He shook out the clothes he had taken from the knapsack, put them on, and shoved his feet into the boots. Then he lay down on the sand, staring at the sky, which progressively grew brighter. The day was being born, and so was he.
He walked the narrow stone streets of La Ciotat, going into the shops as much to converse with the clerks as anything else. It was an odd sensation to be part of the human traffic, not an unknown derelict, dragged from the sea. He remembered the captain’s advice and gutturalized his French, allowing him to be accepted as an unremarkable stranger passing through town.
Money.
There was a section of La Ciotat that apparently catered to a wealthy clientele. The shops were cleaner and the merchandise more expensive, the fish fresher and the meat several cuts above that in the main shopping area. Even the vegetables glistened; many exotic, imported from North Africa and the Mid East. The area held a touch of Paris or Nice set down on the fringes of a routinely middle-class coastal community. A small café, its entrance at the end of a flagstone path, stood separated from the shops on either side by a manicured lawn.
Money.
He walked into a butcher shop, aware that the owner’s appraisal of him was not positive, nor the glance friendly. The man was waiting on a middle-aged couple, who from their speech and manner were domestics at an outlying estate. They were precise, curt, and demanding.
“The veal last week was barely passable,” said the woman. “Do better this time, or I’ll be forced to order from Marseilles.”
“And the other evening,” added the man, “the marquis mentioned to me that the chops of lamb were much too thin. I repeat, a full inch and a quarter.”
The owner sighed and shrugged, uttering obsequious phrases of apology and assurance. The woman turned to her escort, her voice no less commanding than it was to the butcher.
“Wait for the packages and put them in the car. I’ll be at the grocer’s; meet me there.”
“Of course, my dear.”
The woman left, a pigeon in search of further seeds of conflict. The moment she was out the door her husband turned to the shopowner, his demeanor entirely different. Gone was the arrogance; a grin appeared.
“Just your average day, eh, Marcel?” he said, taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
“Seen better, seen worse. Were the chops really too thin?”
“My God, no. When was he last able to tell? But she feels better if I complain, you know that.”
“Where is the Marquis of the Dungheap now?”
“Drunk next door, waiting for the whore from Toulon. I’ll come down later this afternoon, pick him up, and sneak him past the marquise into the stables. He won’t be able to drive his car by then. He uses Jean-Pierre’s room above the kitchen, you know.”
“I’ve heard.”
At the mention of the name Jean-Pierre, Washburn’s patient turned from the display case of poultry. It was an automatic reflex, but the movement only served to remind the butcher of his presence.
“What is it? What do you want?”
It was time to degutturalize his French. “You were recommended by friends in Nice,” said the patient, his accent more befitting the Quai d’Orsay than Le Bouc de Mer.
“Oh?” The shopowner made an immediate reappraisal. Among his clientele, especially the younger ones, there were those who preferred to dress in opposition to their status. The common Basque shirt was even fashionable these days. “You’re new here, sir?”
“My boat’s in for repairs; we won’t be able to reach Marseilles this afternoon.”
“May I be of service?”
The patient laughed. “You may be to the chef; I wouldn’t dare presume. He’ll be around later and I do have some influence.”
The butcher and his friend laughed. “I would think so, sir,” said the shopowner.
“I’ll need a dozen ducklings and, say, eighteen chateaubriands.”
“Of course.”
“Good. I’ll send our master of the galley directly to you.” The patient turned to the middle-aged man. “By the way, I couldn’t help overhearing … no, please don’t be concerned. The marquis wouldn’t be that jackass d’Ambois, would he? I think someone told me he lived around here.”
“Oh no, sir,” replied the servant. “I don’t know the Marquis d’Ambois. I was referring to the Marquis de Chamford. A fine gentleman, sir, but he has problems. A difficult marriage, sir. Very difficult; it’s no secret.”
“Chamford? Yes, I think we’ve met. Rather short fellow, isn’t he?”
“No, sir. Quite tall, actually. About your size, I’d say.”
“Really?”
The patient learned the various entrances and inside staircases of the two-story café quickly—a produce delivery man from Roquevaire unsure of his new route. There were two sets of steps that led to the second floor, one from the kitchen, the other just beyond the front entrance in the small foyer; this was the staircase used by patrons going to the upstairs washrooms. There was also a window through which an interested party outside could see anyone who used this particular staircase, and the patient was sure that if he waited long enough he would see two people doing so. They would undoubtedly go up separately, neither heading for a washroom but, instead, to a bedroom above the kitchen. The patient wondered which of the expensive automobiles parked on the quiet street belonged to the Marquis de Chamford. Whichever, the middle-aged manservant in the butcher shop did not have to be concerned; his employer would not be driving it.
Money.
The woman arrived shortly before one o’clock. She was a windswept blonde, her large breasts stretching the blue silk of her blouse, her long legs tanned, striding gracefully above spiked heels, thighs and fluid hips outlined beneath the tight-fitting white skirt. Chamford might have problems but he also had taste.
Twenty minutes later he could see the white skirt through the window; the girl was heading upstairs. Less than sixty seconds later another figure filled the window-frame; dark trousers and a blazer beneath a white face cautiously lurched up the staircase. The patient counted off the minutes; he hoped the Marquis de Chamford owned a watch.
Carrying his canvas knapsack as unobtrusively as possible by the straps, the patient walked down the flagstone path to the entrance of the restaurant. Inside, he turned left in the foyer, excusing himself past an elderly man trudging up the staircase, reached the second floor and turned left again down a long corridor that led toward the rear of the building, above the kitchen. He passed the washrooms and came to a closed door at the end of the narrow hallway where he stood motionless, his back pressed into the wall. He turned his head and waited for the elderly man to reach the washroom door and push it open while unzipping his trousers.
The patient—instinctively, without thinking, really—raised the soft knapsack and placed it against the center of the door panel. He held it securely in place with his outstretched arms, stepped back, and in one swift movement, crashed his left shoulder into the canvas, dropping his right hand as the door sprang open, gripping the edge before the door could smash into a wall. No one below in the restaurant could have heard the muted forced entry.
“Nom de Dieu!” she shrieked. “Qui est-ce! …”
“Silence!”
The Marquis de Chamford spun off the naked body of the blond woman, sprawling over the edge of the bed onto the floor. He was a sight from a comic opera, still wearing his starched shirt, the tie knotted in place, and on his feet black silk, knee-length socks; but that was all he wore. The woman grabbed the covers, doing her best to lessen the indelicacy of the moment.
The patient issued his commands swiftly. “Don’t raise your voices. No one will be hurt if you do exactly as I say.”
“My wife hired you!” cried Chamford, his words slurred, his eyes barely in focus. “I’ll pay you more!”
“That’s a beginning,” answered Dr. Washburn’s patient. “Take off your shirt and tie. Also the socks.” He saw the glistening gold band around the marquis’ wrist. “And the watch.”
Several minutes later the transformation was complete. The marquis’ clothes were not a perfect fit, but no one could deny the quality of the cloth or the original tailoring. Too, the watch was a Girard Perregaux, and Chamford’s billfold contained over thirteen thousand francs. The car keys were also impressive; they were set in monogrammed heads of sterling silver.
“For the love of God, give me your clothes!” said the marquis, the implausibility of his predicament penetrating the haze of alcohol.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that,” replied the intruder, gathering up both his own clothes and those of the blond woman.
“You can’t take mine!” she yelled.
“I told you to keep your voice down.”
“All right, all right,” she continued, “but you can’t …”