Stone gave Tessa his jotter and pen. “Please do your thing with the place cards.”
She managed to skirt the arriving guests and move to the dining room. She returned after a few minutes and gave the pad and pen back to Stone.
He took a moment to glance through the list. There was only one Russian name: Yevgeny Chekhov, no Mrs. Chekhov. He pocketed the jotter and pen and made nice with the other guests, none of whom was Mr. Chekhov.
He noticed that Peter Grant received a brief cell phone call, then he nodded to a butler, and dinner was announced. Just as the guests were finding their places, a squarely built, middle-aged man, encased in an expensive dinner suit, arrived and was seated next to Peter. Peter rapped on his water glass with a knife. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “May I introduce my good friend Yevgeny Chekhov?” Everyone nodded politely. “It is too rare that we see Yevgeny in Paris, and I am very happy that he could join us.” Peter sat down, and the dinner was served.
The wines were a Le Montrachet 1972 with the first course and a Château Latour 1959 with the entrée, then with dessert a Château d’Yquem 1960, all on a par with Grant’s largesse the evening before. The port served with the cheese course was a Quinta do Noval Nacional 1945, which Stone knew was almost impossible to obtain. He enjoyed the wines, lingering over each, and he especially loved the port.
Dino was two seats away from Chekhov, and Stone could tell his ear was cocked in that direction. Fortunately, the Russian’s conversation was conducted in English. Stone noted no attempt by Peter Grant to try Russian.
After they were invited back to the salon for cognac and liqueurs, Stone managed to edge over to the Russian and engage him in conversation. “Where have you come to us from, Mr. Chekhov?” he asked.
Chekhov looked at him as if he were mad or an imbecile. “From St. Petersburg,” he replied. “I was there this morning.” He spoke English with a faintly British accent.
“Ah, a lovely city,” Stone said, though he had never been there.
“On behalf of the Russian people, I thank you for your compliment,” Chekhov replied.
“In what capacity do you speak for the Russian people?” Stone asked, smiling.
“Huh?” Chekhov blurted out.
“I thought, perhaps, you were the Russian ambassador to France.”
“Why would you think that?” the man asked.
“Because you spoke on behalf of the Russian people,” Stone replied, keeping his smile fixed.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Chekhov said, then turned on his heel and walked to where Peter Grant stood, apparently reporting his conversation with the American fool.
Dino came over. “Enjoy your chat with Chekhov?”
“Yes,” Stone replied, “but he apparently did not.” He related what had been said.
“It was something like that when I tried to engage him over dinner. He seemed to want to speak only to Grant, even ignored the beautiful woman between us.”
“Could you hear what he and Grant were talking about?”
“Agricultural products,” Dino said, “at least for a moment.”
“Which ones?”
“I had the impression that that part of the conversation was entirely for my benefit,” Dino said, “and it was very thin.”
“Did you enjoy the wines?”
“My God, yes,” Dino replied. “I’m pretty drunk.”
“So am I,” Stone said. “Why don’t you fake a heart attack so we can get out of here?”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Peter Grant nearly shouted. “My friend Mr. Chekhov regrets that he must leave us, and he has asked me to wish you all a good evening.”
Chekhov managed a grimace, then with a backward wave of his hand, pontiff style, he marched out of the apartment, followed by a large man in a business suit with a bulge in his left armpit.
Since the apparent guest of honor had departed, the others began to drift out, and soon Stone and his party were back in the old Mercedes convertible.
“Those were the most spectacular wines I’ve ever drunk,” Tessa said, and there were murmurs of agreement from the others.
“Tessa,” Stone said, “I think Peter spent something like a hundred twenty thousand euros on wine last evening, and probably considerably more tonight. You spoke of him as tight with his money. Can you account for his sudden largesse the past two evenings?”
“I cannot,” Tessa said, “unless he’s broken the bank at Monte Carlo, and we’re a long way from Monte Carlo.”
“Have you ever known him to splurge before?”
“Never at any time,” she replied. “I’ve bought more drinks for him than he has for me. Until tonight.”
“Do you know how he paid his caterer tonight?”
“No, I imagine he’s probably taking care of that about now.”
“Have you ever known him to use a credit card?”
She thought about it. “No, on those occasions when he does pay, he seems always to use cash.”
“In euros?”
“I think so.”
“Have you ever been gambling with him?”
“No. Sorry, yes. Once, in Monte Carlo. He was very cautious, and he managed to win a bit, though not enough to buy those wines. Why are you so interested in his spending habits?”
“Because his behavior is so at odds with what I’ve been told about him, mostly by you.”
“Well, the horses are running at Longchamp,” she said. “Perhaps somebody gave him a tip, or a long shot came in.”
“Do you have any idea who that fellow, Chekhov, is?”
“No, but he was at Tour d’Argent with Peter’s group last night, sitting next to Peter.”
“Have you seen Peter in the company of Russians before?”
“No. Last night and tonight are the only times I’ve seen Peter in company that he assembled himself. All the other parties or dinners were given by others, with their guests.” She turned her body on the car seat to face him. “Tell me, Stone, what is your interest in Peter? We never seem to talk about anything else.”
“I apologize,” Stone said. “Why don’t we talk about something else?”
“I have a question,” she said, as they pulled into his garage and everyone got out of the car.
“Please ask it.”
“Why haven’t you made the slightest pass at me since we met? It’s all right if you’re gay, Stone, just tell me.”
Stone took her upstairs and demonstrated that he was not.