was the name of the club that Lentz had asked Sam to join in the parking lot. It was yet another connection between Lentz and Moreau.
“Front desk, s’il vous-plait?” Sam asked the operator.
“Certainement, M. Sonn,” replied the operator.
“Allo, front desk,” answered a female voice.
“This is Mr. Sonn. I’m staying at Le Chateau de Pompei. Would you be kind enough to tell me if a friend of mine has registered?”
“Of course, Monsieur Sonn. And whom might that be?”
“Henri Gateau.”
“Oui Monsieur, he is registered. Monsieur Gateau always stays with us during the week of the Grand Prix. Should I connect you?”
“Please.” The phone rang twice.
“Allo, Gateau,” a man answered gruffly.
“Parlez-vous Anglais?”
“Oui, Monsieur, I speak it fluently.”
“Monsieur Gateau, my name is Samuel Sonn. I’m a private investigator recently retained by Eleanor Moreau’s family. I thought we might have a drink together to discuss some aspects of the case.”
“Certainly. Can you meet me at the Riato Lounge in half an hour? You’re familiar with the hotel?” Gateau asked with a pronounced French accent. Though his English was fluent, he still hadn’t mastered the intonation of the language.
“Yes, I am. I’m also a guest here. See you then.”
An afternoon at Chez Pierre can run up a hefty bill, especially if Pierre is your stylist. It runs two hundred euro just to get in the door. Besides having her hair cut and blown, Esther had a facial and a manicure. It was nearly four when she left the beauty salon and strolled across the Palais Princier. Cherchez les femmes! She was a sight to behold, wearing a full-length silk skirt with a striking black and orange geometric pattern, a tight fitting white cashmere top with matching sun hat, and Cassini sunglasses. The Square was bustling with wives and mistresses of the rich and famous. The gown that Esther wanted may have already been snatched up. She hurried toward the boutique, relieved to see the dress still displayed in the window. But as she was about to enter the shop she heard a voice calling her from clear across the square. “Shit,” she cursed. It was Radford. He jogged across the square.
“Hey gorgeous,” he said to her. “You know you’re the most beautiful thing in Monaco?”
“Better not let your girlfriend hear you talking that way.”
“I left Qu Min at the baccarat table. She’s losing badly. But I have the feeling I’m saving money. She’s probably more dangerous here.”
“I’m about to reek my own havoc, so if you’ll excuse me.” Esther was not pleased to see Radford—nothing was going to come between her and her evening gown.
“Mind if I tag along. Maybe I can offer my expert opinion.”
“That isn’t necessary, thank you.” Esther was clearly giving him the cold shoulder.
“Are you sure?” Radford didn’t give up easily.
“Yes, quite sure.” Esther turned and walked into the boutique.
“May, I try on the black gown you have displayed in the window?” she asked the salesman.
“No, Madame. I’m afraid that dress has already been purchased.”
“By whom?” Esther asked.
“By Mademoiselle Yvette, Princess Caroline’s cousin.”
“How much did she pay for it?” piped in a male voice from behind Esther. It was Radford. Apparently, he didn’t get the message.
“Five thousand euro, Monsieur.”
“I’ll give you ten thousand,” Radford said.
“Monsieur, if Mademoiselle Yvette ever found out . . .”
“If she wanted it so badly then why is it still in the window?” Radford demanded to know.
“Well, she wasn’t really sure she wanted it. It is a Louis Blanc that was originally ordered by the Princess herself, but had a change of heart when she tried it on.”
“Why? Why didn’t she take it?
“Sorry Monsieur, that is confidential.”
“Well, at least let Mademoiselle try it on. If it fits, I’ve got the cash.
“Oui, Monsieur,” the salesman agreed. He took the dress from the window.
“Buddy, I appreciate your help, but I can’t let you buy it for me and I’m not sure Sam would be willing to spend nearly fifteen thousand dollars, American, on a dress.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s a gift,” he said.
“No, I’m afraid I can’t accept it.”
“Do you think it would look better on Mademoiselle Yvette? Try it on,” he said, flinging it to her.
“I don’t think Sam would be too happy if he knew I had accepted a very expensive gift from someone else,” she said holding the dress in her hands.
“Why not? You consider me a friend don’t you?”
“Yes, but…”
“'Nough, said,” Radford quipped in his best southern drawl. “Besides, you don’t have to tell him. Anyway, I am asking for something in return.”
“And what might that be?” Esther asked.
“Nothing complicated. I’d like some company when I drink my Tom Collins at the bar across the street. And I’d like to see you wear the dress tonight. And . . .”
“What else?” Esther interrupted.
“And I’d like you to throw the dice for me tonight at the craps table. I’m losing my shirt. Maybe you’ll be the catalyst to change my luck.”
“Sounds simple enough. I must warn you though; I haven’t brought much luck to Sam. He’s down around 80 grand on my rolls.”
“I’m down more than 200. So then it’s a deal?”
“Sure, why not.”
“Try it on then.”
Esther tried on the dress, which fit her perfectly. It had been altered to fit the 5 foot 7 statuesque Princess Caroline. Esther was nearly that height. She considered it flattering that she had a similar build to Grace Kelly’s oldest daughter. Radford made quite a fuss. It was a tactic which was not at all lost on Esther. She was both flattered and receptive to Radford’s excessive fawning. He was smooth and well mannered to a fault. Esther could not deny her attraction to
