The final incantation, the burdened-taxpayer theme, is again for the press. Their presence in such numbers seems to cause Mewhort anxiety. His gaffes have been frequently reported.
When Buddy spreads open a thick volume of the Chancery Reports, the judge raises his hands protectively. “Just a minute here, I don’t get this, doesn’t section 475 only apply when an accused absconds in the middle of the trial? He’s out on bail, sees his trial going badly, and walks out in the middle of it. I think I had a case like that.”
Buddy argues that the word trial needs a liberal interpretation, it begins when an accused is charged. He picks up the thick casebook.
“Hang on, before we get into that, what’s your position, Mr. Beauchamp?”
“I am prepared to choose a jury on June 19 and go to trial.”
“Without the accused?”
“Let’s hope he’ll show up.”
A sigh of relief. “Problem solved. Well, that wasn’t so bad. And we do it in Vancouver, right? Victoria’s too tea, tweeds, and tourists for me.” An offhand civic insult that will doubtless make the news columns. “Okay, there are no more pre-trial issues?”
Buddy looks at Arthur, expecting him to make robust complaint about Adeline Angella being called, but Arthur feigns a lapse, frowning. “No, I can’t think of any.”
“Call the next divorce.”
Faloon is up before seven, without his regular sleep, coming down from nightmares, but he has to keep up his routine, today especially. The overnight clerk, Gaston, knows he shows up early for a newspaper and a coffee, reads it standing up at his favourite spot by the potted palm, the shady end of the burnished walnut check-in counter.
Gaston’s final task before he goes off shift is to sign in the cleaning staff and activate their master-key cards, punching in the magic number that opens all doors. This process is underway as Faloon settles in under his palm tree, coffee and Herald-Tribune at hand. He engages Gaston with his standard opening, “How’re you doing today, partner?” as he watches Gaston’s pudgy index finger peck out today’s master code.
One big score, that’s all Faloon wants, then take it on the Arthur before the town heats up. But Cat and Willy have got to lay off him about that murder beef, he doesn’t want to explain for the umpteenth time they’ll be going home without him, he’s heading in the opposite direction, to the exotic lands of the East.
But he has to honour his deal, phone Mr. Beauchamp, if only to apologize. He’ll be respectful but firm about his decision. He’ll explain about the sleepwalking, the monster that hides inside his skin. Small man but strong like a cougar. That phrase comes back, but from where?
“I ’ave migraine,” says Gaston. Yesterday it was a pain in the bowels.
Faloon tries for a light subject, his plans for the day, a boat cruise that’s supposed to stop at some great nude beaches. This is interrupted from down the counter by, “I wonder if it’s possible to get some service here.” Willy, impeccable in a five-thousand-euro suit he clouted yesterday from a men’s store. And then Cat, at the far end of the crescent, in her new finery, indignant: “I believe I was next.”
Gaston is frozen for a moment in mid-stride, he doesn’t know who to attend on first. But somehow he pulls it off, asking if the gentleman would mind if he first met the needs of the lady. Cat wants tourist information, Willy wants directions to a complex destination. It’s a little scene, just enough to distract the attention of the few earlybirds by the coffee urn.
Less interesting to everyone is that Faloon has accidentally dropped the sports section over the counter, and has to reach way over it for twelve excruciating fumbling seconds, hitting a digit too few, having to insert his key card again to get it right.
He heads up to his room, 516, just down from 508, where Omar Lansana and Gina de Carlo share a bed. The master key card works fine. He worries about having to brace Ambassador Lansana, an athlete, the legs of a racer, fiercely protective of his jewels.
It’s three o’clock. Cat is hanging by the pool, in a bikini under a sarong. The Hook is near the pool elevator, with a view into the lobby, where Faloon planned to nest behind a newspaper. But his choice spot is gone, a stuffed Louis Quinze in an alcove. A casually dressed young man is occupying it, studying photographs under a lamp. Strips of photos, like from a surveillance camera. Faloon sees another husky man, leaning against a pillar, equally obvious. With him is the manager of the jewellery store where he poached those watches off Harold Stein’s card. Something has gone kerflooey, maybe Visa put out an alert on that transaction.
Before the Owl can change his mind about Project Lansana, Willy strolls from the pool area, giving the office, two arms crossed, a go, which means Omar and Gina are poolside. Faloon flashes him that bulls are on the scene, three middle fingers down, thumb and little finger up, like horns. Willy hesitates, takes a turn into the can to give Faloon a minute to make up his mind.
He puffs himself up with courage, he’s going to do this, he’s going to take the elevator to the fifth floor, and if there’s a cop waiting outside his room, he’s going to nod and smile and unlock Lansana’s suite down the hall, 508, and he’s going to walk in like he’s Jacques Chirac. And he’s going to hide under the bed. And he’s going to wait.
At this point, something happens to make this gamble better than a sheer impossibility. Harold W. Stein walks from the street with his client. They’re in a jokey mood, this is their tax write-off holiday on the Riviera, Faloon overheard them, some kind of commodities deal.
Before they reach the elevators, the two dicks in the lobby converge followed by two more from outside. Badges come out, and identification is demanded. You can tell Stein and his friend are put out, with their stressed speech patterns. Stein makes a point of not showing his passport, affronted, do they know exactly whom they are addressing?
As Willy leaves the gent’s room, he almost walks into Stein, swearing retribution as he’s being led out to the bun wagon for an interview in quieter surroundings. This is the right time to go to the fifth floor. Willy sees him heading that way, then sidles out to the pool area.
There’s no action on the fifth, no cops. A Do Not Disturb on the knob of 508, they don’t want the maid poking around while they’re at the pool. The door answers easy to the key card, and he is in. A canopy bed, king-sized, for which Faloon is thankful, he’ll be under it. It shows hard loving, sheets mussed, the spread hanging to the floor. No black portefeuille in obvious view.
The balcony door is locked, windows curtained but with a strip of sunlight through a gap. Taking an angle through it, he spots Lansana and de Carlo rising like a handsome god and goddess from the pool, him muscled and dusky, her lithe and golden. Puffing up to greet them is a man with less healthy colour, his face like a slice of rare beef. Emile Van Doork has arrived with an attache case. It’s a quality item, red leather with metal studs.
A few lounge chairs down, there’s Cat, smearing on lotion between sips of a martini, casually watching.
A tiny flash of sunlight bounces off the key card Lansana gives Van Doork. The diamond expert is trusted to come up to 508 to evaluate the shipment before they bicker over price. Which means two things-Van Doork is on his way, and Lansana’s dip bag should be somewhere in the room.
He looks behind the desk, under it, the closet, under the extra linen. Pauses to look out again, Van Doork heading for the outside elevator, it’s enclosed in glass so you can see out. Cat trying not to be obvious about following him. No briefcase in the dresser drawers. Nothing in the bathroom. Another look outside, and there’s the elevator smoothing to a stop, Van Doork in it, Cat too, it looks like she’s flirting with him.