In the terminal, I left Norma with Austin while I put in a call for the number supplied by the Sheikh. The phone was answered by Leila. Evidently she was to be my contact each time I completed an assignment. She agreed to meet me in Miami, to take over custody of Norma, and to deliver my next assignment.
I’d thought Norma might have some objections to leaving so abruptly, but now that the convention was over, she figured correctly that the demonstrators would be leaving Chicago and there was nothing to hold her. She was just as glad to board the first plane to Miami as we were. The sun was well up in the sky as we joined the line at the ramp leading to the plane.
A group of TV network personnel was also gathered there. They were a little high, and some of them were singing “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Your Mace,” as a parting tribute to Chicago. A few executives were talking about retitling programs for the coming season. Possibilities under discussion were Mace the Nation, and Beat the Press.
Just before boarding the plane, I took one last look over my shoulder. The final irony was missing. The banner which had greeted us upon our arrival had been taken down.
Yet as the plane took off, I could still see those words hanging in the sky over the horizon of the city:
MAYOR RICHARD J. DALEY WELCOMES YOU TO CHICAGO!
Like a lot of people, I’d never forget them!
CHAPTER SEVEN
“A Frenchwoman of noble rank. A neglected wife married at least two years. Between the ages of twenty-one and twenty-nine. Petite, but well endowed and with good physical proportions. Wears bikinis and is experienced in skin diving.”
This was the second assignment. Leila delivered it to me at the Miami airport. She’d met us there for that express purpose—and to take custody of Norma. We had time for a quick cup of coffee together before her seaplane left for Paradise Island.
“How am I doing?” I asked her.
“Not well,” Leila told me frankly. “You are the last one to complete the first assignment.”
“Damn!” Austin was unhappy.
“I am sorry to tell you this,” Leila added, “but two of your competitors have already completed the second assignment as well.”
“Which two?” Austin wanted to know.
Cass Nova for Mr. Rustwater, and Mr. Hauksho, the representative of Mr. Ugotago.”
“I told you Hauksho would bear watching,” Austin reminded me. And there must be more to that Nova than meets the eye.”
“No.” Leila corrected him. “It’s precisely what meets the eye. But you are not a woman, Mr. Austin, and so you don’t appreciate the appeal of Mr. Nova.”
“What’s with the skin-diving bit?” I asked Leila.
“His Highness Sheikh Ali Khat wishes to make love under water, and therefore requires a suitable partner.”
“Always a clinker,” I sighed. “Just to make it harder.”
“I suppose so. Well, good luck to you, Mr. Victor. Here is the number for you to contact upon completion of this assignment.” Leila handed me a slip of paper with a Paris phone number written on it.
At least I wouldn’t have to return to the States to make the next delivery. “Will you be the one I see in Paris?” I asked Leila.
“Yes.” She left then, taking Norma with her.
“Well, I guess it’s next stop France,” I told Austin when we were alone.
“I won’t be able to come with you,” he replied.
“There’s a hassle over some facilities my firm installed in a government project in Houston. I have to fly out there and straighten it out.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “But that’s how it is in the toilet business. There are times when you’ve got to take a lot of crap.”
“I guess so.”
“Will you be heading for Paris from here?” Austin asked.
“I think not. Ali Khat specified a Frenchwoman of noble birth. The best place to find one would be the Cote d’Azur. And I think I know just the hotel on the French Riviera to connect up with such a lady. If I’m right, this might be our chance to catch up.”
“I hope so.”
Austin went with me to the ticket counter, where I booked a flight to New York and made arrangements for a connecting flight to Cannes. I was lucky. There was space on a plane which was leaving immediately. And I’d only have an hour between planes in New York. So, less than twenty-four hours after I said goodbye to Austin in Miami, I was checking into the Grand Palais Hotel on the French Riviera.
The Grand Palais was the creme de la creme of resort hotels on the Cote d’Azur. Located in the hills overlooking a secluded cove of beach, the Grand Palais boasted its own casino, eighteen-hole golf course, and yacht basin. The servants wore livery, and the service was designed to cater to every whim of the hotel’s ultrawealthy clientele. It was the most exclusive hotel on the French Riviera, and I knew from previous experience that it attracted the most patrician members of what was left of the French nobility.
Shortly after I registered, I had a long and private talk with the manager. A certain amount of money changed hands, and in return for it, I was able to study the guest list and to get a rundown on some of the names I found of interest. These boiled down to three titled French ladies—-two countesses and a baroness. There were other noblewomen on the premises, but they were ruled out for reasons of age, marital status, or nationality.
Digesting this information, I went up to my room and showered and shaved. As I was dressing for dinner, the phone rang. It was the hotel switchboard. There was a message for me to call Operator Nineteen, Miami.
I decided not to call. I just didn’t have time to play telephone Scrabble with Mother. Still, I felt a twinge of guilt. It settled in my right buttock—-doubtless waiting to be lanced.
Instead, I finished dressing and went down to the hotel patio. There was still more than an hour to kill before dinner would be served, and for a while I strolled through the gardens aimlessly. Finally I wandered back to the patio. Two men were seated there, playing chess. Being addicted to the game myself, I couldn’t resist sitting within eyeshot and silently kibitzing their moves.
A few moments passed, and then an extremely attractive girl strode up to the table and stood there, waiting for one of the men to notice her. She wasn’t too patient about it. She tapped her foot, drummed her fingers on the table, cleared her throat—-to no avail; she was ignored. She wasn’t the sort of girl most men would choose to ignore. Dressed in a maroon cocktail gown that was almost but not quite mini and cut low enough in the bodice to display the well-rounded top halves of two tanned breasts, she was the sort of small but compact package of female curves and vivacity to make most males look twice. But chess players are a breed apart. The tossing of her long black hair and the fire shooting from her deep green eyes as she became more annoyed was no competition for the knight’s gambit under consideration.
When she finally spoke, her annoyance was plain in her tone. “Armand, I am ready for us to have our cocktail now.” She spoke English with just the faintest hint of a French accent—-more a lilt, really.
The man playing white, a distinguished-looking fellow with gray hair who was perhaps fifteen years or so older than she, looked up, straight at her, straight through her, and then down at the board again.
“Just how long will this game go on?” she asked, a decided edge to her voice.
“In a few moments, my dear.” He spoke directly to the black bishop.
“Chess!” she hissed. “Chess! Always chess! I might as well be a widow!”
“Pawn to queen five,” her husband mused.
“I said I might as well be a widow!”
“Yes. You sit by the window. I’ll be in directly.”
“Oh!” She stamped her foot, turned on her heel, and marched off toward the cocktail lounge.