There's Something About St. Tropez (10 page)

“Hmmm . . . I . . . I got lost . . .,” Bertrand improvised.

“And what do you think your mother would say if she could see you now?”

Bertrand stared at the floor, saying nothing. He knew his mother would hardly have noticed whether his shirt was clean or his shoes muddy. She would not have bothered even to question him about the cape and the binoculars. His mother lived her own life and Bertrand lived his. It was a fact that he had come to terms with long ago.

Caroline felt sorry for the boy. His oversized shorts sagged, his big owlish glasses slipped down his nose and his hair was in bad need of a cut. Bertrand had been coming to the Hôtel des Rêves since he was a small child and the regular staff knew him well. They also knew that his mother had run off with her latest lover, a man she had met at the Casino in Monte Carlo,
leaving Bertrand alone at the hotel. Madame Olivier had been gone four weeks now, and the maids were keeping an eye on Bertrand while the fatherly waiters made sure he ate a good dinner every night. Not that it made any difference to his weight, Bertrand remained giraffelike no matter how much he ate. His bony knees stuck out of his shorts like mastodon bones. But the sad fact remained that Bertrand was eleven years old and he was all alone in a hotel.

“Better go get cleaned up,” Caroline said again, giving him a forgiving smile.

Bertrand turned quickly up the stairs and bounced off Little Laureen, who was heading down, toes pointed out, ballet-style, a fresh orange tutu fluffing with every move. Laureen's princess tiara flew off and so did Bertrand's glasses. Then he dropped his cape and the binoculars fell out and landed next to the tiara on the bottom step.

The two stared at them. Then they looked at each other.

“Clumsy,” Laureen said.

“Oh . . .
Je-je-je m'excuse, mademoiselle . . .
” Bertrand's nervous stutter was in full force.

“Why should I excuse you?”

Laureen gave him her implacable china blue stare and Bertrand quickly looked away. The binoculars were in full view of anyone coming through the hall or walking down the stairs. Their lenses with the protective metal “lids” seemed to be looking back at him and he knew this strange girl in the ballet costume must have seen them.

She had spoken in English and although Bertrand understood, he answered in French. “I-I . . . didn't see you.” The stammer that seemed to happen whenever he was under stress was even more noticeable and he blushed.

Laureen's implacable gaze took in the binoculars, the big round glasses, the muddy sneakers, the baggy shorts, the knobby knees and the horrified pale blue eyes staring shortsightedly back at her. She looked again at the binoculars lying on that bottom step.

“Bertrand?” Caroline hurried over. “Oh, Bertrand, Laureen has come all the way from Texas.” Caroline seemed either not to see, or to be ignoring the binoculars. “I thought perhaps you would make good companions for each other.”

“
Je préfère . . .
” Laureen started in French, then got stuck. “I prefer my
own
company. Thank
you
,” she finished in English. Then she kicked the
binoculars daintily out of her way, picked up her tiara, perched it back on her head, tucked her hair behind her ears and continued to the door.

“Oh, by the way.” She turned to look at them. “Can either of you please tell me where I can get a taxi into St. Tropez? And where I can get some pancakes?”

 

11.

 

 

Mac left Sunny sleeping, one arm curled beneath her head and Tesoro curved in the crook of her knees. She had a lot of sleep to catch up on, while he, thanks to the effortless and fast trip in Ron Perrin's Citation that had eliminated any airport hassle and delays, was fresh as a daisy.

It was time to confront Madame Lariot, though he didn't hold out much hope that she would be at the office address. He had not yet verified the amount stolen from the others but there was no doubt the woman had pulled off a massive scam. He'd bet it was at least half a million bucks and she was anywhere else but in Cannes.

Pirate ran down the corridor ahead of him, his big goofy underbite making him look the happiest, as well as the ugliest dog in the South of France. Not even a jeweled collar—which Pirate most certainly would have refused to wear—could have redeemed his looks. Fortunately Pirate seemed entirely unaware of any deficiency. Even the lack of an eye and a back leg did not faze him. Mac knew his dog and he knew that Pirate considered himself the norm. It was the other dogs that were different.

Ragged gray-brown ears perked, Pirate stopped at the top of the stairs to survey the little scene taking place at the bottom.

Mac was surprised to see Little Laureen without her daddy, and heading for the door. Caroline Cavalaire was with a stringy-looking kid who turned to look when he heard Pirate's
wuff
. Mac stared at the boy in surprise. He was spattered with mud, his long matted blond hair fell over his eyes and his shorts were held up with what seemed to be the remnants of an old silk tie. Suddenly the boy darted to the bottom of the stairs and picked something up.

Mac saw it was his glasses, that he now replaced on his nose, but Mac thought he'd also tucked something else under the old army surplus cape.

Sensing a new game, with a joyous
bark
Pirate bounded toward the boy. Balancing on his single hind leg, he sank his teeth into the cape and shook it vigorously.

“Non, non.”
Bertrand's voice rose in alarm. He held the cape up over his head but still Pirate bounced up and down after it, like a circus dog.

“Sit!” Mac yelled and, tail down, the dog obediently sat.

“Oh, mon dieu.”
Caroline fanned her face with her hand. “For a moment there I thought he might bite.”

“Pirate never bites,” Mac explained. “He simply wanted to play.” He looked at the dog and said, “Pirate, go apologize for frightening people.”

Head lowered, tail slowly wagging, Pirate inched on his belly toward Bertrand. When he got there, he rolled onto his back, paws waggling, goofy grin flashing.

“
Ooh, mais ce chien est un charmeur
. The dog is a charmer,” Caroline said smiling.

Little Laureen came to take a look. “What happened to him?”

“A road accident,” Mac explained. He did not tell her though how, driving over Malibu Canyon late one night, he had scooped the bloody and battered dog off the blacktop thinking it was dead. And how Pirate had opened an eye and looked gratefully at him. Of course then Mac was sunk. He'd taken off his shirt, wrapped the dog in it and driven all the way to the emergency vet in Santa Monica with the almost-dead dog on his knee. The vet amputated the leg, rescued one of his eyes and saved the dog's life. And Pirate had been Mac's best buddy ever since.

“Pauvre petite.”
Laureen knelt to stroke Pirate. She glanced at Bertrand, who was edging away up the stairs, hoping not to be noticed.

“So what about the pancakes?” Laureen called after him, but Bertrand fled.

“He's gone to take a shower,” Caroline explained. “But I will ask the chef to prepare you some crepes. You can eat them out in the courtyard, and I'll tell your papa where you are.”

She went back to her desk to call the kitchen and Mac took a long look at the little girl, kneeling on the floor next to the dog.

“Glad to hear you're going to get your pancakes at last,” he said.

Laureen scrambled ungracefully to her feet, one hand on the silver heart necklace at her throat, the other smoothing her ruffled orange tulle.

“Goodbye,” she said abruptly, and turned and walked over to Caroline at the reception desk.

“Would you ask them to send the crepes to my room, please?” she said. Then she walked back to the stairs, avoiding Mac's eyes.

He had time to notice, though, that Little Laureen's own eyes were swollen and red. It looked very much as though she had been crying.

 

12.

 

 

Cannes, the diamond city of the Mediterranean coast, glittered in the washed-clean summer day, as Mac nosed the Peugeot along the crowded Croisette, stopping every few feet to allow holidaymakers loaded with shopping bags to dart across. The sea was a smooth blue sheet on his right, the beaches were crowded and on his left the white terraces of the grand hotels buzzed with late lunchers and champagne drinkers.

He parked in the massive Gray d'Albion multistory lot then flagged down a taxi. Madame Lariot's office was a long way from the chic seaside area and its glossy name boutiques, set back on a treeless street of narrow four-story buildings with dusty windows and littered entrances, many of which had office
FOR RENT
signs in front.

Asking the driver to wait, Mac studied the names next to the set of brass buzzers outside the front door. There it was:
4ème étage. Lariot. #401
. He pressed the bell and waited. As he'd expected there was no answering buzz to let him in. No doubt Madame Lariot, or whatever her real name was, had long since flown the coop. He pressed the bell for the concierge.

An impatient female voice floated into the air.
“Qui est là?”

“Je cherche Madame Lariot.”

“Lariot? Pas ici.”

Mac summoned some French words and strung them together to ask where Madame Lariot had gone, only to be told the concierge had no idea. Lariot was gone and that was final.

He wrote down the address and phone number of the rental company whose board was outside then took the taxi back to the Hôtel Carlton.

It had often been said there was no better place to observe life than the Carlton's terrace, made world-famous by the Cannes Film Festival. Now it was a mecca for international travelers, and for glamorous women on the lookout for adventure and stardom and handsome young men on the lookout for success. Royalty, of the real princess kind as well as film royalty, gathered there to take in the scene over a glass of Krug. The espresso was strong, the cappuccino topped with the softest
crema
, and the waiters knew everybody, and probably everything.

With Pirate at his heels, Mac edged his way through the crowd, managing to secure a tiny table shaded by a blue umbrella, with a fine view of the passing scene on the Croisette and of the beach beyond. He ordered a Stella Artois and a
croque-monsieur
, the French version of a toasted ham and cheese, and also a bowl of water for the dog. Then he took out his phone and called the number of the rental office.

The voice of the man who answered held a weary note. Mac couldn't blame him. Renting cheap offices to fly-by-nights could not be a rewarding occupation. He told the man who he was looking for and was informed that Lariot had left and no he did not know where she had gone. She had paid six months' rent in full and had departed a few weeks before the rental term was up.

Mac took a sip of his beer, served in a tall glass so cold it chilled his fingers. He asked if Madame Lariot had left a forwarding address, knowing the answer even before it was given. His next question was trickier.

“Did she pay by check?”

“Of course. Everyone does. No one deals in cash in the office rentals business.”

“Then,
monsieur
, you must have an account number, and also the name of the bank.”

There was a long silence, then the man said stiffly, “I cannot give out that information.”

“Then allow me to explain the circumstances.” Mac proceeded to fill him in on the rental-scam story.

There was another long silence. “This is none of my business,” the rental agent said, guardedly. “I do not want to be involved.”

I'll bet you don't, Mac thought. He said, “
Monsieur
, let me explain. It's a question of you giving
me
the name of the bank and that account number, or giving it to
the police
. The choice is yours.”

Another silence. The waiter delivered the
croque-monsieur
and Mac took an appreciative bite. He'd forgotten when he last ate.