south coast.
Patrick used the slip road to join the line of traffic on the
voie rapide
, rapidly filling with marketeers, and headed east.
Twenty minutes later he found the place. It hadn’t been easy. The interweaving lattice of access roads of Californie was designed to dissuade the curious. The surrounding walls of each property were high enough to maintain their privacy.
Patrick pulled up on the gravel some metres from the electronic gates and took a closer look at the brochure. Described as being set in a landscaped park of 14,000 square metres, it boasted not one residence but three: the main house, a guesthouse and a caretaker’s lodge. According to the details, the main house had been built at the time of Napoleon III by an English lord.
Patrick quickly ran his eyes over the blurb. If he had to pass himself off as a prospective buyer, he’d better at least know what he was planning to buy. Satisfied he knew enough, Patrick restarted the engine and approached the gate indicating he wished to enter.
The camera on the nearest gate post rotated towards him.
Patrick looked directly at the lens.
‘I have an appointment with Monsieur Chevalier and I’m late,’ he said in a tone that brooked no argument.
There was a moment’s hesitation before the gate, electronically released, swung open. Patrick made a point of roaring through, scattering stones on the white gravel drive.
The avenue of pines wound upwards, with brief glimpses of what lay beyond. Emerging from the trees he found the house at the top of a rise, facing the not-too-distant sea. A wide set of steps swept down from the forecourt to the obligatory aquamarine swimming pool with its manicured surrounding lawn.
As he swung into a spot beside Chevalier’s motorbike and a smoked-windowed Mercedes, he spotted what looked like a roof terrace, complete with brightly coloured umbrellas and trellises of flowers, which undoubtedly commanded a remarkable view of the Côte d’Azur.
Parked now, he took a proper look at the other car. Who was Chevalier’s prospective buyer? Patrick attempted to peer inside, but was prevented by the smoked-glass windows. One thing was certain, whoever owned this quality of car was unlikely to be put off purchasing this property because of its price.
Patrick approached the house. Finding the double front door open, he entered and stood for a moment in the grand entrance hall, admiring the superb frescos that adorned the walls, deciding the English lord who’d built this place had had an excellent taste in decoration.
The interior reminded Patrick of a Venetian palace without the crumbling mortar occasioned by the damp. In the hushed silence of the large vestibule, he finally discerned the murmur of distant voices. Tuning in, he made out Chevalier’s distinctive tones and perhaps two others, one of them definitely that of a woman.
He wondered whether he should seek out the visiting party, or simply wait here and surprise them. He’d decided on the former and was heading for the stairs when a peel of somewhat forced feminine laughter drew his eye upwards.
Emerging from an upper room were three figures. Chevalier, as distinctive as ever in his trademark apparel and moustache, was followed by a woman with beautiful legs, her face hidden by her male companion, who’d turned for a final look at the room all three had just exited.
Patrick was halfway up the staircase before his approach was noted and all three faces turned suddenly towards him. Chevalier’s reaction was muted. The woman’s less so. Camille Ager’s expression could only be described as one of horror and confusion, although it was Chapayev who definitely won the prize.
He stared at Patrick as though wishing to skin him alive.
‘I understood this was to be a private showing,’ he said sharply to Chevalier.
Patrick gave an inward sigh of relief. It seemed he wasn’t immediately recognized without his waiter uniform, but being regarded as a possible rival
Patrick used the slip road to join the line of traffic on the
voie rapide
, rapidly filling with marketeers, and headed east.
Twenty minutes later he found the place. It hadn’t been easy. The interweaving lattice of access roads of Californie was designed to dissuade the curious. The surrounding walls of each property were high enough to maintain their privacy.
Patrick pulled up on the gravel some metres from the electronic gates and took a closer look at the brochure. Described as being set in a landscaped park of 14,000 square metres, it boasted not one residence but three: the main house, a guesthouse and a caretaker’s lodge. According to the details, the main house had been built at the time of Napoleon III by an English lord.
Patrick quickly ran his eyes over the blurb. If he had to pass himself off as a prospective buyer, he’d better at least know what he was planning to buy. Satisfied he knew enough, Patrick restarted the engine and approached the gate indicating he wished to enter.
The camera on the nearest gate post rotated towards him.
Patrick looked directly at the lens.
‘I have an appointment with Monsieur Chevalier and I’m late,’ he said in a tone that brooked no argument.
There was a moment’s hesitation before the gate, electronically released, swung open. Patrick made a point of roaring through, scattering stones on the white gravel drive.
The avenue of pines wound upwards, with brief glimpses of what lay beyond. Emerging from the trees he found the house at the top of a rise, facing the not-too-distant sea. A wide set of steps swept down from the forecourt to the obligatory aquamarine swimming pool with its manicured surrounding lawn.
As he swung into a spot beside Chevalier’s motorbike and a smoked-windowed Mercedes, he spotted what looked like a roof terrace, complete with brightly coloured umbrellas and trellises of flowers, which undoubtedly commanded a remarkable view of the Côte d’Azur.
Parked now, he took a proper look at the other car. Who was Chevalier’s prospective buyer? Patrick attempted to peer inside, but was prevented by the smoked-glass windows. One thing was certain, whoever owned this quality of car was unlikely to be put off purchasing this property because of its price.
Patrick approached the house. Finding the double front door open, he entered and stood for a moment in the grand entrance hall, admiring the superb frescos that adorned the walls, deciding the English lord who’d built this place had had an excellent taste in decoration.
The interior reminded Patrick of a Venetian palace without the crumbling mortar occasioned by the damp. In the hushed silence of the large vestibule, he finally discerned the murmur of distant voices. Tuning in, he made out Chevalier’s distinctive tones and perhaps two others, one of them definitely that of a woman.
He wondered whether he should seek out the visiting party, or simply wait here and surprise them. He’d decided on the former and was heading for the stairs when a peel of somewhat forced feminine laughter drew his eye upwards.
Emerging from an upper room were three figures. Chevalier, as distinctive as ever in his trademark apparel and moustache, was followed by a woman with beautiful legs, her face hidden by her male companion, who’d turned for a final look at the room all three had just exited.
Patrick was halfway up the staircase before his approach was noted and all three faces turned suddenly towards him. Chevalier’s reaction was muted. The woman’s less so. Camille Ager’s expression could only be described as one of horror and confusion, although it was Chapayev who definitely won the prize.
He stared at Patrick as though wishing to skin him alive.
‘I understood this was to be a private showing,’ he said sharply to Chevalier.
Patrick gave an inward sigh of relief. It seemed he wasn’t immediately recognized without his waiter uniform, but being regarded as a possible rival
Similar Books
