I stared at the women for a good two minutes. Then, suddenly, a point of more immediate importance than French standards of morality occurred to me.
‘Why,’ I asked Mr Ambrose, ‘does Lord Dalgliesh have a crowd of bathers on the island that is supposed to be his secret hideout?’
‘That is a very good question, Mr Linton.’
‘And?’
‘And I do not have the answer. Come on. Our guide is getting impatient.’
Indeed, the waiter was already several steps ahead and gesturing for us to keep up. He seemed to find nothing strange about the sight down at the beach, which made my cheeks glow with heat. Frenchmen! Unbelievable…
I sneaked a quick glimpse at Mr Ambrose. He didn’t seem to find it unusual, either. Had he been at many such places? Had he seen a lot of female knees?
Quickly, I clamped down on the thought. We were here on a secret mission. Mr Ambrose’s bathing habits were none of my concern, and neither were any female knees he might have studied.
By now, the waiter had vanished around a corner. We followed him, and found him pointing up to a building rising up above us.
‘Voilà le bâtiment principal, Monsieur!’
It wasn’t the ruin of a castle.
I admit, my adventurous imagination might have run away with me a bit, imagining Lord Dalgliesh’s secret headquarters, but still, I hadn’t expected anything like this. The building was large, and painted in a brilliant white. Two rows of wooden supports, one stacked above the other, supported a raised veranda and balcony, and a pair of majestic white steps led up to the first floor. Rows of large windows glinted in the sun and, above the main entrance, words were painted in a cheerful blue:
Hôtel de la Mer azur
‘The Hotel of the Azure Sea,’ Mr Ambrose translated.
‘Thank you so much, Mr Ambrose, Sir. My French extends that far.’ I looked from the hotel to the crowd of happily gossiping people sitting on the veranda. ‘Do you think it is possible Lord Dalgliesh’s ship has landed on the wrong island?’
Silence.
When he hadn’t answered after a few more moments, I looked sideways at him. His eyes were glittering.
‘I don't think so,’ he murmured, and the glint in his dark eyes grew. ‘I don't think so at all. Oh, that man. He is a genius.’
A group of children ran by, laughing and screaming. They were not screams of pain. One of the little pests pointed at me and yelled: ‘Eh, regardez ce gars! N'a-t-il pas un chapeau totalement ridicule?’
And they burst into laughter.
‘What did he say?’ I hissed at Mr Ambrose.
‘He complimented you on your manly appearance, Mr Linton.’
‘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?’
