Chapter 77

 

Caplin cursed the fact he hadn’t gotten a GPS with the rental car. It hadn’t seemed important at the time—he really needed to move into the modern age or retire. That simple beach house in Mexico was looking better and better. He studied his map once more, meandered several blocks out of the way, finally found the Restaurant Jardin Palm. He walked in at ten minutes to closing, hoping he’d find a comforting drink and someone who spoke English. He got lucky on both counts.

“The kitchen is closing,” said the bartender who wore a name tag saying he was Henri.

“That’s okay. A whiskey, neat, will do me just fine.”

Henri served it in a heavy glass. “You are not a tourist, I think,” he said, eyes traveling over Caplin’s suit and tan overcoat.

“I’m not. I’m looking for another American friend who’s traveling in the area. He said something about staying with some buddies in this part of town. One of them recommended this restaurant.”

Henri wiped a glass with a spotless white towel. “Could be. Especially if your friend is rich. This coastline brings the wealthy from many places.”

Caplin thought of Morrell’s many targets. “That sounds like the sort of people this guy likes to hang out with. You probably know all the locals around here?”

“Locals? Oh, the residents. Oui, many are my customers.”

“Any of them entertaining a lot of guests this week?” It was a guess, based on what Frank had said about the group at the safe house.

Henri’s eyes narrowed. “Who is asking?”

Caplin pulled out his wallet and extracted one of his business cards. “Police. I’m actually after a suspect I followed here from the States. He’s tied with some men here and I’d like to catch up with him.”

Henri dried another glass and added it to the stack of clean ones on the shelf behind him, clearly giving himself a minute before answering. Caplin studied the man’s body language, reading him as an honest businessman torn between helping the law and staying out of a situation that might cost him business.

The cop sipped his drink while the bartender walked to the front door, locked it and turned out the neon Open sign.

“There is one place. The owner of this estate is a good man. He fought in the war and never used his family’s position to dodge his responsibilities. They made a fortune in olive oil and Monsieur LeBlanc has been very kind to this city, always helpful to those less fortunate.”

Caplin waited as Henri took his time.

“It is now, I fear, the old man may have become too trusting. Some men are staying at his home while he is away in Spain, some men I do not like the looks of. Etienne LeBlanc told me it was the nephew of his oldest, dearest friend.” He shrugged. “I do not know. One of them could be his friend’s relative, but the rest … these do not seem of the same—how do you say?—the same caliber?”

“Where is Mr. LeBlanc’s home, the place these men are staying?”

Henri tipped his head to the right. “Just up the mountain there. It is a large estate and the main house sits at the very top. A most spectacular view. When I began the restaurant twenty years ago, Etienne entertained more frequently. We catered many lovely parties there, tres belle.”

Caplin swallowed the last of his whiskey. “Thanks. I appreciate the information.” He left a generous tip and Henri let him out.

Okay, he thought as the cool night breeze hit him. Breaking out a back window in a small house on my own, I’m not opposed to, but storming an estate with who knows how many master thieves … especially if this really is the lair of the Golden Tiger ring … Interpol needs to know about this.