sure is. And to the same Hotmail address. Let’s try an e-mail of the Byteman kid.” Sam clicked on an e-mail entitled end of the rainbow. Nothing. No shadow here. But of course he was an expert hacker himself. He’d have had the same whistle on his e-mail that I do.”
“If the FBI knew who the victims were they might also know who the killer was?” Esther surmised. “Or . . .”
“Or perhaps Mr. Smith is the crossword murderer.”
“Sam, I’m tired of playing Nick and Nora. Do you think you can live without me for a couple of hours?”
“It won’t be easy,” Sam said.
“I need to get my hair done for tonight, and I want to buy that evening dress we saw in the Princess Caroline Boutique.”
“Have fun,” Sam said.
“What will you do?” Esther asked.
“Don’t worry. I’ll find something to keep me busy.”
“Blackjack, again. How much have you lost, Sam?”
“I’m down around 80 grand, but who’s counting?”
“I’m really not interested. Sorry I asked.” She walked through the lily garden and into the townhouse.
Sam was thankful for the sex-free interlude. He continued to browse Eleanor Moreau’s e-mail. There was one more thing of interest that caught Sam’s attention—several correspondences with the Black Squares Club. Apparently there was a rating system by which each member was rated with respect to his or her performance. Once the member reached a certain rating, they became eligible for the next level. But rating alone was not sufficient to insure membership in the highest echelon of the club. Some kind of test was required. Moreau had failed the test a number of times, but she kept requesting to retake it. Very near the time of her death, she had received an e-mail confirming her acceptance into the highest echelon of the Black Squares: The Ninth Circle. Sam made the connection immediately. The Ninth Circle 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