Birth Marks (11 page)

Nevertheless I kept my distance until it became clear that the interest was mutual. Nothing so crass as direct eye contact, you understand, more a way of not looking. For Jiminy's sake I considered the possibility that this was no mere pick-up, but a deliberate plant by the evil Belmont empire, just to check me out. But if that was the case they'd picked a real amateur. And since when did common or garden tails wear Jean-Paul Gaultier suits? Anyway, there was one way to find out. If I was doing the following the last thing I would want was for my suspect to engage me in conversation. I finished my drink and took it back up to the bar, placing myself deliberately near to him. He kept his eyes firmly on the newspaper, but his heart wasn't in it, I could feel. ‘Hello,' I said brightly.

He looked up. ‘Hello?' A slight frown, but nothing to worry about. And grey eyes, with a fleck in them. Nice.

‘I could be mistaken, but I'm getting the impression that you are watching me.' Christ, said Jiminy in a muffled squawk, didn't your mother teach you anything about the social graces?

He appeared to give the matter some thought, then shook his head, his bottom lip out just a little, very French, attractive. ‘Actually, I think it would be more accurate to say that we were watching each other.' He took a sip of his drink. ‘The question now, of course, is should we continue?' In my (admittedly) limited experience it was not the level of repartee you found in your average sleaze-bag tail. It registered in the pit of my stomach as well as my head.

‘Maybe we should discuss it.'

‘Fine. In English or French?'

I will admit to just the smallest twinge of hurt pride. ‘It's that obvious?'

‘No, but I think I have an unfair advantage,' he said, in impeccable and very nearly accentless American. And then he smiled, and I have to say it had something of the Tom Cruise about it, although, thank God, a little more mature.

‘That's very good.'

He shook his head. ‘Upbringing rather than talent, I'm afraid. I had an American father. And I get a lot of practice in my work.' So what did we have here? A war baby no doubt. Mother carried away by a member of the liberating armies. Which made him, what forty-four, forty-five? It wasn't so long ago I thought people that age were brain dead. Which just goes to show how much fun growing older can be. ‘How about you, where does your excellent French come from?'

‘I think the word is education. Too many years as a student.'

He nodded. ‘Not now though?'

‘No, not now,' I said, duly flattered by the possibility it should be otherwise.

‘Good. So shall we have another drink? Or would you prefer to go back to a more long-distance appreciation?'

I pushed my glass towards him and settled myself more comfortably on the bar stool. I said after a short pause, ‘So what do you do that gives you so much practice?' Making conversation, it's called. Like making love, only with words.

‘I'm a journalist. I work for an American magazine.'

‘Really.'

‘It sounds more exciting than it actually is. Mostly financial matters, I'm afraid. I'm their European Business Correspondent.'

And who says that life doesn't come gift-wrapped sometimes? Jiminy Cricket, eat your heart out. I put out my hand. ‘On the contrary, I'm sure it's absolutely fascinating. I'm Hannah Wolfe. I work in security. And I'm very pleased to meet you.'

He took it, and I must tell you it was a good clean grasp, like the opening of a boxing match. ‘David Mercot. So. Shall I buy this round or will you?'

And thus it began. The chat-up of Hannah Wolfe and David Mercot. I'll spare you (or maybe me) the more excruciating bits of the next half hour. Courtship is, after all, a private affair and not, at this stage at least, directly relevant to the plot. Suffice it to say that as Frenchmen go he had a pleasantly self-deprecating sense of humour and a certain
je ne sais quoi
, as well as what was clearly some tasty insider gossip on the French industrial scene. Jiminy Cricket would have been proud of me after all. To make it look a little less like I was picking his brains, after the second drink I suggested dinner. He accepted. Call it the Mata Hari school of detection. Except, of course, you're not supposed to tell them you're a spy. Over the first course I put some effort into being interested in his job.

‘You know it's not often I meet a woman so enthralled by the state of European industry. Is this a professional curiosity or just a hobby?' The food was so good it was hard to think. His choice. I had decided not to look at the prices. Like a tourist I had gone straight for the
moules
poached in wine and herbs and was having trouble keeping a sense of dignity as I dive-bombed chunks of bread into the sauce. I wiped my chin with the crisp white napkin and swallowed. ‘Since you ask, a bit of both.'

‘Security, I think you said. You selling alarm systems or information?'

Hard to lie to someone with that face. I just smiled.

‘I see. All highly confidential.'

I smiled again. ‘You've seen the movies.'

‘So, do you want to know about the industrial scene in general or one particular company?'

Sometimes it's a fair cop. ‘I know what you're thinking, but it isn't the only reason I invited you out to dinner.'

He looked at me for a moment. ‘I know. If it had been I wouldn't have accepted. I just hope your client has given you generous expenses. Why don't we agree to eat first and talk later. I can recommend the lamb.'

He was right; suffused with garlic and served on a bed of new peas with a cloud of
le rat
potatoes whipped into a cloud of butter and cream and sprinkled with parmesan it was, as they say in the cookery books,
ravissant
. Later came the lamb's tongue and rocket salad, made sweet by the cut of lemon and olive oil. Simple but subtle. I took it as my cue.

‘Belmont Aviation, eh? I feel almost embarrassed about taking your hospitality. Most people on the street could tell you what you want to know.'

‘It's that well known?'

‘It or him, hard to say which. Jules Belmont. He's one of those original legends in his own lifetime. Built the company up from scratch and dedicated his life to it. Started after the war, a resistance hero building a New France out of the ruins of occupation. The rest is modern folklore.'

‘The war. How old is he then?'

‘Now? Oh, late sixties, going on seventy maybe. I don't think anyone asks any more. The only figures people quote are his yearly profits.'

Seventy. Now here was a fact to do serious damage to my ‘charismatic businessmen seducing gorgeous young ex-dancer' theory. Maybe he didn't look his age. ‘What's he like?'

He shrugged. ‘Like all successful businessmen, dedicated, a little obsessive, good at backing the right horse.'

‘Aviation?'

‘Now, not then. I believe he made his first fortune from the newspaper business: a couple of provincial papers that had fallen into collaborators' hands. I think he was given them as a gift for services rendered. Then he went into construction, dabbled in electronics—chasing the Japanese by the tail—and from there the sky was the limit. Most of the airlines you ever flew owe something to Belmont Aviation. And most of them have paid well for the privilege.'

‘Is he straight?'

‘If he isn't I've never heard about it. Of course, he's got friends in high places. But then so do all national heroes. Nepotism isn't a crime providing you produce the goods. And Belmont produces.'

‘What about his private life?'

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Who's your client?'

I raised one back. ‘You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to.'

‘All right. But for dessert I suggest we have a bottle of Tokay. What do you want to know?'

‘Married?'

‘Let me see. Three times I think. The first wife was killed by the Germans. The second died in a car accident nine, ten years ago. She and their only child, a little boy. It was a big tragedy. This one is number three. I believe her name is Mathilde. I think they've been married for five or six years. It's a common enough scenario, at least in the business world: rich old man, younger good-looking wife plucked from the typing pool. Except the rumour is they're devoted to each other. Against all the odds a happy marriage.' And I heard a crash in the back of my head. It was the sound of theory number three finally hitting the dust.

‘Not the kind of man to play around then?'

‘His name isn't in the gossip columns, if that's what you mean. Why? Does your client say differently? No, don't tell me. I've seen the movies. Anything else?'

‘Not much. How's his health?'

He shook his head. ‘Some men age quicker than others. Until two years ago he was indestructible. Then suddenly, pow. Two heart attacks one after the other. The doctors told him to slow down. He didn't. Last year was a third. He ought not to have survived it. But then he is Jules Belmont. I gather he's taking it slower these days.'

‘What about the company?'

‘It's a family firm. The mantle was meant for his son. When he died ten years ago he started grooming his nephew. He's one of the directors now.'

Seek and ye shall find. ‘Don't tell me, Daniel Devieux.'

‘Well, at last. I was beginning to wonder if you really were any good at your job.'

I resisted the temptation to bad-mouth him back. Work first, fun later. ‘What about him? Is he a worthy successor?'

‘You'd have to ask his uncle. Certainly the company isn't suffering.'

‘And personal life?'

‘Not much to say. Divorced, I think. He used to be a pilot with Air France. Now he just lives for Belmont and the company. A dull man by all accounts. No real personality at all.'

‘So not what you'd call a ladies' man?'

‘I suppose it depends on your taste. You'd have to ask the ladies. Now, do you think we could look at the dessert menu?'

Knowing when to stop; it's half the secret. I squirrelled away my spoils and turned from work to fun. Not even Jiminy could accuse me of not earning it. The waiter brought the dessert menu. I let him do the choosing. When it arrived it was more an expression of indulgence than hunger: a glass of frozen pink champagne so clear that you could almost count the bubbles. Plus, of course, the Tokay. It was magnificent. So, no doubt, was its cost. What the hell. Intelligence doesn't come cheap.

‘So, is this my turn to ask the questions for a while?'

‘Be my guest,' I said, with my mouth full of melting bubbles.

He watched me for a moment, then took a long sip from his glass. It crossed my mind that we were both drinking a fair amount. I wondered if it mattered. ‘Well, where shall we start? How about the job. Most French girls I know either want to be air hostesses or Ministers of Culture. There's not a lot of interest in security. How did you get into it?'

I had been expecting the usual ‘What's a nice girl like you…' routine and the question caught me off guard. I found myself giving him something near to the truth. ‘I dunno. More chance than vocation I guess. I was in between jobs and I replied to an ad for an office manager, just to pay the rent. I found myself answering the phones for a crazy ex-detective just starting out and ended up joining the firm.'

‘He must have been an interesting man.'

‘Yes.' I thought about Frank, cleaning his nails with a paperclip while he used the nailfile to show me how to jemmy a desk drawer. ‘I suppose you could call him that.'

‘What did you do before?'

Before? I had this flash of a rather intense young woman freed from the deathly dull arena of EEC politics and out to change the world. In retrospect it seemed like a case of mistaken identity. ‘I worked for the Civil Service.' I paused. ‘Fascinating, eh?'

‘I think so,' he said with an admirably straight face. ‘Why did you leave?'

At the time I had had a little speech about this one. Heartfelt. Now it just sounded pompous. ‘I got fed up with not achieving anything. Bureaucracy and government policy. The perfect equation for apathy breeding corruption. It got to the point where either I stayed in and kept my mouth shut or I got out.' He raised an eyebrow. ‘See. You didn't take me for the moral crusader type, did you?'

He shrugged. I got the impression he was enjoying himself. ‘Now you come to mention it…So how does the security business fit in?'

‘Ah well, I think I've probably mellowed a bit since then.' I took another drink from my glass. ‘Though you'd be surprised. It's not all going through peoples' dustbins or snapping Polaroids of unfaithful wives. You still get some clients who want to know the truth, even if they don't like it when they hear it.'

All right, Hannah, that's enough. Put down your glass, sweetheart. Remember you're drinking Miss Patrick's money and nobody needs to know your business but you. Jiminy making a cheeky reappearance. Though this time I'd do well to listen to him. I took a long slug of mineral water. What were we talking about? Ah yes, what was a nice girl like me…I rummaged around in my answers drawer and slipped into something more comfortable. ‘Anyway. It's got a lot of rewards. The wealth, the travel, the men…The chance to be the white knight on the mean streets. What more could a girl ask?'