She was surprised to learn that Mr. Beerens was in residence. She’d assumed he bought Le Cocon on a whim, as Lenny had done, one of a fleet of vacation homes he thought about from time to time but rarely visited. She gave her name as Charlotte Le Clerc, and was even more surprised when Beerens agreed to see her.
“May I offer you a drink, Ms. Le Clerc?”
Jan Beerens was middle-aged, fat and amiable, with thinning reddish blond hair and brown eyes that twinkled when he smiled.
“Thank you. A glass of water would be great.” Grace struggled to maintain her composure. Inside, the house had not been changed at all. She hadn’t realized that Beerens had bought it lock, stock and barrel, including her and Lenny’s furniture and artwork. She even recognized the glasses, crystal tumblers she’d had shipped especially from Paris.
Grace’s hair had grown out a little at Dillwyn and in the weeks since her escape. In Mombasa, she’d had it cut into a chin-length bob that she dyed a rich, mahogany brown. Catching sight of herself in the library mirror, she thought, The only thing in this house I don’t recognize is myself.
“What brings you to Le Cocon? To Madagascar, for that matter. You are on vacation?”
“Sort of. I stayed here once, with a friend. Years ago.”
“You were a guest of the Brooksteins?”
“My friend was. It’s actually a little awkward, but this friend of mine, he’s been going through a hard time recently.”
Jan Beerens looked sympathetic. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks. He took off a few weeks ago and no one’s heard from him since. I know he made it as far as Madagascar. I wondered if maybe, out of nostalgia or whatever, he’d stopped by the house.” She pulled out a picture. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen him?”
Beerens studied the picture for a long time. Grace’s hopes soared, then plummeted when he handed it back to her.
“Sorry. I feel as if I recognize him from somewhere. But he hasn’t been here.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“Positive, I’m afraid. You’re my first visitor in over a year. That’s partly why I decided to sell. I adore the house and the island, but it’s too isolated. I’m only here now to sign the papers, and to say my farewells. You’re lucky you caught me.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know why, but it made Grace feel sad that this kind, thoughtful man would be leaving Le Cocon. “Who’s the new owner? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Actually, it’s all rather mysterious. I was approached by a lawyer in New York, and he’s handled everything, but he’s never divulged the name of his client. Whoever it was clearly knew the house intimately. This lawyer made a number of requests for specific pieces of furniture, carpets, that sort of thing. He’s moving in on Monday, I believe.”
Grace’s breathing quickened. She felt the hairs on her arms prick up. Whoever it was knew the house intimately.
Jan Beerens walked her to the door. “I’ll say this for Lenny Brookstein. He may have been a crook, but he’d have made a hell of an interior designer. I’m gonna miss this place. As for your friend, I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
Grace shook his hand. “Actually, you’ve been very helpful. Good-bye, Mr. Beerens. Good luck.”
HARRY BAIN AND MITCH CONNORS DECIDED to split up. Madagascar was the size of Texas, and all they had to go on was what Jonas Ndiaye had told them.
Harry said, “I’ll stay in Antananarivo. I can interview staff at the airport, taxi drivers, real estate brokers. I’ll talk to the managers of all the good local hotels. If he was here, someone’ll remember him, especially with that stammer.”
Mitch took a small plane to the north of the island. Nosy Tanikely was a tiny atoll in an extensive archipelago off Madagascar’s northwest coast. A diver’s paradise, there was nothing there but beach and ocean. For a roof over their heads, divers and sightseers alike had to go to nearby Nosy Be. It amused Mitch that the capital of Nosy Be was called “Hellville.” If anywhere truly lived up to the brochure fantasy of paradise, with white sandy beaches and tranquil turquoise waters, it was this place. If you were going to spend the rest of your life on the run from U.S. authorities, this was the place to do it, all right. John Merrivale was nobody’s fool.
Mitch went to every five-star hotel on the island. Every supermarket, drugstore, bar and car rental office.
“Have you seen this man?
“Are you certain? Look again. If we find him, there’s a substantial reward.”
In Mombasa, that approach was bound to yield a response of some sort, even if not the truth. Here, nothing. The locals had not seen John Merrivale. As for the divers, Mitch got the impression that they saw themselves as a community, and that they might have protected one of their own from the police even if they did know something. Either way, after three days, the tan on Mitch’s forearms had deepened from butterscotch to molasses, but he was nowhere nearer finding John, or Grace.
Harry Bain called. “You got anything?”
“Nope. You?”
“A little. Jonas wasn’t bullshitting. Two witnesses at the airport confirm seeing him. It looks like he spent two nights at the Hotel Sakamanga, then moved on. He was talking about going diving. Said he was ‘meeting a friend.’”
“I’ll stay up here till Monday,” said Mitch.
Harry Bain didn’t ask the obvious question: And then what?
Pretty soon they would both have to head back to New York. It was a minor miracle that neither Grace’s escape nor John Merrivale’s disappearance had yet been reported in the media. But at some point, a statement would have to be made. There was music to be faced, and while Mitch could probably hope to be reinstated at the NYPD, Harry Bain knew that if he returned home empty-handed, his career was over.
“Keep me posted.” He hung up.
GRACE’S HEART STOPPED.
Coming out of a grocery store, she saw him across the street. The guy from the FBI! Gavin Williams’s boss, the one who worked with John. She ducked back into the store.
“Vous avez oublié quelque chose, madame?”
Is he looking for John, or for me?
“Madame?”
Grace blinked at the shopkeeper.
“Me? Oh, non, j’ai toutes mes affaires. I’m fine, thank you.”
She peered through the window.
The man had gone.
I must lay low. All I have to do is make it through the weekend. After Monday, I won’t care anymore. He can haul me back to Super Max in leg irons.
HARRY BAIN RECEIVED AN ANONYMOUS TIP. A note was left at his hotel.
The man you are looking for is no longer in this province. He is in Toliara. Talk to the rangers at Isalo National Park.
Harry tried to reach Mitch but his cell phone was switched off.
I’ll go tomorrow.
WHEN MITCH WOKE UP ON SUNDAY morning, he thought his head was going to explode. He wasn’t sure whether to blame the whiskey, or the fact that during the night someone had surgically implanted a church bell into his cranium and was now ringing the damn thing at a hundred decibels.
He got up, staggered to the bathroom, threw up, felt better. Opening the white wooden shutters in his bedroom a crack, he flooded the room with laser-bright light. Must be later than I thought. He winced, closing the shutters and crawling back into bed.
This would be his last day on the archipelago. He ought to have been up at dawn, turning over every rock he could think of in hopes of one sighting of the elusive John Merrivale. But he knew it was hopeless.
He fell back to sleep, but his dreams were disturbing and fitful.
Church bells ringing. He was marrying Helen. “Do you take this woman?” “I do.” He lifted Helen’s veil, except it wasn’t Helen; it was Grace Brookstein. “Forget about me.”
He was on a beach, chasing John Merrivale. John turned a corner and disappeared. When Mitch reached the corner, it changed into Detective Lieutenant Dubray’s office. Dubray’s voice: “This is not your case, Mitch. If it weren’t for Celeste and Helen…” Then Harry Bain walked in. “He spent two nights at the Sakamanga. He said he was meeting a friend.”
Mitch woke up with a start.
He said he was meeting a friend.
Could it be?
He picked up the phone. “Harry Bain, please. Room sixteen.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Mr. Bain checked out early this morning. He’ll be back on Tuesday, same room. Can I leave a message?”
The bells in Mitch’s head were still ringing, but the pitch had changed. They weren’t church bells anymore. They were alarm bells.
I have to get back to the city.