The Dave Bliss Quintet Read Online Free PDF Page A

shutters with a touch of a button. “A room with a view” was an understatement, he realized, as he stepped onto the balcony and found a scene culled from
South Pacific
— blue waters, palm trees, white sand beaches, and a cluster of verdant islands in the hazy distance.
    Now, two weeks later, the beauty of the vista still stops him every time he gazes out from the balcony. This really could be Hollywood, he thinks, watching yachts in full sail glide silently across the horizon as if pulled on tracks, and he picks up his journal and makes an earnest start.
    The shiny facade of the Côte d’Azur is painted gaily across the skyline, and the set is finished with a spectacular backdrop of snow-capped peaks. Across the bay, a cluster of green islands swim in the perfectly blue sea. Sardines and snorkellers dance together in underwater ballet, seagulls share sandwiches with sunbathers, and —
    However, the veneer of respectability is thinly spread. Behind the front of Provençal knick-knack stores, pricey fish restaurants, and snotty perfumeries, the stockaded villas of gangland thugs, corporate raiders, stock market fraudsters, smugglers, tax evaders, and tax exiles take cover in the wooded hillsides. The sun, so sharp and welcoming on the beach, barely penetrates the thick cover of eucalyptus and pineapple palms. Heavy-set men loiter in the deep shade near fortified gateways, their bulky jackets singling them out from tourists and tradesmen alike. Powerful cars with deeply tinted windows glide almost soundlessly around contorted laneways, and spiked gates whirr open in recognition of electronic commands. The cars, and their equally shady occupants, slip out of sight as if they had never existed.
    Putting down his pen, Bliss picks up his binoculars at the sight of an interloper in the peaceful bay. “It’s huge,” he breathes, scanning the length of the five-decked yacht, guessing it to be at least forty metres. Must be worth a fortune, he is thinking, when the throaty sound of diesels bobbles across the water as the captain kicks up the power. The sleek vessel lifts her bow and takes off. “Wow!” he murmurs, guessing the mini-cruise liner capable of twenty knots or more as the bow wave rips a white scar across the blue silk sea.
    With his concentration broken, he checks his watch and decides on another visit to the beach — maybe Marcia will resurface.
    The elevator hums to a halt on the ground floor, and as he steps out the click of the door lock reminds him of the lemon. Damn — I forgot to check if it’s still there, he is thinking, when he has an idea and steps back into the elevator. Thirty seconds later, the elevator, empty now, hums to a halt again, and as the door starts to open Bliss, out of breath, bursts out of the doorway from the emergency staircase further along the ground floor corridor.
    The apartment door slams with enough force to shake the walls, but not fast enough to prevent him from glimpsing a long-haired woman. Youngish, he thinks, and blond; it’s more an impression than an accurate assessment, but it’s a start, and he resolves to try again later when she’s lost her jumpiness.
    The early morning beach still tingles with the freshness of dawn, and the lazy swell gently sighs as it falls onto the shore. Parallel lines pattern the sand where students have earned their croissants and coffee, raking away all trace of the previous day’s fun in the sun before taking up their posts as mattress purveyors and beach waiters. A serious-faced couple wearing headphones swing metal detectors ahead of them as they search sightlessly for yesterday’s pocket change.
    Bliss has hardly taken in the scene when his quarry rushes breathlessly along the beach. “He’s gone. He’s gone,” screeches Marcia, her silk scarf still flying.
    â€œSlow down — slow down,” he implores. “Who’s gone? Why are you telling