully along the harbour wall and stands watching the fishermen unravelling nets as he tries to puzzle out the situation. What on earth is Johnson's wife doing in the apartment? he wonders, but cautions himself of the need to seriously re-evaluate his situation. If the Johnson case is as secret, and potentially dangerous, as Richards made it appear, the last thing he should do is bust in on the target's wife; even living in the same building might be risky.

But who is the boy? No, he stops himself — that's where you're going wrong. It's a man — not a boy. What if Mrs. Johnson is having a little S&M tryst in retaliation for her husband having it away with young Miss Grimes? Good job he hadn't just rushed in, he thinks, realizing Samantha might have been right. The Johnsons have big money; she could be paying the guy to live naked in a cage and lets him out a couple of times a day to service her. This is France, after all — although she's English … or is she? I'll have to ask Daisy.

No wonder Johnson's taken a bimbo, he laughs to himself. He probably didn't fancy living in a cage.

But why did the young man shield his face and run? he questions, thinking about the lemon tree incident.

Wouldn't you, if you were doing that? he thinks, then swallows hard as he realizes it isn't only the spaniel fouling the garden — no wonder the concierge complained about the amount of mess from one small dog.

There is no sign of Marcia as he takes his usual seat at L'Escale, a point quickly seized on by Angeline, the waitress.

“Your beautiful friend — she did not come today?” she says, as she scoots off across the bustling road with a heavy tray.

“I can't watch,” Bliss mutters, seeing her play French roulette with a slew of fast-moving cars and motorbikes. But, despite the occasional screech of brakes from a startled motorist, her timing is impeccable as she braves the racetrack — thirty times an hour, back and forth with
trays heaped with drinks and elaborate sundaes and other
glace
concoctions, some sprouting fizzing sparklers that light her path across the road.

“You should not be alone,” she says, returning to Bliss with his customary
vin rouge —
no longer bothering to ask for his order. “Zhis is zhe Côte d'Azur, even zhe statues make zhe love here.”

He's seen some of the statues in the galleries and has to concur, but, taking a sip of wine, he reassures her, “I'm fine.”

“But every night zhe same, you sit all alone. It is not possible. See — zhere are many beautiful women,” she says, sweeping a hand to encompass a dozen.

“I don't want a woman,” protests Bliss, and Angeline thinks she catches on. “Zhere are some very nice boys here too,” she says, and he looks up in time to see one.

Pinky and Perky are back, but where is Marcia? “Strangers in the Night” again — wait for it, he thinks, “Guantanamera's” coming up, and it does, on cue. What's the life expectancy of a waitress? he wonders, as Angeline skirts death again by inches. What's the life expectancy of Pinky and Perky if they play “Guantanamera” one more time?

Mavis has her hair scraped under a headscarf as she and Hugh arrive. They have been reunited with their erstwhile friends now that the laundry, the weather, and the
coiffeur
have all been settled. The usual fuss over the seating has also seemingly been resolved as Hugh waves John and Jennifer into the best seats, while he slips over to Bliss. “Don't mention the hair, old chap — bit of a balls-up,” he whispers.

“No problem, Hugh.” Bliss smiles, thinking he's inadvertently stumbled into a Jacques Tatti movie.

“We're going to the beach tomorrow,” announces Mavis triumphantly, as if they've been practising seaside celibacy to increase the ultimate gratification — a kind of sand-free foreplay — leaving Bliss laughing at the mental image of Mavis on the beach in her modest onepiece, lying flat on her back in the sun, whimpering, “Oh God … Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“Good for you,” he says, fervently hoping Jacques won't show up and dampen their ardour with news of another ill wind.

Where the hell is Marcia? he worries as he sits on the promenade, and is aggravated by the fact he is forced to rely on someone as unreliable as her. Maybe it's time Mohammed went to the mountain, he thinks, and resolves to find out where the Grimeses are living. Even if Marcia shows up there will be little point in asking her, considering her reluctance even to be seen with him. The last thing she would want is him knocking on the door. I bet Greg Grimes hasn't the faintest idea who I am, or that she has grassed on Johnson, he thinks, guessing the potter, being a man, has taken the loss of his daughter to Johnson more phlegmatically than his wife — “At least he's got some money,” Bliss imagines him protesting. “She could have hooked up with some long-haired bum with a ring up his nose and fewer prospects than a capon.”

Skulking in the shadow of a schooner that has been drawn up on a dolly onto the quayside, Bliss spies Grimes wrapping up his wheel and stowing it into a storage locker tacked onto the side of one of the harbour-front bars. Rented for the purpose, he assumes, as the potter pockets the key and saunters off along the promenade.

Where are the crowds when you need them? he wonders, being forced into the open more often than he would like as he takes off in pursuit, but he doesn't push his luck, knowing the likelihood of a successful surveillance at the first attempt is remote without having some idea of where or how his quarry is going. Grimes need only jump in a car or hop a late-night bus to leave Bliss standing. He'll make a start, and tomorrow night he'll pick him up where he leaves off and be ready with a car if needed.

The prospect of a car or bus fades the further Grimes strolls along the promenade, passing bus stops and car parks without stopping, but his dawdling sends Bliss scurrying into darkened doorway after doorway.

Deceived by the slow pace into suspecting that Grimes has spotted him, Bliss is compelled to hang back further than he would prefer and, when Grimes takes a side turning, he's forced to risk exposing himself by running. Heart pounding, eyes glued on the intersection, he makes up the distance in seconds and cautiously peers around the corner. Grimes is still there — plodding unconcernedly on.

The decorative lamp standards of the promenade and the lights of the dock disappear in the shadow of eucalyptus and palms as they start up the steeply winding road on the edge of town, but invisible infrared surveillance cameras pick them up as if it is still daylight, and shadowy hulks appear out of concealed corners to stand warningly in front of gates. Apprehension creeps in as the gloomy atmosphere darkens. The narrow road, overhung with rampant vegetation and soaring walls, is silent apart from the soft thud of Grimes's footfalls somewhere ahead — no people; no cars. Just the occasional
goon stepping menacingly out of the shadows and staring unmannerly at Bliss until he is out of sight around the next bend. His hackles rise at the weight of stares and his adrenalin clicks up a notch as he worries one of the goons might finger him as a threat and decide to neutralize him.

They wouldn't, he says to himself, but the black look on the next face tells him differently.

Another three bends, he decides, then he'll call it a night and come back in the daylight to scout the place out, so at least he'll have a better idea of the extent of the threat.

The tight twists and hairpin bends have ruined his chance of staying close to Grimes, and he's dropped back and relied on the measured footfalls in the dead night air.

Grimes's disappearance, when it happens, is so unexpected that Bliss has rounded another tight bend before catching on to the fact the footsteps have stopped. Kicking off his shoes, he lightly runs barefoot round the next bend, and the next, and next, but Grimes has vanished in the darkness.

Which villa? Which doorway? Which fortified gateway? wonders Bliss, as he quickly backtracks. But there are none. Despite the dim light, no matter how many times he searches, there are no entrances — no guarded portcullises or wooden gates built to take a battering ram, and no heavy-set men staring him down. Fearful of drawing fire from one or another of the men farther down the road, Bliss stops and gives thought to the situation.

What if Grimes has latched on to the fact he is being followed and pulled the trick of diving into the shadow of a building or a boulevard tree and freezing? No, there are no trees on the sidewalk, and one side of the road is
an impregnably high stone wall, while a viciously spiked iron fence, backing onto a densely wooded estate, holds the other side. There is no escape route, and Bliss has passed no entrances, other than a ghostly portico with colossal stone columns and impenetrable iron gates. Retracing his steps to the enormous gateway, he quickly dismisses it. Grimes was well beyond the entranceway before his footsteps ground to a standstill, and the noise of such huge metal gates in motion would have easily reached Bliss's ears.

Perplexed and a little annoyed, he has no choice but to follow the road back into town and suffer the hostile stares of the guards as he passes. He considers staring back, but quickly changes his mind under the ferocious glare of the first gorilla.

Returning to the scene early the next morning Bliss catches several of the heavies dozing in little sentry boxes niched into gate pillars, but he is just as baffled as before — even more so. The only gate Grimes could possibly have entered is the imposing portico that looks more like the entrance to a palace than a mansion. Even in the shadowy light of the morning, it is apparent that the ornate ormolu gates have not been opened for years. Spindly seedlings have lodged themselves into crevices in the spalled stone columns; the iron gates are welded shut with rust; tattered ribbons of gold and black paint hang like peeling birch bark; and a forest of eucalyptus tress behind the gates form an unyielding barricade.

The name “Château Roger, (MDCLXXXVII),” inscribed deeply into a foundation stone of one of the columns, has survived, and stands out well as Bliss kicks
away the scrub in his search for clues, but otherwise he learns nothing of interest. The high stone wall on one side of the road and the barbed iron palisade surrounding the château's grounds are just as impenetrable in the daylight as they were in the dark.