I LEANED ON THE rail of Windsong and looked out into the gentle blue Mediterranean through the gap in the harbor wall. I declined another hors d’oeuvre and thought about Professor Rahmani. Research into ways of growing bigger and tastier grapes went on all the time, although the professor’s approach was decidedly less orthodox than most.
A voluptuous blonde swayed in my direction. She looked like a weight lifter but said she was a member of the Swedish women’s soccer team that was here to play in Monaco’s magnificent stadium. When she learned I was a journalist, she made sure that I would spell her name right, but then was gone when she learned that I wasn’t here to cover that event. I caught a glimpse of Monika with Masterson. He had his arm around her in a way that suggested he was more than just her race sponsor but I lost sight of her as a new face appeared.
“We haven’t met. I’m Alexis Suvarov—call me Alex.”
He was a tall, well-tanned fellow in his late thirties and had flowing golden hair that gave him a look that is usually described as that of an Adonis. He had a lithe athletic build and a friendly manner.
When I commented on his Russian name, he explained enthusiastically.
His great-grandfather was one of the aristocrats who had come to the Riviera every year after the opening of the Leningrad-Nice railway in 1864. He had been acquainted with the grand dukes and duchesses and other members of the Russian royalty. Alex’s grandfather had been trapped in Russia under the Communist regime but his father had come to the South of France, which he remembered from his childhood. Alex himself had been born here and was a French citizen.
He asked me what I was doing here and listened to my tale of being a journalist without showing either the dismay of bank manager Terence McGill or the indifference of the Swedish midfielder.
“Writing about vineyards owned by English, are you? We have one of them near us—Willesford own it.”
“That’s one of the vineyards I’m writing about.” It occurred to me that if I said this many more times I would really have to write something about it.
“That Simone’s a great girl, isn’t she?” he grinned.
“She certainly is,” I agreed. This job was leading me into a lot of prevarication.
“We delivered a case of wine for them one time,” he said. “It was urgently needed at a banquet.”
It was another thread of information but like most of them, it didn’t seem to lead anywhere. Still … “You delivered it?” I asked casually. “You have a delivery service?”
“Only special stuff—high speed, emergencies—that sort of thing.”
“Must be a lot of demand for that here.”
“There is. We had an interesting one last week. You know they’ve reopened La Victorine?”
“The famous film studios in Nice? No, I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, well, they found that the next day’s shooting script had several pages missing so we had to rush another copy to them. We did it without their losing a minute of their valuable time.” He laughed and winked. “Mind you, the film’s a stinker. It might have been better if they’d lost the entire script. Still, we did our share, rushing the script from the hotel in Orange to the studio in Nice in an hour and a half.”
“That’s incredible—you must employ race drivers,” I said, amazed.
“We do when necessary. Didn’t I see you come on board with one of them?”
“Monika? She drives for you?”
“Like a demon—only occasionally, though. She’s usually too busy modeling or shooting photos for a magazine or leading scuba diving teams out looking for wrecks. We have a faster system than even Monika—” He broke off as Grant Masterson joined us.
“Glad to see you two got acquainted. Valuable man, Alexis,” he told me. “Delivers the goods when no one else can.” A thought struck him and he eyed me more keenly. “You write about wine … you must know something about food too.”
“I—er, well, yes, I do.” I saw no reason to deny it altogether.
“Know anything about truffles?”
“Yes, I wrote an article on them,” I answered.
“I’m going up to Aupres in the Var day after tomorrow. How about coming with me? I’m going to the truffle market and need all the expertise I can gather. Between you and me, I’m opening a chain of delicatessens and I’m scouting a good source of truffles. It’s a hit-and-miss business, as I’m sure you know. Can I count on you?”
“Yes, I’d like that. Might be another article in it—truffles are a fascinating business.” I was vaguely aware that I should be concentrating on wine and vineyards, but an opportunity to get to know a man like Masterson couldn’t be passed up, and besides, in my real life as the Gourmet Detective the experience would be useful.
He clapped me on the back. “Right. Pick you up then—where are you staying?”
I told him as a smart white-uniformed girl crew member came to tell him that a call from Cairo awaited. He excused himself and left. Suvarov called out to an elegant woman in a clinging flowery dress. “An old customer,” he explained with a dashing Errol Flynn smile, “must take care of business—oh, and don’t forget, if you need anything taken, fetched, brought, or delivered and it’s really urgent—I’m your man.” He whipped out a card and handed it to me. Then he was gone as fast as his reputed service.
A producer on Monte Carlo television was the next person I talked to but his interest in me waned fast when he learned I was a journalist and he escaped quickly. Monika finally reappeared with a dark-featured man in a silk suit whom she introduced as being from Iran. A car rally was being planned, she said, crossing the deserts of six nations and she was eager to participate. The way the man looked at her suggested that it was not her car-handling abilities that interested him.
I assured her I understood why she was going back to the Metropole Hotel with him to study a map of the proposed race across the deserts, agreeing that a knowledge of the route would be highly advantageous. I watched her go and with the sun sinking slowly over neighboring Spain made my lonely way back to Saint Symphorien and the Relais du Moulin, meditating on life, women, and other related and unrelated subjects.