Authors: Norman Moss
After a few days I followed the letter up with a telephone call. The man who answered the telephone told me that Madame Stakis had received my letter and was not interested in talking to me about her jewellery or anything else.
I talked it over with Jeremy. “I think you should go over and see if you can find out something on the spot,” he said. “Time spent on reconnaissance—”
“—is rarely, if ever, wasted,” I said, completing the sentence from the British Army Infantry Manual, a little book which I have found useful in a surprising number of situations. I booked a flight to Geneva.
The cows had been toilet-trained, I decided, and the grass vacuum-cleaned, and the trees dusted, each leaf individually. That was the only way the mountainside could look this clean. As the train climbed up slowly from the blue-grey waters of Lake Geneva, I looked out on the scene. The slopes were bathed in late autumn sunshine, dotted with chalets that looked like cuckoo clocks. Contented-looking cows munched grass among sprigs of edelweiss. When the train stopped at a station, I could hear cowbells in the rarefied mountain air. This isn’t real, I thought. This is a picture postcard. I expected to hear yodellers at any moment.
When I stepped out of the train onto the platform in the little station the air was thin and fresh, like aftershave. My hotel, the Bellevue, was a short taxi ride down from the station. It was also a mile up the road from the villa which was Stavros Stakis’s home and business headquarters. The hotel was built of pine, clean and shiny. There was a glass-fronted terrace with a magnificent view, next to the bar and dining room. This wing of the building jutted out over the mountain slope like the prow of a ship, and was supported by stone pillars.
I arrived in the late afternoon, unpacked my things and washed, then went down to the bar for a pre-dinner drink. I could imagine that in the skiing season the bar, with its wood furnishings and pennants on the walls, would be full of young people, flushed and excited after a day on the ski slopes, enjoying the après-ski and most of them looking forward to some more excitement après that. Right now the only man in the bar was a trim, athletic-looking man in his forties who turned out to be the hotel manager, Max Duquesne. He introduced himself to me and talked about the hotel business. “So far, the recession hasn’t hit us much, fortunately,” he told me.
He commented on the fact that I spoke French fluently, and I told him about my French mother. He asked whether I was here on business and I said I was, and to forestall any further questions I changed the subject and said I had recently left the American army. He was delighted to hear this. He was a major in the Swiss army reserve, and told me about military exercises in the mountains. He clearly liked talking about things military. In fact, he clearly liked talking. He was also pleased to hear that I had lived in Morocco, and told me about a holiday he and his wife had had there. He offered to show me his army rifle and pistol after dinner. I would have been happy to put weaponry behind me but I did not want to dampen his enthusiasm. He knew the neighbourhood and could be helpful.
The restaurant was adjoining the bar. I took a table near the window so I could enjoy the sunset. The snow-covered peaks were a magnificent panorama. I ordered a terrine to start with, and to follow veal cooked in marsala, and a carafe of the house red, which was a dole, the most common Swiss wine, and settled down to enjoy the meal and the view. There were three couples in the dining room; evidently, this was a smart place to eat out.
I was finishing the veal when I heard, below me through the window, a squeal of brakes and then a man’s complaining voice. “What happened? Didn’t you see me?”
A young woman’s voice, impatient, her French slightly accented, “Oh, it’s only a scratch. Don’t make a fuss about it.”
“What do you mean, don’t make a fuss? Are you denying that it was your fault?”
“I can’t stop to discuss it. I have to meet a friend in the bar.”
“I want the name of your insurance company.” The man was insistent.
There was no reply but I heard the click of her heels. I imagined her stalking off, probably tossing a mane of hair, dismissing the man and his car.
A few minutes later the speaker walked into the restaurant with her escort. She was, I would guess, about nineteen or twenty. She had a good figure and wore a dress to show it off, low cut on the breasts and with a split skirt that showed her thighs. She had jet black hair let down over one shoulder and a slight olive tint to her skin. She walked over to her table like someone who had never had to worry about what people thought about her. I think she was aiming at glamour but she was too young; she looked sexy.
Her escort was trying not to grin with pride. He did not seem to suit her. He was three or four years older than her, with what I suppose was a ruggedly handsome face and black curly hair; he wore a dark suit with a shirt open at the neck, revealing an amulet on his hairy chest. He was like a car hop driving an expensive car. They sat at a table near me and picked up their menus.
A man in a shabby raincoat holding a beret in his hand appeared in the doorway, looked around the room, and then, spotting them, marched over to their table.
“Mademoiselle, please give me the name of your insurance company,” he said to her. He spoke quietly but he was close enough for me to hear. His tight lips were forcing back anger. He was the kind of man you might find facing you at the cashier’s window at the bank, a man with a strong sense of what is proper, the way things should be done.
The girl looked up at him and said, “Please go away and let me get on with my dinner.”
The man’s face reddened but he held his ground. “You have no right to—” he began.
Her escort stood up. “You heard the lady. Now push off,” he said, and put his fingers against the man’s chest. By now the waiters and the other diners were watching this scene. “Didn’t you hear me?” he added.
I hate bullies and I hate to see a man humiliated. I didn’t think, but stood up and reached their table in two strides and looked straight at the bullying escort. “I wouldn’t start a fight in here,” I said quietly
“What’s it got to do with you?” he demanded.
I ignored the question and went on, “It’s bad manners when other people are having their dinner. And this man has the right to ask what he’s asking.”
I thought he might swing at me and got ready to block the blow. My next move would be a straight left to the chin or a chop on the side of the neck, depending on where he was standing. I wanted him to fall on the floor rather than on the table, breaking plates and glasses. I had done quite well in unarmed combat classes in the army.
He held my stare for a moment and then I knew that he was not going to fight. Perhaps it was my age, or perhaps even a certain authority I had acquired. I had faced down a couple of drunken privates, muscular southern rednecks, in a German bar, but then I had rank to help me.
The girl looked up now and said, “This man was disturbing our dinner.”
“If you choose to drive a car,” I said to her, “you do have to put up with other people on the road and respect their rights.” I imagined that the idea of respecting anyone else’s rights had never occurred to her.
I turned to the man standing at their table and said, “I’m not familiar with the road rules in this country but if this lady won’t do the correct thing, can’t you just take her licence number and tell the police?”
“A good idea,” he said.
The girl was seething now, her eyes narrowing with rage. Now I thought she might stand up and try to slap me. But her mood abated. “Oh, all right, if you’re going to make a fuss about it, just send the bill for any small amount of damage here,” she said to the man, and threw a business card down on the table. The man took the card, said “Thank you,” with studied courtesy, gave a nod to me, which I assumed was intended to convey gratitude, and left the room.
I returned to my table. I did not stay long but told the waiter I would take my coffee in the bar. I had a sense that people were looking at me. I’m sure the mismatched couple were. Also, I was shaking a little inside from the confrontation.
In the bar I sat down at a little table and Max Dusquene came in and sat down beside me. “The waiters told me about your encounter in the dining room,” he said.
“It was an unpleasant scene,” I said. “I kept it as quiet as I could. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, please don’t apologize,” he said. “The waiters told me what happened. You’re to be congratulated on teaching that girl a lesson. Please let me offer you a drink. A brandy? We have an Armagnac I can recommend. Or a liqueur?”
“The Armagnac would be fine, thank you.”
He signalled the barman, turned back to me, and said, “It’s that girl. She’s trouble.”
“She seems like a spoiled bitch.”
“She is that.”
“You know her?”
“Oh yes. She lives in the neighbourhood. Comes in here every now and again. She was sixteen when the family moved here, and it wasn’t long before boys were getting into fights over her. That young man with her is a local lout, Mario.”
“He doesn’t seem to be in her class,” I said.
“No. He works in the garage his father owns. Maybe she’s going out with him just to annoy her father. She’s always been a rebel. But her father still spoils her.”
I thought of her accent and her olive skin and Mediterranean nose and suddenly had a sinking thought. “Who is her father?”
“A man called Stavros Stakis. A Greek. Lives nearby.”
I groaned inwardly. I’d made an enemy of the Stakis family before I even started.
“Her name is Sylvie,” Max was saying. “She’s always been given anything she wanted. A sports car, designer clothes. The story is that Stakis had another daughter who died as a baby, so he dotes on this one.
“Anyway, I promised I’d show you my guns. A rifle and a pistol. The rifle is army issue. We’re supposed to keep one gun at home so that we can be called up at any time.”
He took me to his office and opened a drawer. In the drawer was the barrel of a pistol. “Where’s the rest of it?” I asked.
“In my apartment upstairs. That’s how we keep our guns. It’s safer that way. You know, every Swiss man has to serve in the army and we’re all on the reserve list for a while and we have to keep our weapon at home, to be ready to serve at any time. But we mustn’t keep them loaded.” He took me up to his apartment and showed me the rest of the pistol, and the barrel of the rifle. We talked guns and military matters for a while before I went up to bed.
*
I woke up early, did fifteen minutes of push-ups and back and leg exercises in my room, then had a breakfast of juice, coffee, and some fresh croissants, and decided that I might as well go ahead and try to contact Stakis anyway. Sylvie did not know my name. I wrote a letter to Stakis on hotel notepaper saying I was a journalist writing about the international property market. Since he was admired as an entrepreneur, I would like an interview with him, about his views on the current situation. I would not take up much of his time, I promised.
I spent a lot of time in counter-intelligence in the army interrogating people. If someone refuses to answer any questions at all, you try to get him talking about anything. Once an exchange gets going there is a chance that he will open up on the subject you want him to talk about.
I decided to walk to the Stakis house and deliver the letter. It was downhill most of the way, with fields and only a few houses on both sides of the road. The air had an invigorating nip in it, and at an altitude of about fifteen hundred metres it was thinner than I was used to, so I stopped every now and again, out of breath. I was enjoying the view. There were snow-capped mountain peaks and more snow-capped peaks behind them.
The Stakis residence was just off the road, surrounded by a low wall. It was a huge two-storey house with several wings, plus two small cottages in the grounds, built in the late nineteenth century, I guessed. I noticed the security system that started at the gate. I imagined a large and wealthy Swiss family living there in past times with four or five children and a household staff including governesses and tutors. Now it was the home and headquarters of an international wheeler-dealer who preferred this climate to the warm waters of the Mediterranean and the mild breezes of Hellas. Or, more likely, the financial climate was better for him here. The only sign of life as I walked up the drive was an elderly man pruning a hedge with an electric hedge-trimmer.
I rang the bell and handed the letter to the maid who answered the door. A burly figure was watching over her shoulder. She took the letter and closed the door immediately. The chances of a positive response seemed slim.
I started to walk back, enjoying the view. A few cars passed from time to time. The morning chill was disappearing and the sun was providing a little warmth as well as heat, and it glistened off the mountain tops. A boy herding half a dozen cows, their bells tinkling, passed me and he saluted me with his stick. Birds sang in the trees. It was picture postcard Switzerland.
I tried to think of a way to approach Stakis, or at least to find out more about him. The cafés in the town? A local newspaper reporter? I passed a cluster of deserted ski chalets around an administration building, ski chalets ready for the season to start, and came to a little café. It was a few minutes after noon by now and I was walking uphill, feeling puffed out, and also a bit peckish, so I sat down and ordered a cup of coffee and a baguette with gruyere cheese.
A young woman came in and sat at the next table. She was tall and good-looking. She was not quite beautiful, but she had a lively, interested face, its most prominent features her heavy eyebrows and dark brown eyes. It was a face that made me want to get to know her better. She was wearing jeans and walking shoes and no make-up.
She gave her order and then took out a newspaper and began reading. It was the Guardian. She was reading the main section, and the second section, with features and reviews, was on the chair beside her. I leaned across and asked her in French, “Could I borrow your second section please?”