'Both of you?'
'I think so,' said Sophie. 'He's a very nice man. You'll like him.'
This seemed to Craig to be improbable, but Sophie was right. Dan Turner was a very likable man.
He lay sprawled like a pasha, while Maria leaned over, teasing him, and he basked, porpoise-sleek, in the warmth of the sunshine and the girl's dark, shining-rounded body. Beside them Grierson stood, noble and aloof, and very English.
Sophie said, 'Dan, I want you to meet John.'
'Hi,' said Turner, then sat up suddenly to look at Craig, his body tall, yet compact with muscle. Craig glanced down at him; a gross mountain of a man with a beet-red face and a superb beak of a Roman nose that had been broken and reset very badly.
'Sit down,' Turner said. 'Have a beer.'
'There isn't any,' said Maria.
'Sure there is. Hey, Larry. Larry,' Turner bawled, in a voice that could crack concrete.
A very black Negro, built like a light-heavyweight, staggered up and plonked down a vast silver bucket on the sand. From inside it came the chilly tinkle of ice. Turner groped in it with a hand like a crab, extracted a bottle and threw it to Craig, who caught it neatly, then another for Sophie. Faster and faster Turner's hands flew, and dark bottles gleamed in the clear blue air and smacked into Grierson's hands, then Larry's; this last an impossible catch, high to his left. Yet the Negro picked it out of the air one-handed, as if it had been passed to him on a conveyor belt.
'Larry used to play baseball. Best third baseman in the business. Now he's my chauffeur.' Turner drank beer from the bottle. 'Believe me, that boy can drive. And I should know. I was in trucking. Big hauls. Anything- anywhere-any time. I made eighteen million bucks.'
'Why?' asked Maria.
'So I could sit on the beach and drink beer,' he said. 'And proposition you two.'
'Dan, we told you,' said Sophie.
'Sure, baby. Sure,' Turner said. 'But I like asking. You get so steamed up about it.' He turned to Craig. 'You staying long?'
'No,' Craig said. 'I've got to get on to Cannes.'
'Too bad.' Turner said, then looked at Sophie and chuckled. 'I mean it, kid. What the hell, there's plenty of girls. I just want to see you have a good time.' He winked at Craig. 'And you're her idea of a good time. Have another beer.'
Again the great hand moved, and the air was full of flying bottles.
'I've got a villa in Cap Ferrat,' said Turner. 'Come and see me there if you've got time.' 'Thanks. I'd like to,' Craig said.
'I want these two to come with me,' Turner said. 'A place as big as that needs a few women to fill it up.' Sophie yawned, stretched, and lay down on a beach towel. Turner's red face turned redder than ever.
'I guess that's what we all need,' he said, and waddled, massive and bear-like, to the sea. He could swim like a porpoise. Craig stretched out beside Sophie, the sun's heat as enervating as a tranquilizer, and watched him swim.
'He really does want us to go with him,' said Sophie. 'Why don't you come too?' 'I wish I could,' said Craig.
They left soon afterwards, and drove along the coast road to Nice. The air had an Alpine clarity, the vineyards and flowers, palms and pines, the villas and rocks, the purity of white stone and blue sea, were exactly what the travel agents say. They always will be. But for Craig and Grierson all this beauty was without relevance, without meaning. Their business was with death, and its setting was of no importance.
The Rialto is a luxury hotel that is very slowly going to seed, and is already a little frayed, a littie anxious about its future. It is a decaying Edwardian wedding cake stuffed with the memories of past splendors: the archdukes and millionaires and courtesans of la belle epoque, regretting that any motorcar, even an Alfa Romeo, should have supplanted the two-horse brougham.
Pages and doormen in gleaming gray swarmed around them, a vision in gold braid like a Bolivian admiral spoke words of command, and they were borne on a wave of opulence to a reception desk of mahogany and marble, an elevator of mahogany and red plush. On the second floor, two pages ran taps, raised blinds and palmed tips with a conjuror's deftness, and disappeared.
Craig examined his room, then sprawled on the hard-sprung bed, looking at the ceiling that was painted cool, pale blue. The walls had an embossed, creamy wallpaper, the bed linen was pink. The general effect was of a dispirited patriotism he did not share.
Grierson knocked and came in, carrying a bottle of whisky.
'Compliments of Mr. Ashford,' he said, and poured two drinks.
'Hurray for Mr. Ashford.'
'He's worried. I'm worried. How about you?'
Craig said, 'I wish I was back in St. Tropez. I'm too old for it, but I liked it.' He sipped his drink and looked at Grierson. 'When we've done, how do we get out of here?'
'We go to the airport if we can,' said Grierson. 'If not, we go to Cap Ferrat.'
'That's where Turner's villa is.'
'I know. We've got a boat standing by there. It'll take us to Italy.'
'Nice trip,' said Craig. 'Do you think we'll ever take it?'
'You worry too much,' said Grierson.
'Too much before lunch,' said Craig. 'I think I'd better get some sleep.'
And, incredibly, he did sleep, while Grierson prowled the hotel, lunched in a little restaurant by the gardens, took the lift to the castle ruins and looked out, from the shelter of the pines, toward Cap Ferrat and the swarm of glittering white boats. So many; surely one more would not be noticed?
Craig woke at six, bathed, showered, changed, and joined Grierson in the hotel bar. He looked calm by then, completely relaxed. The two men ate in the hotel, then walked to the Albert I gardens, the palm trees glowing blue, purple, red, under the festoons of colored lights. In the open-air theater an orchestra was playing Strauss. There should have been a grand duke or two, thought Grierson, with a girl from Maxim's on each arm. On the Quai des fitats Unis, near the opera house, is the new Casino, another ghttering wedding cake in a garden of palm trees, carnations, and roses. The great bar near the gaming rooms was already filling up, and Craig stared in frank delight at its marble floor, its tiny fountain and great curving bar covered with slabs of teak. Ashford was already there, drinking a champagne cocktail. He wore a white dinner jacket and maroon cummerbund; his heavy silk shirt was pleated. Craig and Grierson were wearing dark suits of lightweight silk and Dacron; beside Ashford, they looked like crows.
'He's due back tonight,' he said at once. 'So far as I can find out, it won't be till very late. Probably the early morning. He'll be at the Association's offices all day tomorrow. There's a conference on. The place will be packed. I should think you'd do better at the villa.'
Craig said, 'How accurate is this information?'
'It's accurate.'
'You're sure? Who did you get it from?'
Ashford looked mulish, and Craig said brutally, 'Look, gorgeous, it's our necks. We can't afford any mistakes. Who told you?'
Slowly, reluctantly, Ashford said, 'It was Bobby-Captain La Valere. Honestly, I feel an absolute bitch. I'll never be able to face him after this.'
'You'd better,' said Grierson. 'If you want to see anybody.'
'Oh God,' said Ashford. 'What a dirty business this is.' He finished his drink, and got up from the bar stool.
'I'm going now,' he said. 'Bobby's expecting me. I hope I don't have to see either of you again.'
He shook hands with Grierson and left. 'He likes you?' said Craig.
Grierson shook his head. In his hand was a tiny slip of paper.
On it he read. 'Pucelli disappeared. Fear returned Nice.' Craig said, 'We'd better get a move on.'
