London Bridges - James Patterson [81]
“Something like that, monsieur,” Sandy told him. “Let’s go up to your office. We wouldn’t want to hurt business by talking down here in the showroom.”
The manager smiled. “Oh, believe me, madame, our business is bulletproof.”
“We’ll see about that,” I told him in French. “Or maybe a better way of putting it: let’s try and keep it that way. This is a murder investigation.”
Chapter 106
THE MANAGER SUDDENLY BECAME extremely polite and cooperative. The four luxury cars in question had been purchased by an M. Aglionby, who apparently had a home nearby on the beautiful peninsula, Cap-Ferrat, just east of Nice. Monsieur Garnier told us it was “off the Basse Corniche, the main coastal road to Monaco. You can’t miss it. And you won’t miss the Aglionby estate.”
“To Catch a Thief,” Sandy said as we sped along toward Cap-Ferrat about two hours later. We had lost a little time calling in backup.
“Actually, the most memorable shots in the Hitchcock movie were filmed up there,” Sandy went on. She pointed toward a parallel road winding along the cliffs; it was at least a hundred yards higher than the one we were driving on. In other words, very high up, and dangerous-looking.
“Also, we’re here to catch a mass murderer without any conscience,” I said, “not a witty and charming cat burglar like Cary Grant was in the flick.”
“This is true, too. Keep me focused, Alex. I could easily get distracted here,” Sandy said. But I knew she was focused—always. That’s why we got along so well.
The Aglionby estate was located on the west side of Cap-Ferrat, in Villefranche-sur-Mer. There were glimpses of villas and gardens hidden behind high stucco and rock walls as we rode along D125, also known as boulevard Circulaire. Half a dozen cars and vans followed us, also catching the sights, no doubt: a shiny blue Rolls-Royce convertible easing out of one of the estates, with a blonde in sunglasses and a kerchief behind the wheel; dark-glassed tourists catching rays on the terrace of the Grand Hôtel du Cap-Ferrat; a bathing pool dug into solid rock at Piscine de Sun beach.
“You think this is a fool’s errand, Alex?” Sandy asked.
“It’s what we do. Hit and miss, hunt and peck. I feel good about this one. It has to be something. Monsieur Aglionby has to be connected somehow.”
I was hopeful. We had found an awful lot of money in the account of Corky Hancock, and most of it had come in recently. But how much did he really know about the Wolf? How much did anyone know?
Then we saw the estate we were looking for—and Sandy drove past. “Got you, you bastard,” she said. “Aglionby? The Wolf? Why not?”
“Whoever lives back there is certainly loaded. Jesus, how much is enough?”
“When you have a billion dollars or so, this is rather modest, Alex. It’s not a question of a house—it’s houses. The Riviera, London, Paris, Aspen.”
“If you say so. I’ve never had a billion myself. Or a villa on the Riviera.”
The place in question was a sun-drenched, Mediterranean-style mansion, creamy yellow with white detailing; it had gleaming balustrades and porticos, shutters that the staff apparently closed to the midday sun. Or maybe the people inside just didn’t want to be seen? Four stories, thirty-plus rooms—as cozy as Versailles.
But for now all we were interested in was a peek. As we had planned earlier, we reconnoitered at a small hotel just up the coast. The decision was made by local police officials to use the estate bordering the Aglionby place on the south side. It was vacant now, except for a large staff. We would dress and pose as gardeners and household help, starting tomorrow morning.
Sandy and I listened to the plan as it was laid out, step by step. We looked at each other, shook our heads. Not this time.
I spoke. “We’re going in tonight,” I announced. “With or without your help.”
Chapter 107
THE DECISION TO GO right away was backed enthusiastically by Interpol, and even by the French in Paris, who were in close contact with Washington and wanted the murderous Wolf as badly as the rest of the world