across the dimly lit table located at the rear of the café.
“Buddy, stop. You’re girlfriend is quite beautiful, you know. Even Sam finds her attractive,” Esther responded. She was cuing Radford. She wanted to hear him say that her beauty was far superior to that of Qu Min.
“She has hidden talents as well,” Radford replied, purposely ignoring Esther’s prodding.
“You’re a very lucky man then, Mr. Radford.”
“If I’m so lucky then how come I’m down 200 grand at the blackjack table?”
“Well you know the expression—lucky in love, unlucky in cards. Maybe you should try a different game?” Esther suggested.
“No, it’s not that,” Radford replied.
“What is it then?” Esther asked.
“Luck is a woman. She has to be seduced.”
“And just what does it take to seduce Lady Luck?” Esther asked with genuine interest as to Radford’s response.
“The right combination.”
“And you think that we’re the right combination?”
“I’m betting on it.”
“As long as you understand that our agreement runs only as far as the craps table.”
“I’ll play by the rules, only . . . ”
“Only what?”
“Only I really can’t see you and Sonn . . ..” Radford was moving in for the kill, betting that he had penetrated Esther’s armor.
“And why not?”
“Because he’s not truly in love with you.”
“He is in love with me,” Esther insisted.
“Perhaps, but he’s in love with himself and there is no room for him to love a woman more.”
“How do you know?
“It doesn’t take me long to size up someone. But it really doesn’t matter.”
“And why not, Mr. Radford?”
“Because you and I are all that matters. We’re more alike than you think.”
“In what way.”
“We both get high on sex. And we both know that the greatest high comes when we cheat.”
“I’ve had my flings, Mr. Radford. I’m not interested. Fun and games are over for me.”
“Then I think that it’s only fair for me to put you on notice. I want you and I’m going to do whatever it takes to win you. Besides you and Sonn aren’t even married, no less engaged. Like it or not the game is on,” he said.
“You can forget it Mr. Radford. Our agreement goes as far as the craps table and that’s where it ends. I admit that I find you attractive, but I am in love with Sam.”
Buddy clutched Esther’s hand and kissed it. Esther felt a bolt of lightning flash through her bosom and into her soul. “I’ll see you later,” he said.
“I want the titanium cams, Jacques, I don’t like the sound of the steel ones. I’m coming down to make sure you’ve installed them properly. I’ll do the test drive myself.”
Sam walked toward the table at which Henri Gateau was seated. He had come in on the tail end of the conversation Gateau was having with his pit boss over his cell phone. Gateau, a tall thin brown haired Frenchman with a razor thin mustache looked up at Sam.
“Monsieur Gateau, I’m Samuel Sonn.”
“You don’t look like a private eye, Monsieur Sonn.” he said, with a perfect blend of English and French.
“What do I look like, Monsieur?”
“More like a race car driver,” Gateau answered.
“I’ve done some stock car driving.”
“For whom?” Gateau asked.
“For myself,” Sam answered.
“Racing is an expensive business, Monsieur Sonn.”
“My father financed me.”
“And how did you do, Monsieur Sonn?”
“I became a private investigator.”
“It appears that you have made the right decision, Monsieur. Le Chateau de Pompeii is more than most race car drivers can afford.”
“There’s good money in industrial security. I want you to know that I took the Moreau case as a favor to the family, and . . .”
“And for the publicity, no doubt, Monsieur.”
“The publicity doesn’t hurt. But the case is intriguing. Do you have any theories as to why Eleanor Moreau was chosen as the seventh victim of the crossword murderer?”
“I don’t know, Monsieur. I know nothing about puzzles.”
“But Eleanor was an avid puzzle solver.”
“Oui, Monsieur. She did them all the time, but without me.”
“Did you ever see her compose a puzzle?”
“Excusez-moi, Monsieur.”
“I mean did she ever construct her own puzzles for publication?”
“It is odd that you should ask me, because she was constructing a puzzle shortly before her death. She was using a computer program to help her. I didn’t think she was doing it to be published. But perhaps she was.”
“Do you know if she had any enemies that might have wanted to do her harm? Did she express to you any fear that someone might be trying to hurt her?”
“Monsieur, Eleanor Moreau, how do you say it, did not know the purpose, excusez-moi, the meaning of the word fear. As for enemies, oui Monsieur, there were many. Half of Canada never forgave her for cheating on her husband while he was Prime Minister. Then there were the right-wingers, the skinheads, in France and Germany. And many of her photographs were done without permission— taken with a telephoto lens. Then there were the anti-environmental groups. Not to mention the oil cartel. They hated her. Just recently she had completed a series on the oil spill in Alaska.”
“I checked her e-mail. There was a message from you concerning money.”
“Oui, Monsieur. Right now I am in the hole for over a million euros.”
“She wrote that you were partners. May I ask in what?”
“We have
