Château Montjoie was a charming tower castle, tucked away behind tall pine trees, its pebbled driveway lined with luxurious vintage cars. Their wealthy, retired owners came daily for lunch.
A carefully laid path led to the former castle greenhouses, now converted into guest lodgings for tourists. Because the property was small, there was no park to wander. Instead, a few metal benches overlooked the driveway and the guesthouse. In an attempt at originality — and decoration — a dark blue plastic rhinoceros stood on the lawn beside the old conservatory.
The castle’s first floor had been fitted out as a restaurant, with separate areas for main meals. As a result, there was never enough space, especially in the afternoons when the rich arrived for their aperitifs. The place was notorious for its snobbish, unfair treatment of guests: the wealthy were served faster and better than ordinary visitors staying there.
I knew Château Montjoie well — it wasn’t my first business trip to Tolosa. I had done other jobs for the client who had commissioned the Emerald Princess. That client, Salomon Kahn, had introduced me to the castle.
It was his favourite spot for coffee or what he called business lunches with people like me — people who could obtain valuable works of art and jewellery illegally. I had thought we had a solid understanding. But as often happens in that shadowy world, I had misjudged him.
Kahn occupied the best table for two, by the window — his usual spot, always reserved by the staff.
The restaurant was packed; the only free chair was the one opposite him. I knew I was safe, at least in public with Kahn present. I walked straight to his table and sat down without invitation. He was reading the newspaper and sipping espresso. For a split second, surprise — and perhaps confusion — flickered across his face. He clearly hadn’t expected a confrontation.
“What a wonderful day to spend at Château Montjoie, don’t you think, Monsieur Kahn?” I asked, keeping my face perfectly straight.
“Monsieur Smith! I don’t recall arranging a rendez-vous with you!” he exclaimed, feigning pleasant surprise.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting a visit from Alban in my hotel room either, but it happened,” I countered.
“Oh, yes, Alban mentioned it. He said the police interrupted you.”
“So, you’re not even going to pretend you didn’t send your thugs to kill me?”
“No one was going to kill you, Monsieur Smith. My men came to collect the necklace,” Salomon explained, offering a benevolent smile across his tanned face.
The sleazy businessman was approaching sixty but still kept himself in shape, dyeing his hair jet-black to blend with the locals.
“The agreement was that I would hand the necklace to you personally,” I reminded him.
“My apologies, Monsieur Smith, I was occupied and forgot to inform you that I couldn’t attend our meeting in person. That’s why I sent my assistants.”
“Is Alban your assistant now? I must say, your hiring standards seem to have slipped lately.” Kahn frowned upon at the jab, but I pressed on “Even if that were true and you couldn’t meet me yourself, your assistant didn’t give the impression the transaction would involve money. In fact, Monsieur Kahn, Alban made it very clear those were his orders.”
Salomon sighed, placed both elbows on the table, rested his long, crooked nose on his clasped hands, and regarded me from beneath heavy eyelids.
“Monsieur Smith, I’m sorry you have to hear this from me, but there are rumours circulating about you. And you, as a professional, know what that means. Reputation is everything. When we first met three years ago, you were John Smith — an art dealer and thief from Albion, known to the Gaul authorities yet untouchable, discreet, just like me. But everything changed after that stunt you pulled in the north. Remind me of the city’s name again? Shortbridge? Shortedge?”
“Shortridge,” I hissed through clenched teeth, patience wearing thin with the bastard.
“That’s it, Shortridge. I’m not criticising your methods — they’ve proven effective more than once. If blowing up the entrance to a police station gets you what you need, so be it. But that’s not my concern.” He paused to finish his espresso.
“What worries me,” he continued in a businesslike tone, “is that you’ve sold people out to the authorities. And those people were police officers. One can tolerate a slob, a gambler, an alcoholic — people will still work with them. But no one trusts a betrayer, because sooner or later, they’ll betray you, too. I can no longer trust you, Monsieur Smith. We had an agreement: you worked for me, I paid you. But one day the authorities might offer you more to sell me out. I must prevent that, which is why I’m ending our collaboration.”
“Quite bold of you to call me a betrayer, Salomon,” I sneered, watching his face flush purple beneath the leathery tan. “But your excuse still doesn’t explain why you refuse to pay me for the job.”
“Because I realised, I don’t have to pay a fugitive. You think the Shortridge affair was the only reason I dropped you? I know who you really are, Monsieur Smith. I know it’s not your real name, and I know what happened in Albion. In your case, keeping your life is compensation enough. With or without your cooperation, the necklace is mine,” Salomon Kahn concluded.
“We’ll see about that,” I retorted.
I stood up just as two waiters passed with large trays of food. I shoved one sharply; the tray slipped from his hands. Sauce splashed across the ladies at the neighbouring table. Salomon received a full plate of rice and duck straight into his lap.
In the ensuing chaos — shrieks, curses, clattering crockery — I slipped away from the scene before Kahn could recover or send anyone after me.
