“Good. We’ll have lunch at La Colombe d’Or.”
La Colombe d’Or was one of Stanford’s favorite restaurants, a sixteenth-century house at the entrance to the old village, converted into a hotel and restaurant. Stanford and Sophia sat at a table in the garden, by the pool, where Stanford could admire the Braque and Calder.
Prince, the white German shepherd, lay at his feet, ever watchful. The dog was Harry Stanford’s trademark. Where Stanford went, Prince went. It was rumored that at Harry Stanford’s command, the animal would tear out a person’s throat. No one wanted to test that rumor.
Dmitri sat by himself at a table near the hotel entrance, carefully observing the other patrons as they came and went.
Stanford turned to Sophia. “Shall I order for you, my dear?”
“Please.”
Harry Stanford prided himself on being a gourmet. He ordered a green salad and fricassée de lotte for both of them.
As they were being served their main course, Daniele Roux, who ran the hotel with her husband, François, approached the table and smiled. “Bonjour. Is everything all right, Monsieur Stanford?”
“Wonderful, Madame Roux.”
And it was going to be. They are pygmies, trying to fell a giant. They’re in for a big disappointment.
Sophia said, “I’ve never been here before. It’s such a lovely village.”
Stanford turned his attention to her. Dmitri had picked her up for him in Nice a day earlier.
“Mr. Stanford, I brought someone for you.”
“Any problem?” Stanford had asked.
Dmitri had grinned. “None.” He had seen her in the lobby of the Hotel Negresco, and had approached her.
“Excuse me, do you speak English?”
“Yes.” She had a lilting Italian accent.
“The man I work for would like you to have dinner with him.”
She had been indignant. “I’m not a puttana! I’m an actress,” she had said haughtily. In fact, she had had a walk-on part in Pupi Avati’s last film, and a role with two lines of dialogue in a Giuseppe Tornatore film. “Why would I have dinner with a stranger?”
Dmitri had taken out a wad of hundred-dollar bills. He pushed five into her hand. “My friend is very generous. He has a yacht, and he is lonely.” He had watched her expression go through a series of changes from indignation, to curiosity, to interest.
“As it happens, I’m between pictures.” She smiled. “It would probably do no harm to have dinner with your friend.”
“Good. He will be pleased.”
“Where is he?”
“St.-Paul-de-Vence.”
Dmitri had chosen well. Italian. In her late twenties. A sensuous, catlike face. Full-breasted figure. Now, looking at her across the table, Harry Stanford made a decision.
“Do you like to travel, Sophia?”
“I adore it.”
“Good. We’ll go on a little trip. Excuse me a moment.”
Sophia watched as he walked into the restaurant and to a public telephone, outside the men’s room.
Stanford put a jeton in the slot and dialed. “Marine operator, please.”
Seconds later, a voice said, “C’est l’opératrice maritime.”
“I want to put in a call to the yacht Blue Skies. Whiskey bravo lima nine eight zero.…”
The conversation lasted five minutes, and when Stanford was finished, he dialed the airport at Nice. The conversation was shorter this time.
When Stanford was through talking, he spoke to Dmitri, who rapidly left the restaurant. Then he returned to Sophia. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s take a walk.” He needed time to work out a plan.
It was a perfect day. The sun had splashed pink clouds across the horizon and rivers of silver light ran through the streets.
They strolled along the Rue Grande, past the Église, the beautiful twelfth-century church, and stopped at the boulangerie in front of the Arch to buy some fresh baked bread. When they came out, one of the three watchers was standing outside, busily studying the church. Dmitri was also waiting for them.
Harry Stanford handed the bread to Sophia. “Why don’t you take this up to the house? I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
“All right.” She smiled and said softly, “Hurry, caro.”
Stanford watched her leave, then motioned to Dmitri.
“What did you find out?”
“The woman and one of the men are staying at Le Ha-meau, on the road to La Colle.”