Anything Considered by Peter Mayle Page A

slanting sun of early evening warm on theirshoulders, a whisper of breeze coming off the Mediterranean. Bennett’s suggestion of dinner on the terrace had been welcomed. Susie said she didn’t want to go public in Monaco anyway, not with all those bronzed bimbos, until she’d got some color. As the car rolled sedately up the hill to the Place du Casino, he thought how well things were turning out. So often, old flames were best left to simmer in the memory. This one was going to be different.
    Bennett let Susie into the apartment and staggered in after her with the bags.
    “Well,” he said, “will this do? A poor, modest place, but at least it’s home.” He slid open the terrace door. “Not a bad view, is it?”
    Susie looked to the west, where the sun was beginning its spectacular dip into the sea. “Brilliant,” she said. She turned and smiled at him. “You
have
done well. Is this all yours?”
    “Sort of. Well, for the next six months, at least. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you over dinner.”
    They went downstairs, and Susie immediately fell in love with the enormous bathroom, fingering the thick pile of monogrammed towels and the cut-glass bottles of bath essence from Grasse, inspecting three different views of herself in the mirrored walls, exclaiming with delight as Bennett pointed out the speakers set in each corner of the room.
    “Heaven,” she said. “I think I’m going to have a musical bath while you do something manly and useful in the kitchen.”
    Bennett had been hoping to do something manly in thebathroom, but he put thoughts of a hygienic romp aside for the moment, telling himself there would be plenty of time later. He would be the perfect host, patient and considerate. “I’ll take care of the music,” he said, “and champagne will be served in five minutes. How about that?”
    She blew him a kiss and bent over to turn on the bathwater. With a last appreciative glance at her shapely and indisputably well-exercised rear view, Bennett went upstairs, put a Brahms symphony on the stereo, and was on his way to the refrigerator and the champagne when he heard the buzzer sound at the front door.
    Through the peephole, Bennett saw a man’s dark face above a rumpled shirt collar and a crooked tie, his eyes flicking from side to side. Bennett opened the door. Before he could say anything, the man thrust an attaché case at him.
“C’est pour Monsieur Poe, d’accord?”
He turned, and stabbed at the elevator button, anxious to be away. Bennett stood in the doorway with the case. He could smell the man’s sweat. Delivering packages for Julian Poe seemed to be a nerve-racking occupation.
    Bennett shrugged and closed the door. He looked at the case, a slim rectangle of ribbed aluminum with a small combination lock set under the carrying handle. Probably Poe’s pocket money for the weekend. Bennett tried the clasps and wasn’t surprised to find them locked. It was none of his business, anyway. He put the case on the hall table, so he could give it to Shimo without inviting him in, and went back to the kitchen, where the sink had somehow filled up with dirty glasses. Next week, he thought, hemust do something about a housekeeper. Rich men don’t do dishes.
    ——
    The two Italians in the travel-stained Fiat were becoming increasingly frustrated and irritable. There were no spaces near the apartment building, and every time they tried to double-park they were moved on by the same snotty Monaco cop, which forced them to keep circling the block. That’s why they’d missed him. It was only luck that they’d been passing the building when he came out, and saw him walking fast toward the underground parking garage on the far side of the Place du Casino.
    The driver slammed on his brakes. “
Merda!
That’s him.”
    The passenger, the younger and larger man of the two, with bulky shoulders that started at ear level, opened his door. “I’ll pick him up. No problem.”
    The driver shook his