Page 101 of A Death in Cornwall

“The stores in Monaco are the most expensive in the world,” Monjean protested.

“Which means you’re sure to find something appropriate to wear to this evening’s festivities.”

Monjean and Ingrid left Mistral at nine fifteen and set off along the quay. Gabriel went onto the forward deck and found Christopher lying shirtless on a cushion, beer in hand.

“It’s a bit early in the day for that, isn’t it?”

“I’m on holiday on my friend’s motor yacht in Monaco. The midmorning carbonated beverage is simply part of my elaborate cover.”

“Might I trouble you to run a small errand for me on the French side of the border?”

Christopher sighed. “What did you have in mind?”

“I’d like you to collect a parcel from a certain Monsieur Giroux. He’ll be waiting outside the tennis club in Cap-d’Ail.”

“Why can’t Monsieur Giroux bring the parcel here?”

“Because it contains a computerized automatic combination dialer and a forty-by-twenty-millimeter rare-earth magnet.”

“In that case, perhaps you should handle it, old sport.” Christopher closed his eyes. “Those rare-earth magnets are bloody dangerous.”

***

Ingrid paused beneath the white awning of the Gucci boutique on the Avenue de Monte-Carlo. “Perhaps we can find you something presentable to wear here.”

“Only if we steal it,” replied René Monjean.

They moved along the spotless pavement to the next shop. “How about Valentino? They have lovely things for men.”

“I prefer Hermès.” It was located next door. “Home of the seven-hundred-euro polo shirt.”

Ingrid eyed the elegant garment worn by the mannequin in the window. “And the five-thousand-euro cashmere stole.”

“I’m sure you can get it for less,” said Monjean. “Much less.”

“Are you daring me?”

“It would look great with the pantsuit you’re wearing.”

It would, indeed. But Ingrid had no desire to possess it. She was sure it was only a side effect of the scopolamine. Her eyes were killing her.

“I’ll pass,” she said.

“Should I pinch it for you?”

“Dressed like that?” She looked him up and down. “They wouldn’t let you in the store.”

They followed the avenue past the Casino de Monte-Carlo and the Hôtel de Paris, then walked through the Jardins de la Petite Afrique to the boulevard des Moulins. Number 41 was to the right. They sat down at an outdoor table at La Royale, and Monjean ordered two café crèmes in his Marseillais French.

“Have you noticed that there’s no dirt in this place?” he asked.

“And no poor people, either.”

“There are plenty of poor people. They sweep the floors and change the beds and clean the toilets, but they’re not allowed to live here. To tell you the truth, I hate Monaco. It’s the most boring place on earth.”

“Ever work here?”

“Sure. You?”

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