‘Really?’
‘Yes. Focus, Mr Linton. The infant is of no importance.’
Putting a finger in each corner of its mouth, the ‘infant’ started pulling faces at me and dancing around me, chanting ‘Chapeau gaga, Chapeau gaga!’ French brats had a bloody strange way of showing their admiration. His little fiendish accomplices were cheering him on. I tried to chase them away, but I might as well have tried to chase away a swarm of hungry mosquitos.
‘This is insane!’ I growled.
‘On the contrary, Mr Linton.’ Mr Ambrose wasn’t paying the slightest attention to my fierce battle against the little fiends, but was instead studying the hotel and the beach with dark intensity. ‘This is brilliant. Dalgliesh’s style, executed to perfection. Blinding people with glamour - so perfect, and so him!’
Bending down, my little tormentor picked up an acorn and chucked it at my hat. I ducked just in time to prevent it being knocked off.
‘Glamour? To be honest, I can’t see what is glamorous here, Sir. You just wait, you little snot monster, till I get my hands on you!’
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Linton?’
‘Sorry, Sir. Wasn't talking to you, Sir.’
‘Focus, Mr Linton. Focus.’
‘Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir. Come here, you bloody little blaggard!’
‘Mr Linton!’
‘Sorry, Sir. So sorry. What was that you said about Glamorgan?’
Mr Ambrose made an impatient gesture at our surroundings. ‘Glamour, Mr Linton, Glamour. This hotel, the tourists, the pretty beaches - all is a disguise for the real purpose of this island - to serve as a centre for some, if not all, of Lord Dalgliesh’s less-than-legal operations. That purpose is also the reason for the headquarters being on the French side of the Channel, i.e. outside British jurisdiction.’
He let his eyes wander over the scene before him, the glitter within them reminiscent of freshly fallen snow.
‘It is perfect. The perfect place. I must see whether I can persuade Dalgliesh to part with it somehow.’
I was so stunned I nearly didn’t manage to duck the next acorn that came flying at me. Had I heard right? Surely he did not mean that he, too, engaged in illegal operations for which he would need a place like this?
I took a look at his cool, granite profile, at the glitter in his dark eyes, and suddenly, I wasn’t so sure anymore.
Dear God… What manner of man did you get mixed up with, Lilly? And worse, you didn’t just get mixed up with him! You let him kiss—
But no! That had all been pure imagination.
An acorn hit me in the forehead, jerking me painfully from my thoughts.
‘Why, you darn little rug-rat…’
‘Excuse me, Mr Linton?’
‘Didn’t mean you, Sir! Sorry, Sir!’
‘Focus, Mr Linton. Focus.’
‘Yes, Sir. But let me respectfully point out that it is hard to focus while being pelted with missiles, Sir.’
‘It is simply a matter of concentration. Now listen closely, Mr Linton. We need to discuss our next move and coordinate our plans.’
‘Fine by me,’ I said, ducking the next acorn and making a grab for the brat’s sleeve. He danced away, cackling like the devil.
‘We need to split up. We need to gather as much information about this place as possible, and we can do that more quickly if we do it separately. I will go to the beach and ask questions there. You will go to the hotel, where the staff is likely to speak English. Our aim is to find out where exactly on this island Lord Dalgliesh’s headquarters is located. He will have to have privacy for his operations. Try to determine - unobtrusively, mind you - whether there is some place both locals and tourists avoid, or some place that is out of bounds for any reason. Such a spot would be the ideal centre for Dalgliesh’s operations. Understood?’
‘Yes, Sir. Only, Sir…’ I ducked another acorn. ‘It will be rather difficult to make unobtrusive enquiries with this little beast on my tail.’
‘Is that all?’
Mr Ambrose turned his attention towards the brat a few feet away from him. Only now did I realize that the little snot-monster had so far only chosen me as a target for his missiles, not aiming a single one at His Mightiness, Ambrose the Icy. I didn’t have long to ponder the reason for this. Mr Ambrose advanced on the child until he was standing right in front of it. Slowly, he bent down, until his face was on one level with the child. The little brat’s fist, already holding the next acorn, slowly sank down until it hung loosely at his side. He made a mistake and met Mr Ambrose’s dark gaze. The fist opened, and the acorn fell to the ground.
‘Toi.’ Mr Ambrose said, his voice calm and cold as the Antarctic. ‘Va-t'en. Maintenant.’
The brat gave a little rat-like squeak and whirled around, scampering off as fast as its feet would carry him. I stared after him in disbelief.
‘So,’ Mr Ambrose announced. ‘That’s taken care of.’
‘What in heaven’s name did you say to that little beast?’ I demanded.
Straightening, Mr Ambrose shook his head. ‘I never disclose my secrets, Mr Linton.’
With that, he left me standing and turned away, off to gather information among the laughing crowds of people on the beach. Thank the Lord he was wearing the uniform, and not his black tailcoat. In his usual attire he would have stuck out like a crow in a flock of popinjays, but in his fake uniform, he fit in quite well with all the officers walking around the hotel in uniforms of different nationalities. In fact, he looked the handsomest of them all.
Quickly, I shook my head, ridding myself of that strange thought. What was it doing in my mind? I had a task to accomplish!
Free of the acorn-throwing fiend, I started up the path to the hotel. But I hadn’t gone half a dozen steps when, around the corner of the hotel, I glimpsed another veranda. On this one, several small tables stood, looking very decorative, with white lace tablecloths and vases of yellow iris in the middle. At the end of the veranda hung a sign which, in large blue letters, said: Café.
At the tables, people were drinking tea and eating. Delicious smells wafted over, carried by the morning breeze. I hesitated. My eyes wandered between the café, and the entrance to the hotel. I had a duty to perform in there. But then… I also had a pretty pressing duty to my stomach. It gave a big rumble, reminding me of just how long it was since it had been properly filled.
Bad Lilly! Bad! You have work to do!
Yes. My stomach could wait a little longer. I was no ravenous animal. I was a rational, strong, independent lady, and I could resist…
Suddenly, among all the other smells wafting over from the café, I caught one that I hadn’t detected before. A smell I would have recognised anywhere in the world: the delicious, mind-boggling odour of chocolate. My feet started moving, and before I realized it, I was across the veranda, inside the café, and in front of a counter with so many delicacies displayed on it that I hardly knew what to choose first.
Bugger! Well, who needs to be a strong woman on an empty stomach, anyway?
Behind the counter stood a broad man with a brilliant smile and a moustache that was so magnificently pointy you could have impaled somebody on it.
‘Um… excuse moi,’ I tried to unearth my few words of French. ‘Je vourais… Je…’
‘Oh, do not bother yourself, Monsieur,’ the man said, his smile lighting up even more brightly. ‘Me, I of course speak the language of the Englishmen. We have many Englishmen here, so it good for business, eh? And no worry about English money, either. Now, Monsieur…’ He pointed to the counter. ‘What would you like?’
~~*~~*
Five minutes later, I sat at one of the little tables, chewing contentedly and sipping a cup of tea. The birds were singing, children were playing - at a safe distance -, the sky was blue, and for the first time in days I felt really content and relaxed. I was about half-finished with my meal, when the calm was disturbed by a cool voice at my ear.