“I don’t feel very good,” Carr protested. He was telling the truth. His headache had returned, and his legs felt undependably rubbery.
“It’s worth it.” She started down the slope. Carr could see there was a path, of sorts, but it was overgrown with brambles, and made dangerous by pockets of sand and dried leaves. There wasn’t a firm foothold in sight.
He watched her go, noticing how she first held onto the slim trees near the road, then stretched her arms out for balance, and stepped carefully across the smooth, almost polished rock. She slipped once, momentarily, but regained her balance. The sound of the water below was a roar in his ears.
I’ll never make it, he thought.
She turned and called to him, but she was now almost halfway down, and her voice was lost in the rushing water. She looked at him, shading her eyes from the sun with her hand. Then she waved him on, impatiently.
I’m a fool, he thought.
He started down. The first few yards were not so bad. He could hold onto the trees, and the lunch basket did not get in his way. But soon he had left the trees, and faced a smooth hump of rock which he had to work his way across—it was impossible to go straight down. He began cautiously, and became immediately nervous and tense.
It was the worst thing he could have done.
Carr slipped, fell, and slid several yards down the rock before his flailing hands clutched one of the clumps of heavy grass which grew out of the rock wherever there was a bit of dirt and moisture.
He did not move, but tried to decide what to do next. He was lying on his stomach on a gently bulging rock surface, and he could feel his legs sticking out over the bump. The water below was very loud. He began to sweat.
All he could see in front of him was the lunch basket, which rested farther up on the rock, where he had dropped it when he fell. Now, as he watched, it began to slide—just as he had, and right toward him. It gathered speed as it went.
Oh, Christ, he thought. It’s going to hit me right in the face.
A second later, it slammed into his nose. But he hung on to the rock, and didn’t slide farther.
Crazy broad, he thought.
“Give me your hand.”
Anne crouched over him, and he allowed her to help him to his knees. “I’d better take the food,” she said briskly. He stood slowly, trying to keep his legs from shaking.
“Take off your shoes, and stay relaxed. It’s the only way.”
“I really don’t feel so good.”
Anne made a face and continued down. He slipped off his shoes and socks and followed after her.
As it turned out, the rest of the descent was simpler. They came to a place where the rocks were less sandy, and he was able to get a firmer hold. And although he refused to admit it, his balance was much improved in bare feet. As they approached the level of the river, they bond more young trees and sturdy foliage, and Carr managed the last part without difficulty.
The sound of the water, reverberating off the rocks, was astonishingly loud. He looked at the churning stream—at this point only two feet wide and a foot deep—in wonder.
“From here,” Anne said, “we go through there.” She pointed along the stream, past a place where it cut a particularly narrow cleft. Sunlight played on the water, throwing a flickering fishnet of light on the rock walls. To the right, upstream, was a small noisy waterfall. Carr looked up—up to the road above, and farther up to the high crest of the canyon, hazy in the bright sunlight.
They set off, stepping from one stone to the next. Anne was agile; her long body moved quickly, surely. Carr followed along behind, carefully estimating the distance between the slippery stones, feeling retarded. They passed through the cleft, and came out into a small pool of calm, deep water. Anne pointed to a small crescent of sand, tucked back behind two large boulders, completely hidden from the road above.
“Like it?”
“It’s gorgeous,” Carr said, dropping onto the sand.
“I will have to reform you,” Anne said. “Your puns are quite miserable.” She opened the lunch basket and passed him the bottle of wine. “Stick that in the water, would you?” When Carr looked at the label, she said, “It’s good wine, I think. Côtes de Provence. Not very good, but good. I don’t claim to know anything about wine, and besides, it would be a waste of time. I smoke too much. Anybody who smokes and starts reeling off vineyards and years is kidding himself—or you. He’s just a vintage mumbler.”
Carr, a vintage mumbler himself, nodded silently. He slipped the bottle into the water, propping it between two small rocks. The water was clear and cold; his fingers were numb when he took them out.
Coming back, he found she had spread a white tablecloth. “What style,” he said.
“That’s all right. You’ll be drinking wine from the bottle.”
He laughed. She poked among the contents of the basket. “I’ve got a quarter of a chicken, grilled with herbs, some good pâté, and lots of onions and red cabbage and pimento and things. What would you like?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“I doubt it. I’m having this.” She withdrew from the basket an orange, some lettuce, and a bit of cheese.
“The chicken,” Carr decided, looking doubtfully at her.
They ate in silence, passing the wine bottle back and forth, hearing the water gently swirl at their feet before it bubbled over the next waterfall downstream. Carr finished the chicken, and Anne made him a sandwich, flavoring the mild pâté with onions and pimentos and fiery green peppers.
“Quite a domestic, aren’t you?” he said, watching her work.
“Not really.” She shook her hair, and looked up at the sun. It struck Carr as an embarrassed reaction. She had a strange look on her face, as if she were puzzled at herself, or at him.
Later, when they had finished the wine and were leaning back, smoking cigarettes, she said, “What are you going to do now?”
“About my problem? The finger and everything?”
She nodded.
“I don’t know. There doesn’t seem to be much I can do. Buy the villa and clear out, I guess—and hope nothing happens to me in the next day or so.”
“Maybe it would be better to move out of Nice, to Cannes or Menton, or across the Italian border.”
“I thought of that,” Carr said, “but it might look suspicious, and I don’t want to give that impression to these people, whoever they are. Besides, the hotel would be furious—I’ve been trouble enough already.”
“That’s your business,” she said, “and it’s theirs to put up with the whims of the customer. If anyone makes a face, chew them out.”
“Tough girl.”
“Yeah.” She curled her lip. “You should have seen me when I smoked cigars.”
“When was that?”
“A few years ago. I started it as a kind of joke, smoking cigarillos, and you should have seen the jowls quiver on the old blokes. They couldn’t believe it. It worked fine.”
“Why’d you give it up?”
“They tasted awful, that’s why. I used to go to bed green.” She flicked the cigarette into the water, and watched it carried off by the current. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better, but a little wary of the climb up.”
“It’s easy, going up,” she said, “and we’d better start if you intend to make that three-o’clock appointment. You can drop me off in Menton.”
“No I can’t. You’re coming with me.”
“You assume a lot,” she said, but he could see she was pleased.
“It’s a trick I learned from some girl,” Carr said, and he kissed her.
Chapter XV
THE VILLA PERRANI LAY in the wooded hills between Villefranche and Monaco, looking out over Cap Ferrat, which stretched like a vast verdant hand into the blue Mediterranean. The house itself, an enormous, rambling structure, was built at the turn of the century in imitation Second Empire style, with an elaborate facade of turrets, curlicue
s, and balconies. Despite the ornamentations, the villa somehow managed a drab appearance, Carr thought.
Anne was more direct. As they drove up the tree-lined gravel drive she said, “It’s bloody vulgar. Who told you to buy this place?”
“The boss,” Carr said.
“Well, at least the flowers are nice.” Blossoms were everywhere, neatly maintained, providing brilliant patches of red, purple, and orange around the grounds.
They were met at the door by Graff, who looked his unctuous best. He reminded Carr of an otter just emerged from a stream.
“My friend, Miss Crittenden,” Carr said.
With a theatrical flourish, Graff kissed her hand. “Enchanté.” He smirked slightly, just to show Carr that he thought Miss Crittenden was far too pretty to be merely a friend. Anne saw it, and blushed angrily. They walked up the marble steps to the broad mahogany doors.
“I have just been talking with Signor Perrani,” Graff said. From his gravely self-important tone, it might as well have been the Pope. “Signor Perrani is in a foul mood, I am afraid. I suspect it is mistress trouble. The Italians cannot handle women, they are always in difficulty. But I hope you will not allow yourself to be prejudiced by his rudeness.”
Carr said his interest was purely business. They passed through the doors into an oversized hall, dominated by a gilt and crystal chandelier—a giant cascade of glass beads, replete with cherubs and swans. To the left, a stately marble staircase led to the upper floor.
A butler approached from one corner and announced that Signor Perrani awaited them in the library. They were led through a pair of double doors into a long rectangular room.
Books were everywhere. The ceiling must have been twenty feet high, and the bookshelves went all the way up. In the center of the room was a large fireplace, and facing it were three comfortable sofas in black leather. Signor Perrani was seated on one, reading. He looked up, surveyed the three, and fixed his eyes on Carr.
“Monsieur Carr?”
“Oui.”
“Bon.” He turned to the butler. “Serve Monsieur Graff and the lady tea in the living room,” he said. “Something stronger if they prefer.”
The butler bowed. Carr and the man were alone.
“Parlate italiano?”
“Non. Seulement français. Beaucoup de mauvais français,” he added.
Perrani laughed, rose, and shook Carr’s hand. “I am about to have my afternoon brandy. Will you join me?”
“Avec plaisir”
“Good.” Perrani poured two glasses from a crystal decanter with a silver top. Carr studied him. He was tall, dressed casually in a blue silk shirt and dark blue slacks. He wore espadrilles without socks. His hair was white, made even whiter by his tan, and he had the easy manner of a comfortably and elegantly rich man.
“To good business,” Perrani said. They both drank. “Please sit down. I am sorry you had to put up with that pig, Graff. He has contacts among the kind of purchasers I am after, though how they tolerate him is beyond me. A filthy fellow. Do I insult a friend?”
“No, indeed.”
“I had hoped not.” Perrani appraised Carr, “You are the first prospective buyer, and I must say you have moved quickly. I spoke to Graff only three days ago. May I ask how you discovered the villa was for sale?”
Carr explained about the telegram.
“Your client and I must have mutual friends,” Perrani mused, “That is good. Who is your client, Mr. Carr?”
Carr told him about the governor, and began to relate something of the politician’s past record when Perrani held up his hand,
“You need not praise him in my presence. I am not interested in the buyer because—as the pig would have you believe—I am concerned for my neighbors, or the maintenance of this house which I love. Money settles all such problems. Money buys the maintenance of the villa, and money will buy the respect of the people living around. They may choose to whisper among themselves about taste, but even that is trivial. What difference does it make if he owns a Maserati or a Bentley? None, really. And even if he were a gangster—well, some of my best friends are gangsters.”
Carr nodded politely.
“It is to be expected,” Perrani said, “There are more rich people here than can be reasonably accounted for by inheritance, keen business sense, or luck. Many of them must be crooks.” He sipped his brandy. “By and large, I prefer the crooks. Dishonesty is their profession, and they are so good at it.”
Carr laughed. “May I smoke?”
“By all means. As I was saying. I do not care about your client because of what he may be. I care because when I sell my house, I sell this as well.” He gestured toward the room. “The library remains with the villa, it is a part of it. More, it is the very heart of this sprawling and ugly place. Without the library, this becomes just another Riviera villa.”
“Is this your personal library?”
“No, not really. A few books, here and there—a few first editions. Particularly the volumes of Dickens. I have always been partial to the Cruikshank illustrations. But mostly, no. Each successive owner has added to the library, and stipulated that it remain with the villa, intact. When you have lived with this library for a time, you come to understand.”
“I’m sure,” Carr said. He stood and walked around the room, pretending to examine the titles; he felt this was expected of him, though it had little to do with what was to come. Carr could recognize a phony sales pitch when he heard it.
“One of the greatest luxuries of the rich is time,” Perrani continued. “Time to yourself, time to kill, time to spend chasing women or gambling—or, if you are inclined, time to read.”
“I’m afraid the governor is very busy,” Carr said.
“I know little of American politics, but you are undoubtedly right. Yet he is still a young man, and he will eventually settle. It is the same with rich men everywhere. Business, politics—always the same. You feel tired, your health is not what it was, as you retire while you are still in the lead, still at the top. Any man who does not do it,” he said, “is a fool.”
He finished his drink and set the glass down gently. “But enough, I am sure your governor will appreciate the library, or at least respect it. I have great regard for his mind, despite his propensity for, shall we say, saltiness.”
“You are well informed,” Carr said.
“Not really. I met the man two years ago. Charming. What is his price?”
“What is yours?”
Perrani shrugged. “You seem a cultivated man, Mr. Carr. How would you estimate the value of this room?”
“It’s priceless,” Carr said dutifully. He was disappointed in Perrani. The buildup of the library as the bargaining point had been so obvious from the start that he had almost begun to think the Italian had a more subtle motive, perhaps even sincerity.
“Exactly. Priceless. And quite literally so. It could be donated, in entirety, to a library—and then it would have no price. It could be sold, volume by volume—and then it would have a value, though nothing like its real value. You cannot get your money out of books, you know. Forty percent, perhaps sixty. They are a poor investment, taken singly. But a collection such as this is different, since its value lies in the collection itself, the total sum. Split up, it is just so many books, but together … I am asking half a million dollars for the villa, paid in Swiss francs or Venezuelan bolivars into a Geneva account. Is that satisfactory?”
“The governor was thinking more in terms of half that amount.”
“The governor has not seen the villa. You have, and I am sure you realize it is worth more.”
“It is not a question of that. The governor wants a villa, and he has advised me to investigate several specific offerings. If this is too expensive, I will simply inform him, and go see some others.”
Perrani frowned now. “How much money are you talking about, Mr. Carr?”
“Three hundred thousand dollars.”
“Impossible.” He laug
hed. “That is barely an hour of prime television time in America. Your client must know it.”
“He also knows that he has an election coming up. His image as a leader in urban reform, as a man dedicated to cleaning out the slums, might suffer if it were discovered that he had just purchased a half-million-dollar Riviera villa. He is rich, but there is no need to flaunt his wealth before the voters.”
“Four hundred seventy-five. I can go no lower.”
Carr stubbed out his cigarette. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I am not authorized to pay that much.”
Perrani hesitated. This was the crucial point, Carr knew. If the Italian balked now, the negotiations would end, and Carr would be forced to wait a day while he pretended to telegraph the governor for extra funds. And he would, in the end, pay the price Perrani asked. There was nothing wrong with that, of course—it was a perfectly fair price, and they both knew it. An honest man would hold out for a fair price, but then an honest man would not ask for his money in stable currency, paid into a numbered Swiss account. It might be nothing more than a tax dodge—but it might be a great deal more.
“May I ask,” Perrani said, “how high you are willing to go?”
“Four hundred thousand.” On an impulse, Carr decided to press his advantage, to put on the pressure. “It is possible,” he said casually, “that when I tell the governor of the villa, he will agree to pay more—that is, if he really wants the Villa Perrani badly enough. He may, of course, decide against it, and tell me to look elsewhere. But the problem in either case is time.”
Carr noted with satisfaction that Perrani’s eyes had narrowed. That was his problem, too.
“The governor is about to tour the country, inspecting metropolitan planning techniques across the nation. He will be caught up with many problems, and he may not wish to be bothered. I could cable him, and meantime look at other villas. I might get a reply tomorrow.”
“And if not?”
Carr shrugged. “A week, two weeks, two months. It is hard to say.”
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