FIC: Takes One to Know One (Ryan/Simon, R) 1/2
Author: Clio
Title: Takes One to Know One
Pairing: American Idol: Ryan Seacrest/Simon Cowell
Rating: R
Summary: Someone is using Simon Cowell's old methods to steal jewelry from the wealthy summering in the south of France, and only he has the skills to work out who is doing it and stop them before the police send him to jail instead. And rich young American Ryan Seacrest is a distraction he can't afford.
Length: 16,000 words in two parts
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Written for the reel_idol challenge and based on the film To Catch a Thief. Thanks to ignazwisdom for her amazing beta skills and general cheerleading!
For reasons that will become clear, Ryan's parents in this story are not Gary and Connie Seacrest; instead they are Ryan's mentor Merv Griffin and his companion Eva Gabor.
Also, I've changed the timing from the post-WWII 1950s of the film to the post-WWI 1920s. (In doing so, I have slightly altered the timeline of an actor referred to in the story.) Please note that because this story is based on a romantic caper film, it does not reflect the actual attitudes toward race and sexuality prevalent among the American expats on the French Riviera in the late 1920s. While the shift in time period from the restrictive 1950s to the relatively permissive 1920s allowed a bit more freedom (Ellen's cross-dressing, Ryan's all but open homosexuality, Merv's general eccentricity, Randy's position as a bandleader), the reader should no more take away from this story that these were the possibilities for gays, lesbians, women, Jews, and blacks in this place at this time than they should that the main character is in any way representative of jewel thieves in general.
May, 1927
Ryan Seacrest was bored. While he and his father had been spending all or part of the summer on the French Riviera for the past five years, ever since that horrible year Ryan's mother died, this year they were on the Continent for a much longer stay. Merv had been ordered by his doctors to slow down for his heart's sake, and Ryan was the only person who had any hope of making that happen. Griffin Pictures could get by without its fearless leader for a little while, though even at this distance Ryan was able to keep tabs on operations. He might be only twenty-five, but he was also Merv Griffin's son; he'd been raised to be a producer.
He looked up at the photograph of his mother smiling down at him from the side table, all blonde curls and big brown eyes. Eva would know what to do next, how to handle Merv, take care of him without his noticing. Ryan wanted to move on, as Paris just wasn't that interesting if one wasn't in love, full as it was of Americans soaking up culture and listening to the same jazz that, frankly, they could hear in Chicago or New York or even Los Angeles if they only dared to venture into the colored part of town. It was nearly summer anyway; time to be in some sun-and-fun locale.
Ryan flipped through the paper, restless. "Padre," he said, using the only father name Merv would answer to, "what do you say about heading to the Riviera a little early?"
Merv was lounging on the chaise in the sitting room of their hotel suite in his usual afternoon ensemble of caftan and embroidered slippers. "Hmm?" he asked. "Well, we've only been staying in the city so you could flirt with that boy of yours."
"Oh, he's not worth it," Ryan said, shaking his head.
"The city is a bit dead, it's true," Merv replied. "Let's go then."
"Great! I'll start packing," Ryan said, tossing the paper down on this chair.
Merv reached for it as Ryan pulled the cases out of the closet. "Did you see this?"
"What?" Ryan asked.
"Some cat burglar, a hero who'd been paroled after the Great War, is up to his old tricks in the hotels near Nice," Merv said, reading. "Says here he's quite a handsome man, too."
"Really? I hadn't read that far."
Merv raised his eyebrows. "Like hell. Who do you think you're talking to, kiddo?"
Ryan grinned sheepishly. "Well, at least there'll be some excitement."
Simon Cowell was having a rotten day. Some idiot was using Simon's old methods to steal jewels from the wealthy revelers in Nice, which not only got Simon's name back in the paper but also got the police on his back, and he'd had to spend the better part of the morning shaking them off. He headed to the waterfront restaurant of an old war buddy, expecting sympathy, and was met instead with hostility. Even Randy, one of his closest pals during the war, gave him the cold shoulder! Well, Simon was going to put a stop to this nonsense directly.
He made his way through the lunch crowd to the office in the back. Sitting behind the desk was Kara, a slim, good-looking brunette who could pass for twenty-five if she chose to, but Simon knew she was actually on the other side of forty. Her straight hair was cropped short, her lips stained a deep crimson, and she had on one of those patterned kimonos that so many working women wore, but which Simon just found odd, as though she were wearing a Chinese screen. She looked up as he came in.
"Well, if it isn't my old friend Simon. I wasn't expecting you to actually come here." She sat back from the desk, crossing her legs.
"I can tell," Simon said, sitting down in front of her. "My reception has been decidedly chilly."
"Why are you surprised?" she asked. "Your going back to your old ways makes us all look bad."
"Me? I haven't gone back to anything!"
"No?" she asked. "You sure about that?"
"Of course I'm sure," he said. "I'm being set up."
She shrugged. "Spoken like a guilty man. How many of us didn't say the same thing when we were caught by the police? Remember, Simon, we didn't get pardoned for all that intelligence work we did in the war. We were paroled, and those paroles can be taken back at any time. We don't keep our noses clean, it's right back to the hoosegow." She looked past him, out the window of her office. "Those kids out there just want the same rules applied to you as apply to them for working here."
"I work just as hard as they do," Simon said.
"Oh, up in that villa of yours?" she asked. "Growing grapes and flowers?"
"Don't be sarcastic. Farming is hard work."
"Still, if they don't stay out of trouble I'll kick them out. What would happen to you?"
"Need I remind you that I spent the morning evading the police?" he asked. "I'm no more interested in returning to jail than you are."
"Fine, you're the innocent victim," Kara said, throwing up her hands. "What do you want me to do about it?"
Simon thought for a moment. "It has to be someone we know, someone from our unit in the war. Someone who knows all my methods, all my secrets. This new cat burglar has been climbing up onto the roofs, coming down through the skylights, just as I did. And they've been choosing their targets very carefully-only the best jewels."
"But they could also be someone who studied you. You know none of the other men could match you, even when you'd trained them yourself."
Simon looked up. "That's it!"
"What?" Kara asked.
"I'm the only one who can anticipate his next move and catch him in the act. I find him on a rooftop with his pockets full of jewels and you'll have to believe me. You and the police both."
Kara raised an eyebrow. "You really think you can do that?" she asked. "It's quite a risk."
"It's better than running from the police," he said. "But he's so far ahead of me. That kind of knowledge takes months to put together-who has the jewels worth taking, where they live, what their habits are."
"You know," Kara said, "there was someone here in the restaurant yesterday, asking those kinds of questions. I didn't like the look of them."
"Really?" Simon asked. "Who were they?"
"They said they were from some insurance company, but that's an easy cover, isn't it?"
Simon tapped his fingers on his knee. "Do you think you could arrange a meeting for me?"
"Do you think that's wise?" she asked.
"It's a place to start."
Kara shrugged. "I suppose what helps you, helps us, right? We don't need the police here any more than you do." She looked out her window at the restaurant, then sat up. "Speaking of which …"
Simon ducked down, out of sight of her office window. "They're here?"
"Yep," Kara said.
Randy lumbered into the room then. He'd never been particularly light on his feet, but his war injuries made him even slower moving. "We gotta get him out of here," he said, indicating Simon with a tilt of the head but still refusing to look at him. Simon shook his head-if his old friends really did believe he was up to his old tricks, he was in a worse position than he'd thought.
Kara looked at Simon, then back at Randy. "Take him out the back and down to the wine cellar. Paula's down there; she can take him out in the speedboat." To Simon she said, "Wait at the beach club at Cannes. I'll call with the details of the meeting."
"Thanks, Kara," Simon said, shaking her hand.
Randy stared at her for a moment, then nodded. "All right, Cowell, come on."
As they walked down the stairs Simon said, "Randy, I haven't stolen a thing since before the war. You have to believe me."
"Cowell," Randy said, not looking at him, "I'm only helping you now because if the cops find you here, it's our asses. No other reason. Got it?"
Simon sighed. "Got it."
"Paula?" Randy called out.
Paula was sitting in front of one of the wine casks, making some notes on a clipboard. She was tiny, a little older than Kara, with a chestnut bob and the muscular body of the dancer she had once been. "What's he doing here?" she asked.
"Making trouble as usual," Randy said. "Kara says to take him to Cannes."
Paula scowled. "Fine, but I wish you all would remember that I'm not a taxi driver." She pulled on a cloche hat and tugged at Simon's arm. "Hurry up. You want to get away from them, don't you?"
Paula steered them away from the restaurant and out into the open water, zooming along at a high speed. She was just as silent and sullen as the rest had been back at the restaurant, but even at this rate it would take them a good half hour to get to Cannes, and Simon doubted that Paula would be able to stay silent for the entire trip. For his part, he was mostly content to rest a bit and enjoy the view of the mountains dropping down into the blue waters of the Mediterranean, their slopes dotted with red tile roofs.
Paula picked up speed, crashing through the wake of another boat. "Oi," Simon said. "You're splashing me."
"I'm sorry," Paula said, grinning. "I forgot that cats don't like water."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Paula. I'm not the Cat!"
"Of course you won't admit it," she said. "But look at you, all bright-eyed from running from the police. You miss the excitement."
"Of what, imminent incarceration?" Simon asked. "No thanks. I like my freedom just fine, even if it is conditional."
Paula looked him up and down. "But freedom isn't worth much without the money to enjoy it, is it? Don't tell me a flower garden pays for the upkeep on that villa of yours."
"It's honest work," Simon replied.
"But you could do better," Paula said, an eyebrow raised. "Plenty of American tourists in France these days to take advantage of. Isn't it an English tradition, giving an heiress a little class in return for her money? Not that you have much class to offer, but still."
"So I've moved from thief to gigolo, have I?"
"Take me in as a partner and you wouldn't have to."
"A partner? In what, growing a flower garden?"
"Fine, don't admit it. Though I would think that since I'm such an old friend you could trust me."
"You mean the wife of an old friend. Sometimes I think you forget that."
"There was a time when you forgot, too," she replied.
"Yes, well," Simon said, clearing his throat. "That was a long time ago-and before you were married to Randy, I might add."
They drove on in silence. "So," Paula said, casually, "I hear the Argentine is very romantic. Is that where you plan to go?"
"I'm not going anyplace," Simon said.
"I've always wanted to visit the Argentine," she said, dreamily. "I speak Spanish you know. And I can dance a mean tango."
"I'm sure you can," Simon replied dryly, "but I think we're out of step."
"And you know how good I am at fencing the goods."
Simon sighed. "Paula …"
"C'mon," she said, hitting him in the arm. "You know you need me."
"Perhaps I would-if I were climbing over rooftops again. Look, are there still suits down below deck?"
"Yes, why?"
"You pull in among the other boats and I'll swim to shore. We'll rouse less suspicion that way."
"See," she said, "you still have all the old instincts."
He shook his head. "Can I trust you to get me my clothes back?" he asked.
She rolled her eyes. "I think we're well past the clothes-stealing phase."
"No peeking now," he said as he went down the stairs.
"There's nothing there I haven't seen," she said.
Simon swam to shore without incident and settled in one of the unoccupied beach chairs. Sunbathing was a new craze at Cannes, brought to France from California by a young, wealthy American couple who'd also made summering on the Riviera fashionable-until a few years ago, the coast had been only a winter destination. Chairs lined the beach at Cannes, some shaded by umbrellas but most not, as the sunbathers worked on their tans. It was strange; when he was young the wealthy kept out of the sun and wanted to be as pale as possible because a tan was the sign of a worker. Now the idle rich were as tanned, or even more, as he was from working outside all day.
On the chaise next to him was just such a specimen: a young, blondish man, American by the look of him, and a dandy at that. He wore sunglasses and a skimpy suit well suited for both showing off his trim figure and keeping up his deep tan. Simon grinned a little to himself, seeing the obvious sugar daddy sitting on the other side of him. And just the type-wearing a bathing costume and robe of a particularly flamboyant and old-fashioned sort, sitting under a large umbrella and sipping a cold drink through a straw. Paula was wrong-it was that money wasn't worth the freedom you sacrificed, not the other way around. But then, the Riviera had been full of Americans for the last few years, fat and happy on their money from making obscure industrial products. Last season he'd met an exceedingly dull but immensely wealthy man whose factory made door handles for automobiles. This pair, however, looked to be in a somewhat more interesting line.
"Monsieur?"
Simon looked up to see the cabana attendant, a sometime employee of Kara's. "Yes?"
"Telephone for you."
"Thank you," Simon said, leaving behind the Americans.
Kara said her part quickly. "Your contact will meet you at the flower market at two this afternoon. I said you'd be tossing a coin."
"Got it," Simon said, and she rang off. He stood for a moment, wondering what to do next, when the attendant approached him again.
"You will find your clothes in cabana three, monsieur," he said.
Simon nodded. Paula always did move quickly when she had a mind to.
Simon leaned against a lamp post in one corner of the market, tossing a coin and feeling rather ridiculous, not to mention uncomfortably conspicuous for a man currently evading the police. A slight blond man in a double-breasted blue suit and matching hat looked at him and asked, "Tryin' to see if it's fixed?"
"Fixed?" Simon asked.
The man moved closer, smiling broadly in that particularly American way. "Yeah, you know, seeing if it comes up even heads and tails. Anyway, I'm E.L. Degeneres, pleased to meet ya."
Simon took the offered hand and though the handshake was firm, the hand itself was quite small. He looked again. "She didn't tell me that you're-"
"American? Yeah," Degeneres replied. "But I work for Lloyds of London. Out of the Los Angeles office. Lots of Americans in France this summer. Kind of a headache if you ask me. Florida or California have beaches just as nice."
"No. I mean, yes, clearly you're an American," Simon said, "but she didn't tell me that you're a woman."
"Oh," she said. "Yeah. A lot of people miss that."
"I'm sure it's simply her idea of a joke," Simon replied, rolling his eyes. "So you're an insurance man-er, woman?"
"Yep. Kara said you wanted to use your know-how to catch the fellow who's been aping your style."
"That's about the size of it," Simon said. "I wonder if you'd take a risk on me, Miss Degeneres?"
"Ellen, please. I dunno, it's a bad risk, if you know what I'm saying. I got a good job and a good wife and I wanna keep both of them."
"A wife?" Simon asked. "How did you manage that?"
"Well, in a manner of speaking Portia is my wife," Ellen said, "but only in a manner of speaking."
"Then you could be my partner in a manner of speaking, couldn't you?" he asked. "After all, what do you have to lose? The main office would only know if I fail."
"That is what I have to lose."
"Well, you're the insurance man. I suppose you know best when a possible gain isn't worth the risk." He smiled. "Have fun paying all those claims," he said, and started to walk away.
"Wait," Ellen said, touching his arm.
He turned toward her and raised one eyebrow.
"Okay, so maybe you have a point. I suppose we could work together, unofficially."
"Brilliant," Simon said. "I thought you'd see it that way, given that I'm the one actually taking all the risks."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"If I fail, I go back to jail," he said.
Ellen looked at him for a long moment. "Only an honest man would be such an idiot," she said.
"And there you have me." Simon looked up and noticed a policeman following them at a somewhat less than discreet distance. "I'm afraid I'll have to cut our conversation short," he said, starting to walk a bit more quickly.
"What do you need from me?" Ellen asked.
"A list of the top five or so prospects, with all the details you can think of."
"Details of the pieces?"
"That, but also their residences, their habits, all that sort of thing." He started to move faster. "I'll contact you?"
Ellen slowed down. "I'm staying at the Carlisle!" she shouted.
Simon waved, then cut through a side alley in the market, evading the policeman who was following him-but running smack into his partner. "You have to admit, it was a good chase while it lasted," he said as they took him away.
The police could only keep him for an hour or so, and as soon as they let him go Simon called Ellen and invited her to cocktails at his home. Simon's villa was a modest one, despite what Kara or Paula liked to imply. It was too far up the hill and had too few bedrooms to be fashionable, but it was enough for him to live in comfortably, and the terraced property was perfect for growing the grapes and flowers that paid his bills. And after all the years of ingratiating himself into first London and then Paris society, then prison and then the war, he liked having a bit of isolation, a retreat of sorts. He still had a good eye for pretty things, and his villa was well set up, but with finds from local markets and other inexpensive trinkets that had appealed to him. It was as though after the war he'd rediscovered the modest tastes of his youth.
"Beautiful place you've got here," Ellen said, looking down the hillside at the lights and the ocean below. She was wearing another suit, a black evening suit this time, and Simon wondered if she only wore men's clothing.
"You like it?" Simon asked, cocktail shaker in hand.
"It's the sort of home a person dreams of retiring to in his old age," she replied.
"Well, I'm not that old yet," Simon said.
"So the cops couldn't keep you, huh?" she asked.
"Not enough evidence," he said. "I think they're hoping they'll catch me in the act." He handed her a martini.
"Thank you." She sipped her drink. "Oh, lovely. That's one advantage of being in France, at least-real booze."
Simon chuckled. "All these Americans are just fleeing prohibition, is that it?"
"Something like that. And what brought you to France?"
"Other than a few outstanding warrants?" he asked. "Yes, I began my illustrious career in London, but I was young and not quite as successful. By the time I arrived in Paris, I'd honed my craft, so to speak."
Ellen raised her eyebrows. "You're pretty unapologetic," she said.
Simon shrugged. "What's done is done," he said. "I went to jail. I worked intelligence in the war and earned my parole. If there's any excuse to be had, I only stole from those who could afford it. As you well know."
"So you were a sort of Robin Hood?"
"Of course not," Simon said. "I wanted that posh life I saw around me and in the newspapers. I'd started out as a sort of aspiring impresario, backing singers on their tours, but it turns out that most show people don't make much money."
"And you expect everyone to believe you've turned over a new leaf now?" she asked.
"I'm not so stupid to risk my freedom for a little bit of money," he said. "It's all well and good when you don't think you can be caught, but once you have been-well, let's say jail is a pretty powerful deterrent, at least for me. I am old enough to no longer think of myself as invincible."
"But you think you can catch your copy-cat?" she asked, then started to laugh. "Ha, copy-cat, get it?" she asked, nudging him with her elbow.
Simon scowled. "It's one thing to evade every policeman in Europe. Quite another to catch just one thief, especially when one can anticipate his movements, since he's a carbon copy of oneself. Besides, I'm tired of getting a visit from the local constable every time a bracelet goes missing."
"Must be frustrating," she said.
"Indeed." He picked up the shaker and poured them both another drink. "So, the list?"
Ellen pulled a sheet of paper from her inside jacket pocket. "One thing," she said. "I told the police about your plan."
Simon shrugged. "I suppose honesty is as much of a habit as dishonesty," he said. "I'm sure they were unamused."
"Not a bit," she said. "They were all for it. They think you'll make a mistake, and then they'll have their evidence."
"That doesn't surprise me," Simon replied. "Since we have their blessing, the list?"
Ellen handed him the paper and Simon looked it over carefully.
"Well done, Ellen," he said. "Wish I'd known someone in insurance back when I was stealing. Took me months to get similar information." He continued to read. "I'll start with this pair at the top, the film magnate and his son."
"I'm having a late supper with them this evening. I could introduce you."
Simon grinned, shaking his head. "Ellen, please. We can't do this sort of thing on the level."
Ryan sat at dinner with Merv and their insurance agent, Ellen, who'd become a good friend in the last few years. Ryan had been relieved to find that she was in France, looking after her American clients. She was always good for a joke or some fun, unlike the often-stuffy Brits who looked down their noses at someone as unconcerned with appearances as Merv Griffin was. Even Ryan sometimes winced a little at Merv's outfits and jeweled cravats and loud laughter, but it kept the worst of the fortune hunters well away. And at least Merv was no phony.
"Ooh," Merv said. "What about him? Better than the boys you're usually staring at, eh, Ryan?"
Ryan looked up. The restaurant was nearly empty, so it wasn't difficult to spot the man in a tuxedo striding confidently across the room to the door. He was small, barrel-chested, dark haired with a tan. "He's all right," Ryan said.
"He's more than that," Merv said. "Look how he moves. Like a panther."
"Maybe he's the Cat," Ryan said, smiling.
"Oh, I don't know about that," Ellen said quickly.
Ryan cocked his head. "Thefts making you nervous?"
"The Home Office never likes paying settlements," Ellen said. "The entire point is to avoid the risk. For example, if you left some of your jewelry in the hotel safe, Mr. Griffin."
"Nope," Merv said. "I worked hard for these gems, and I like watching them sparkle. If I was gonna leave them in the safe, what's the point in buying them in the first place?"
Ryan patted his hand. "That's right, Padre. You tell 'em."
The waiter approached with the check then. "Don't even think about reaching for your wallet," Merv said to Ellen, signing his room number at the bottom. "Now you deserve some fun since you put up with me so well. Let's hit that casino, my treat," Merv said, rising.
"Oh, no need, Mr. Griffin," she said. "It's really a pleasure."
"Not everyone likes to gamble, Padre," Ryan said.
"Aw, hell, Ryan," Merv said. "As vices go it's actually relatively cheap. Better than some gigolo taking it all and leaving me broken-hearted, or spending it all on cocaine and not remembering the party the next day. No, at least I'll know exactly where my money is going, and have the fun of watching it go there."
"But there aren't any horses here," Ryan said. "And I won't let you play poker with strangers."
"Blackjack?" Merv asked.
"No cards," Ryan said, firmly.
"I'm starting to like roulette, actually," Merv replied. "Completely does away with any pretense of skill."
In the casino they saw the man from the dining room, and of course Merv became distracted. "How about craps?" he asked, making a beeline for the table.
"I should have said 'no dice,'" Ryan muttered to Ellen.
Merv got to the table and looked over the other players, then put his bet down.
It was the handsome man's turn to shoot the dice. "So a seven or an eleven, eh?" he said in an English accent. "I'm still trying to work out how this is different from what I played in the alleys of London as a boy."
Merv grinned. "Chances are it isn't," he said.
"Oh, well," the man replied with a smile. "Why didn't they say so in the first place?" He flicked his hand, and threw a neat seven.
"Well done," Merv said.
"Thank you," the man said, and shot the dice again. The others around the table cheered as he won for the table.
"Well," Merv said.
Ryan watched as the man continued to win. A crowd was gathering but he paid little attention to that, keeping his eyes on his dice and the table. After four more passes, he handed the dice over and threw up his hands. "I still have money because I know when to quit," he said, and the crowd applauded him. He grinned and took a little bow, his dark eyes sparkling.
Merv picked up his chips, which had tripled thanks to the man's efforts. "Let me buy you a drink," Merv said to him, "since you won me this money."
"I think you brought me luck," the man replied. "Or confidence, anyway." He shook Merv's hand. "Name's Leach."
"Mine's Griffin," Merv said. He put an arm around Leach. "Come on, let's get a cocktail," he said, and led him to the bar. "Isn't often we find a fellow bootstrapper around these parts."
"Bootstrapper?" Leach asked as they found a table.
"You know, self-made man," Merv said. "Not many Brits who can afford to stay on the Riviera played craps in alleyways when they were a kid."
"I suppose not," Leach replied. "But whether I can afford to stay here or not, I don't run with those crowds. Bright young things are a bit too young for me, and anyway, I haven't a title. I'm just in trade."
"They don't have much time for an old vaudevillian turned Hollywood man either," Merv said, "but they'll take to Ryan all right, as long as I stay out of the picture."
"C'mon, Padre," Ryan said. "They think you're a scream and you know it."
"I'm sure they do," Leach said.
The waiter arrived, and after Ellen and Ryan asked for martinis, Merv ordered his usual Manhattan.
"Make that two," Leach said.
Merv turned. "Well, never knew a Brit to drink bourbon, either," Merv said. "But I like to know that I'm drinking."
"I've always preferred whiskey," Leach said smoothly. "So you two are father and son?"
"Ryan favors his mother," Merv said, "and good thing, too. Never known a girl who belonged on that stage as much as she did."
"And is the younger Mr. Griffin also in show business?" Leach asked.
"Seacrest, actually," Ryan said. "Took my mother's name after she passed. Didn't want to trade on the padre's reputation."
"That's very admirable," Leach said, and Ryan inclined his head in response.
"Eva was a real lady," Merv said. "It's a shame she didn't get to appreciate our success." He took a drag of his cigarette. "We met in vaudeville, you see-"
Ryan interrupted, "I'm sure that Mr. Leach-"
"No, no," Leach said. "I'd love to hear about her."
Merv smiled. "Eva was a glowing thing. Just lit up that stage. And the camera loved her. That was the beginning of everything, when we put her in that movie back in '08."
"Wait," Leach said, thinking. "Little Evie Seacrest? That was your mother?"
"Yep," Ryan replied.
"But she was just a girl," Leach said.
Ryan smiled. "She always played younger parts," he explained. "She was small and youthful-looking enough for the camera."
"Everyone loved her," Merv said. "She was the best hostess in Hollywood." He smiled, remembering. "But enough about that. What's your line, Leach?"
"Me?" he asked. "I have a little factory in England, makes door handles for automobiles."
"Doing well?" Merv asked.
"Very well," Leach replied. "I'm on holiday in France, aren't I?" He winked.
"Looking for a wife?" Merv asked.
"Well, I don't discriminate," Leach said.
"Oh really?" Merv replied, and he was almost purring.
Ryan dug his fingers into his knees under the table and turned to Ellen, who was trying not to laugh.
"Would you mind if I called Pinkerton's about you?" Merv asked.
"No," Leach replied, "but why would you need to have me investigated?"
"If I were Ryan's age," he said, "I'd think you were too good to be true. In fact, you must be, because you've barely looked at him since we sat down."
Leach looked at Ryan appraisingly, and Ryan could have sworn he felt a vibration, a hum of electricity. He concentrated on keeping his expression neutral. "He is quite a handsome man," Leach replied.
"Why thank you," Ryan said. "And thanks, Padre, but I can find my own playmates."
"Yes, you've done very well so far," Merv replied, not quite rolling his eyes.
Ryan shifted in his chair. "It's getting late," he said. "Better get your beauty sleep, so Mr. Leach will keep coming around."
"I'm pretty sure he isn't here for me, kiddo," Merv replied, "but you're right. Let's toddle off."
Ellen said goodnight at the elevator, but Leach insisted on escorting Ryan and Merv to their suite, even taking Merv's key.
"Quite the gentleman," Merv said as Leach unlocked the door. "Goodnight, young people."
"Goodnight," Leach said, then turned to Ryan. "Aren't you going in?"
"I'm on the other end," Ryan said, walking down to the next door. He opened it, then turned back to Leach and thought, why not? He reached up and pulled the man into a kiss. Leach was surprised, but he clearly knew his way around a kiss. Ryan did, too, and made sure Leach knew it.
He pulled away. "Good night, Mr. Leach."
Leach blinked. "Good night," he said.
Ryan closed the door, grinning to himself as he walked into his bedroom. "Leach, is it?" he whispered to himself. "Fine, if that's how you want to play it. But you're not going to con your way into the padre's jewels, Mr. Cowell. Not if I can help it."
Simon had to hand it to the kid-he was determined. To do what, he wasn't sure, but it took him a moment to shake off that kiss Ryan gave him. Then he snuck down the hallway to a door at the end that opened onto a balcony. Outside, he looked up at the roof, checking the access to Merv's room. It would be a pretty simple mark-plenty of hand holds to take you down from the roof to his window and back again, and just one policeman on patrol on the street below. Really, if they were so worried about a cat burglar, one would think they would put a few more men on the hotels. But that was French efficiency for you.
The next morning he woke to a summons from Ryan to come up to their suite, though when he arrived Ryan didn't appear to be up yet. Merv was full of news, however, and Ellen was with him.
"There's been another burglary," Merv said, all excitement.
"Really?" Simon asked.
"The wife of a government official," Ellen replied.
"How much?" Simon asked.
"Nearly fifty thousand American dollars," Ellen said. She turned to Merv. "This is why I'd like you to keep your jewels in the hotel safe," she said.
"And put the safe on my finger when I go out?" Merv asked. "No, I bought those jewels to wear them. If you don't like the risk, you shouldn't have insured them. I can't help it if some silly burglar has named himself after an animal."
"Of course we'll pay you," Ellen said, "but we can't replace the sentiment."
"Please," Merv said, waving a hand. "Those jewels are just to attract attention, get the kid in places they might not accept an aging song and dance man. You heard him last night. I make myself into a character, and the kids think I'm a scream, instead of merely vulgar."
"I know I've only known you a day, Mr. Griffin," Simon said, "but you are far from vulgar."
"That's what I keep telling him," Ryan said as he came into the room from his adjoining suite, "but he just won't believe me. Hello, Ellen. You look worried."
"There was another burglary last night," she replied.
"Oh really?" Ryan asked, looking at Simon. "The Cat strikes again."
"It would seem so," Simon said, returning his even stare. "So, you sent for me, Mr. Seacrest?"
"I did," Ryan said, smiling. "I thought we might go for a swim, or just sunbathing if that's too much for you. It's the latest thing."
"I think I can manage to stay afloat," Simon replied. "I'll just go get my trunks and meet you downstairs."
"Perfect," Ryan said.
"Say, Leach," Ellen said.
"Yes?" Simon replied.
"Um, watcha doin' this afternoon?" she asked, giving him a light punch in the shoulder.
"What? Oh, I have a list here from my realtor of some furnished villas for rent," he said, pulling the list of potential targets Ellen had given him from his inside jacket pocket. "I'm going to take a look at them after lunch. Some of them apparently have roofs that need careful inspection."
Ellen's expression didn't change, to her credit. "Sounds like a plan!" she said.
Ryan kept him waiting a bit in the lobby, which didn't surprise Simon, so he went to the desk to drop off his key. "You have a message, monsieur," the attendant said, and handed him an envelope. Inside was a sheet of hotel paper, and written in block printing:
Cowell,
You've used up 8 of your lives. Don't risk the 9th. Go while the going is good.
"Guess I'm getting close," Simon said to himself as he ripped up the message.
"Bad news, Leach?" Ryan asked, walking toward him.
"Just business," Simon said. "And nothing important. You'd think they'd realize I'm on holiday." He looked up and saw that Ryan was in a rather snug shirt that stretched across his shoulders and chest, and crisp white pleated trousers-just the fashion, but Simon had rarely seen anyone wear it quite so well.
Ryan raised his eyebrows. "Well, shall we?"
"Indeed," Simon said, walking through the lobby with him. Women-and some men-stared at Ryan, who bore it all as though he were used to it. Perhaps he was.
They changed into their trunks in the cabana, and when Ryan emerged in trunks and sunglasses Simon realized why he'd seemed familiar-he and Merv had been the Americans next to him on the beach the morning before. Of course Merv looked very different in evening wear than in his beach caftan and truth be told, he hadn't been looking at the young man's face at the time. But he also realized how much he'd been drawn in by Ryan's green eyes-the young man was much more difficult to read with his sunglasses on.
Ryan looked him up and down. "You're more muscular than you look," he said.
Simon inclined his head. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"It is," Ryan said. "Do you want an umbrella?"
"No, no," Simon replied. "I like basking in the sun."
Ryan grinned. "I bet you do," he said.
They found two chairs right at the water, and settled into them. A silence fell, more charged than awkward, and Simon found it difficult to keep from just staring at Ryan. He had no doubt that was precisely what Ryan wanted, but somehow he didn't want to give him the satisfaction. Not yet, anyway.
Only a few minutes later he noticed Paula, standing by the cabanas and waving to him, then swimming to the float a few feet out from the beach. Simon got up and asked Ryan if he'd like a swim, and to his relief Ryan shook his head and waved him off.
Paula was lying on the float when he reached it. "What the hell, Paula?"
She grinned. "That was some score you pulled off last night, Simon," she said.
"All in a night's work," Simon replied.
"And already today you're working on your next target, I see," Paula said.
"What makes you think I'm not interested in him for his looks?" Simon asked.
"Because then you'd have to spend your money to keep him," Paula replied, "and he doesn't look like the type to be understanding about your night job."
"I'd say he's more of a useful friend than he looks," Simon said.
"You know, your old friends at the restaurant were very unhappy that the police had to let you go yesterday."
"Unsurprising, as I'm sure one of them tipped off the police about the meeting at the flower market in the first place."
"Please," Paula said, "they would never say anything to the police. They hate the police almost as much as they hate you."
"Well, someone told them."
"Still, they would love it if you were caught at your next job."
"Nice to know I still have friends," Simon said.
"Maybe it would be better if you were caught. In the kitchen they are wondering if it wouldn't be better for them if something happened to you. Those roofs are awfully high, you know."
"Lovely," Simon said. "My old friends want me dead, the police want me in jail, and the Cat wants me out of town."
"Out of town?" she asked.
"Yes, I got a message from him today, warning me away."
"Then why stay, with so many people after you? Come to the Argentine with me, and I'll be the only one after you."
"Sounds dangerous either way," Simon said.
"I hope so," Paula said with a leer.
"Do remember that you are married to a friend of mine," Simon replied.
Paula sat back, scowling. "Simon, I'm serious-if you pull off another job they'll do something to you. They're determined not to go back to jail."
"Duly noted. But I'd better get back."
Paula looked at Ryan, still lying in his chair. "What would you want with him anyway?" she asked. "He's so … typical. And you don't need his money."
"Actually, he's not typical at all," Simon said. "He's a lot smarter than he looks."
"Why would you want to start all over with someone new," she asked, "when you can already have me? We all know how much you hate courting."
"A man likes unchartered territory," Simon replied. "Or at least someplace that doesn't have prior claims." He turned to go, and noticed the chair was now empty. "Now you've done it. He's wandered off."
"Or wandered in," Ryan said, swimming up to them. "I thought I'd come out and see what the big attraction was."
"Oh," Simon said, thinking quickly. "Miss, ah, you didn't tell me your name."
Paula slipped off the float to tread water next to them. "Paula Abdul."
"Miss Abdul, Mr. Seacrest," Simon said, and they shook hands.
"Pleased to meet you, Miss Abdul," Ryan said. "Mr. Leach has told me so little about you."
"Well, ah, we only just met a few minutes ago," Simon said.
"Yes, just now on the float," Paula said.
"Only a few minutes ago?" Ryan asked. "And you talk like old friends. Well, they do say we Americans are friendly, don't they, Miss Abdul?"
"I was thinking of renting a motorboat," Simon said. "Ryan, would you like me to teach you how to drive a one?"
"Thanks, but I've won the speedboat races at Catalina Island three years running," he replied.
"Well, it was just an idea," Simon replied.
Ryan cocked his head. "Are you sure you were talking about speedboats?" he asked. "Looked to me like Miss Abdul was starting a very different sort of race."
Paula scowled.
"Say something nice to him, Paula," Simon said.
Paula regarded him. "He looks even more ordinary, up close," she said.
Simon turned to Ryan.
"Better than being obvious about one's charms," Ryan replied.
"Obvious?" Paula said. "Why don't you swim a little closer and say that again?"
Simon tried to keep from smirking and failed.
"Having a nice time, are you, Leach?" Ryan asked.
"The sun is very nice," Simon replied.
"Well, it's too much for me. I'm going in. I'll see you at the hotel." Ryan turned and swam back in.
"Thanks, Paula, that was very helpful," Simon said.
Paula just smiled. "You know I'm right," she said. "Keep going after that boy, or his daddy's jewels, and you'll end up dead or in jail."
"I'll take my chances," Simon replied.
He went to the cabana and changed, and as he slipped on his jacket he noticed that the list in his pocket was a bit more crumpled than before. He took it out, and there was a distinct wet fingermark on the paper for which he was sure he was not responsible. He handed the cabana key back to the attendant-the same young man who'd been there the day before. Worried, he walked back to the hotel, to see Ryan standing just outside in his third outfit of the day-trousers, a shirt and a sleeveless sweater, all in varying shades of deep green.
"Do you have time for me now?" he asked.
Simon winced. "I'm sorry I was so long out there at the float."
Ryan shrugged. "I've known you for a day. I have no claims of ownership."
"Yes, well," Simon said. "How about cocktails? Six o'clock?"
"Oh, we can talk about that on the way," Ryan replied.
"On the way to what?"
"Well, to rent you a villa," Ryan said, smiling.
Simon crossed his arms. "Renting a villa is a personal decision-"
"I have my car right here," Ryan went on, "and a picnic lunch with chicken and beer."
"No, I can't take advantage of you like that. It's bound to be a tiring trip over all those mountain roads-"
"That I know like the back of my hand," Ryan said. "We've been coming here for years. And I'm from California. Any excuse to drive is good for me."
"I was going to hire an English-speaking chauffeur."
"Now you've got a French-speaking one, too," Ryan replied.
Simon sighed. "It appears you've thought of everything."
"I usually do," Ryan said. "I'm a very good planner."
"I see that. Well, no sense in resisting any further."
Ryan led Simon to a small blue two-seater parked just next to the hotel.
"A French car?" Simon asked.
"Yeah, it's our one big indulgence, keeping a car on the continent," he replied. "But I love driving, and Merv loves being driven, so there you go. I'm sorry these aren't your door handles."
"Well, no, they wouldn't be," Simon said, deftly avoiding Ryan's little trap. "What with the Citroen bodies being American-made and all."
"Exactly," Ryan said, pulling on a pair of soft leather driving gloves. "Merv has a cap and goggles in the glove box if you want them. I'll warn you, I drive pretty fast."
"I'm sure I'll be just fine," Simon said.
"Great. I like feeling the wind in my hair myself, and it's warm enough today that we can do without overcoats I think. Where is our first stop?" he asked.
Simon pulled out the list, holding it at an angle so Ryan couldn't read it. "Avenue Albert Ler," he replied.
Ryan looked at him for a moment. "I know exactly where that is," he said, and pulled out onto the street.
Part Two
Title: Takes One to Know One
Pairing: American Idol: Ryan Seacrest/Simon Cowell
Rating: R
Summary: Someone is using Simon Cowell's old methods to steal jewelry from the wealthy summering in the south of France, and only he has the skills to work out who is doing it and stop them before the police send him to jail instead. And rich young American Ryan Seacrest is a distraction he can't afford.
Length: 16,000 words in two parts
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Written for the reel_idol challenge and based on the film To Catch a Thief. Thanks to ignazwisdom for her amazing beta skills and general cheerleading!
For reasons that will become clear, Ryan's parents in this story are not Gary and Connie Seacrest; instead they are Ryan's mentor Merv Griffin and his companion Eva Gabor.
Also, I've changed the timing from the post-WWII 1950s of the film to the post-WWI 1920s. (In doing so, I have slightly altered the timeline of an actor referred to in the story.) Please note that because this story is based on a romantic caper film, it does not reflect the actual attitudes toward race and sexuality prevalent among the American expats on the French Riviera in the late 1920s. While the shift in time period from the restrictive 1950s to the relatively permissive 1920s allowed a bit more freedom (Ellen's cross-dressing, Ryan's all but open homosexuality, Merv's general eccentricity, Randy's position as a bandleader), the reader should no more take away from this story that these were the possibilities for gays, lesbians, women, Jews, and blacks in this place at this time than they should that the main character is in any way representative of jewel thieves in general.
May, 1927
Ryan Seacrest was bored. While he and his father had been spending all or part of the summer on the French Riviera for the past five years, ever since that horrible year Ryan's mother died, this year they were on the Continent for a much longer stay. Merv had been ordered by his doctors to slow down for his heart's sake, and Ryan was the only person who had any hope of making that happen. Griffin Pictures could get by without its fearless leader for a little while, though even at this distance Ryan was able to keep tabs on operations. He might be only twenty-five, but he was also Merv Griffin's son; he'd been raised to be a producer.
He looked up at the photograph of his mother smiling down at him from the side table, all blonde curls and big brown eyes. Eva would know what to do next, how to handle Merv, take care of him without his noticing. Ryan wanted to move on, as Paris just wasn't that interesting if one wasn't in love, full as it was of Americans soaking up culture and listening to the same jazz that, frankly, they could hear in Chicago or New York or even Los Angeles if they only dared to venture into the colored part of town. It was nearly summer anyway; time to be in some sun-and-fun locale.
Ryan flipped through the paper, restless. "Padre," he said, using the only father name Merv would answer to, "what do you say about heading to the Riviera a little early?"
Merv was lounging on the chaise in the sitting room of their hotel suite in his usual afternoon ensemble of caftan and embroidered slippers. "Hmm?" he asked. "Well, we've only been staying in the city so you could flirt with that boy of yours."
"Oh, he's not worth it," Ryan said, shaking his head.
"The city is a bit dead, it's true," Merv replied. "Let's go then."
"Great! I'll start packing," Ryan said, tossing the paper down on this chair.
Merv reached for it as Ryan pulled the cases out of the closet. "Did you see this?"
"What?" Ryan asked.
"Some cat burglar, a hero who'd been paroled after the Great War, is up to his old tricks in the hotels near Nice," Merv said, reading. "Says here he's quite a handsome man, too."
"Really? I hadn't read that far."
Merv raised his eyebrows. "Like hell. Who do you think you're talking to, kiddo?"
Ryan grinned sheepishly. "Well, at least there'll be some excitement."
Simon Cowell was having a rotten day. Some idiot was using Simon's old methods to steal jewels from the wealthy revelers in Nice, which not only got Simon's name back in the paper but also got the police on his back, and he'd had to spend the better part of the morning shaking them off. He headed to the waterfront restaurant of an old war buddy, expecting sympathy, and was met instead with hostility. Even Randy, one of his closest pals during the war, gave him the cold shoulder! Well, Simon was going to put a stop to this nonsense directly.
He made his way through the lunch crowd to the office in the back. Sitting behind the desk was Kara, a slim, good-looking brunette who could pass for twenty-five if she chose to, but Simon knew she was actually on the other side of forty. Her straight hair was cropped short, her lips stained a deep crimson, and she had on one of those patterned kimonos that so many working women wore, but which Simon just found odd, as though she were wearing a Chinese screen. She looked up as he came in.
"Well, if it isn't my old friend Simon. I wasn't expecting you to actually come here." She sat back from the desk, crossing her legs.
"I can tell," Simon said, sitting down in front of her. "My reception has been decidedly chilly."
"Why are you surprised?" she asked. "Your going back to your old ways makes us all look bad."
"Me? I haven't gone back to anything!"
"No?" she asked. "You sure about that?"
"Of course I'm sure," he said. "I'm being set up."
She shrugged. "Spoken like a guilty man. How many of us didn't say the same thing when we were caught by the police? Remember, Simon, we didn't get pardoned for all that intelligence work we did in the war. We were paroled, and those paroles can be taken back at any time. We don't keep our noses clean, it's right back to the hoosegow." She looked past him, out the window of her office. "Those kids out there just want the same rules applied to you as apply to them for working here."
"I work just as hard as they do," Simon said.
"Oh, up in that villa of yours?" she asked. "Growing grapes and flowers?"
"Don't be sarcastic. Farming is hard work."
"Still, if they don't stay out of trouble I'll kick them out. What would happen to you?"
"Need I remind you that I spent the morning evading the police?" he asked. "I'm no more interested in returning to jail than you are."
"Fine, you're the innocent victim," Kara said, throwing up her hands. "What do you want me to do about it?"
Simon thought for a moment. "It has to be someone we know, someone from our unit in the war. Someone who knows all my methods, all my secrets. This new cat burglar has been climbing up onto the roofs, coming down through the skylights, just as I did. And they've been choosing their targets very carefully-only the best jewels."
"But they could also be someone who studied you. You know none of the other men could match you, even when you'd trained them yourself."
Simon looked up. "That's it!"
"What?" Kara asked.
"I'm the only one who can anticipate his next move and catch him in the act. I find him on a rooftop with his pockets full of jewels and you'll have to believe me. You and the police both."
Kara raised an eyebrow. "You really think you can do that?" she asked. "It's quite a risk."
"It's better than running from the police," he said. "But he's so far ahead of me. That kind of knowledge takes months to put together-who has the jewels worth taking, where they live, what their habits are."
"You know," Kara said, "there was someone here in the restaurant yesterday, asking those kinds of questions. I didn't like the look of them."
"Really?" Simon asked. "Who were they?"
"They said they were from some insurance company, but that's an easy cover, isn't it?"
Simon tapped his fingers on his knee. "Do you think you could arrange a meeting for me?"
"Do you think that's wise?" she asked.
"It's a place to start."
Kara shrugged. "I suppose what helps you, helps us, right? We don't need the police here any more than you do." She looked out her window at the restaurant, then sat up. "Speaking of which …"
Simon ducked down, out of sight of her office window. "They're here?"
"Yep," Kara said.
Randy lumbered into the room then. He'd never been particularly light on his feet, but his war injuries made him even slower moving. "We gotta get him out of here," he said, indicating Simon with a tilt of the head but still refusing to look at him. Simon shook his head-if his old friends really did believe he was up to his old tricks, he was in a worse position than he'd thought.
Kara looked at Simon, then back at Randy. "Take him out the back and down to the wine cellar. Paula's down there; she can take him out in the speedboat." To Simon she said, "Wait at the beach club at Cannes. I'll call with the details of the meeting."
"Thanks, Kara," Simon said, shaking her hand.
Randy stared at her for a moment, then nodded. "All right, Cowell, come on."
As they walked down the stairs Simon said, "Randy, I haven't stolen a thing since before the war. You have to believe me."
"Cowell," Randy said, not looking at him, "I'm only helping you now because if the cops find you here, it's our asses. No other reason. Got it?"
Simon sighed. "Got it."
"Paula?" Randy called out.
Paula was sitting in front of one of the wine casks, making some notes on a clipboard. She was tiny, a little older than Kara, with a chestnut bob and the muscular body of the dancer she had once been. "What's he doing here?" she asked.
"Making trouble as usual," Randy said. "Kara says to take him to Cannes."
Paula scowled. "Fine, but I wish you all would remember that I'm not a taxi driver." She pulled on a cloche hat and tugged at Simon's arm. "Hurry up. You want to get away from them, don't you?"
Paula steered them away from the restaurant and out into the open water, zooming along at a high speed. She was just as silent and sullen as the rest had been back at the restaurant, but even at this rate it would take them a good half hour to get to Cannes, and Simon doubted that Paula would be able to stay silent for the entire trip. For his part, he was mostly content to rest a bit and enjoy the view of the mountains dropping down into the blue waters of the Mediterranean, their slopes dotted with red tile roofs.
Paula picked up speed, crashing through the wake of another boat. "Oi," Simon said. "You're splashing me."
"I'm sorry," Paula said, grinning. "I forgot that cats don't like water."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Paula. I'm not the Cat!"
"Of course you won't admit it," she said. "But look at you, all bright-eyed from running from the police. You miss the excitement."
"Of what, imminent incarceration?" Simon asked. "No thanks. I like my freedom just fine, even if it is conditional."
Paula looked him up and down. "But freedom isn't worth much without the money to enjoy it, is it? Don't tell me a flower garden pays for the upkeep on that villa of yours."
"It's honest work," Simon replied.
"But you could do better," Paula said, an eyebrow raised. "Plenty of American tourists in France these days to take advantage of. Isn't it an English tradition, giving an heiress a little class in return for her money? Not that you have much class to offer, but still."
"So I've moved from thief to gigolo, have I?"
"Take me in as a partner and you wouldn't have to."
"A partner? In what, growing a flower garden?"
"Fine, don't admit it. Though I would think that since I'm such an old friend you could trust me."
"You mean the wife of an old friend. Sometimes I think you forget that."
"There was a time when you forgot, too," she replied.
"Yes, well," Simon said, clearing his throat. "That was a long time ago-and before you were married to Randy, I might add."
They drove on in silence. "So," Paula said, casually, "I hear the Argentine is very romantic. Is that where you plan to go?"
"I'm not going anyplace," Simon said.
"I've always wanted to visit the Argentine," she said, dreamily. "I speak Spanish you know. And I can dance a mean tango."
"I'm sure you can," Simon replied dryly, "but I think we're out of step."
"And you know how good I am at fencing the goods."
Simon sighed. "Paula …"
"C'mon," she said, hitting him in the arm. "You know you need me."
"Perhaps I would-if I were climbing over rooftops again. Look, are there still suits down below deck?"
"Yes, why?"
"You pull in among the other boats and I'll swim to shore. We'll rouse less suspicion that way."
"See," she said, "you still have all the old instincts."
He shook his head. "Can I trust you to get me my clothes back?" he asked.
She rolled her eyes. "I think we're well past the clothes-stealing phase."
"No peeking now," he said as he went down the stairs.
"There's nothing there I haven't seen," she said.
Simon swam to shore without incident and settled in one of the unoccupied beach chairs. Sunbathing was a new craze at Cannes, brought to France from California by a young, wealthy American couple who'd also made summering on the Riviera fashionable-until a few years ago, the coast had been only a winter destination. Chairs lined the beach at Cannes, some shaded by umbrellas but most not, as the sunbathers worked on their tans. It was strange; when he was young the wealthy kept out of the sun and wanted to be as pale as possible because a tan was the sign of a worker. Now the idle rich were as tanned, or even more, as he was from working outside all day.
On the chaise next to him was just such a specimen: a young, blondish man, American by the look of him, and a dandy at that. He wore sunglasses and a skimpy suit well suited for both showing off his trim figure and keeping up his deep tan. Simon grinned a little to himself, seeing the obvious sugar daddy sitting on the other side of him. And just the type-wearing a bathing costume and robe of a particularly flamboyant and old-fashioned sort, sitting under a large umbrella and sipping a cold drink through a straw. Paula was wrong-it was that money wasn't worth the freedom you sacrificed, not the other way around. But then, the Riviera had been full of Americans for the last few years, fat and happy on their money from making obscure industrial products. Last season he'd met an exceedingly dull but immensely wealthy man whose factory made door handles for automobiles. This pair, however, looked to be in a somewhat more interesting line.
"Monsieur?"
Simon looked up to see the cabana attendant, a sometime employee of Kara's. "Yes?"
"Telephone for you."
"Thank you," Simon said, leaving behind the Americans.
Kara said her part quickly. "Your contact will meet you at the flower market at two this afternoon. I said you'd be tossing a coin."
"Got it," Simon said, and she rang off. He stood for a moment, wondering what to do next, when the attendant approached him again.
"You will find your clothes in cabana three, monsieur," he said.
Simon nodded. Paula always did move quickly when she had a mind to.
Simon leaned against a lamp post in one corner of the market, tossing a coin and feeling rather ridiculous, not to mention uncomfortably conspicuous for a man currently evading the police. A slight blond man in a double-breasted blue suit and matching hat looked at him and asked, "Tryin' to see if it's fixed?"
"Fixed?" Simon asked.
The man moved closer, smiling broadly in that particularly American way. "Yeah, you know, seeing if it comes up even heads and tails. Anyway, I'm E.L. Degeneres, pleased to meet ya."
Simon took the offered hand and though the handshake was firm, the hand itself was quite small. He looked again. "She didn't tell me that you're-"
"American? Yeah," Degeneres replied. "But I work for Lloyds of London. Out of the Los Angeles office. Lots of Americans in France this summer. Kind of a headache if you ask me. Florida or California have beaches just as nice."
"No. I mean, yes, clearly you're an American," Simon said, "but she didn't tell me that you're a woman."
"Oh," she said. "Yeah. A lot of people miss that."
"I'm sure it's simply her idea of a joke," Simon replied, rolling his eyes. "So you're an insurance man-er, woman?"
"Yep. Kara said you wanted to use your know-how to catch the fellow who's been aping your style."
"That's about the size of it," Simon said. "I wonder if you'd take a risk on me, Miss Degeneres?"
"Ellen, please. I dunno, it's a bad risk, if you know what I'm saying. I got a good job and a good wife and I wanna keep both of them."
"A wife?" Simon asked. "How did you manage that?"
"Well, in a manner of speaking Portia is my wife," Ellen said, "but only in a manner of speaking."
"Then you could be my partner in a manner of speaking, couldn't you?" he asked. "After all, what do you have to lose? The main office would only know if I fail."
"That is what I have to lose."
"Well, you're the insurance man. I suppose you know best when a possible gain isn't worth the risk." He smiled. "Have fun paying all those claims," he said, and started to walk away.
"Wait," Ellen said, touching his arm.
He turned toward her and raised one eyebrow.
"Okay, so maybe you have a point. I suppose we could work together, unofficially."
"Brilliant," Simon said. "I thought you'd see it that way, given that I'm the one actually taking all the risks."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"If I fail, I go back to jail," he said.
Ellen looked at him for a long moment. "Only an honest man would be such an idiot," she said.
"And there you have me." Simon looked up and noticed a policeman following them at a somewhat less than discreet distance. "I'm afraid I'll have to cut our conversation short," he said, starting to walk a bit more quickly.
"What do you need from me?" Ellen asked.
"A list of the top five or so prospects, with all the details you can think of."
"Details of the pieces?"
"That, but also their residences, their habits, all that sort of thing." He started to move faster. "I'll contact you?"
Ellen slowed down. "I'm staying at the Carlisle!" she shouted.
Simon waved, then cut through a side alley in the market, evading the policeman who was following him-but running smack into his partner. "You have to admit, it was a good chase while it lasted," he said as they took him away.
The police could only keep him for an hour or so, and as soon as they let him go Simon called Ellen and invited her to cocktails at his home. Simon's villa was a modest one, despite what Kara or Paula liked to imply. It was too far up the hill and had too few bedrooms to be fashionable, but it was enough for him to live in comfortably, and the terraced property was perfect for growing the grapes and flowers that paid his bills. And after all the years of ingratiating himself into first London and then Paris society, then prison and then the war, he liked having a bit of isolation, a retreat of sorts. He still had a good eye for pretty things, and his villa was well set up, but with finds from local markets and other inexpensive trinkets that had appealed to him. It was as though after the war he'd rediscovered the modest tastes of his youth.
"Beautiful place you've got here," Ellen said, looking down the hillside at the lights and the ocean below. She was wearing another suit, a black evening suit this time, and Simon wondered if she only wore men's clothing.
"You like it?" Simon asked, cocktail shaker in hand.
"It's the sort of home a person dreams of retiring to in his old age," she replied.
"Well, I'm not that old yet," Simon said.
"So the cops couldn't keep you, huh?" she asked.
"Not enough evidence," he said. "I think they're hoping they'll catch me in the act." He handed her a martini.
"Thank you." She sipped her drink. "Oh, lovely. That's one advantage of being in France, at least-real booze."
Simon chuckled. "All these Americans are just fleeing prohibition, is that it?"
"Something like that. And what brought you to France?"
"Other than a few outstanding warrants?" he asked. "Yes, I began my illustrious career in London, but I was young and not quite as successful. By the time I arrived in Paris, I'd honed my craft, so to speak."
Ellen raised her eyebrows. "You're pretty unapologetic," she said.
Simon shrugged. "What's done is done," he said. "I went to jail. I worked intelligence in the war and earned my parole. If there's any excuse to be had, I only stole from those who could afford it. As you well know."
"So you were a sort of Robin Hood?"
"Of course not," Simon said. "I wanted that posh life I saw around me and in the newspapers. I'd started out as a sort of aspiring impresario, backing singers on their tours, but it turns out that most show people don't make much money."
"And you expect everyone to believe you've turned over a new leaf now?" she asked.
"I'm not so stupid to risk my freedom for a little bit of money," he said. "It's all well and good when you don't think you can be caught, but once you have been-well, let's say jail is a pretty powerful deterrent, at least for me. I am old enough to no longer think of myself as invincible."
"But you think you can catch your copy-cat?" she asked, then started to laugh. "Ha, copy-cat, get it?" she asked, nudging him with her elbow.
Simon scowled. "It's one thing to evade every policeman in Europe. Quite another to catch just one thief, especially when one can anticipate his movements, since he's a carbon copy of oneself. Besides, I'm tired of getting a visit from the local constable every time a bracelet goes missing."
"Must be frustrating," she said.
"Indeed." He picked up the shaker and poured them both another drink. "So, the list?"
Ellen pulled a sheet of paper from her inside jacket pocket. "One thing," she said. "I told the police about your plan."
Simon shrugged. "I suppose honesty is as much of a habit as dishonesty," he said. "I'm sure they were unamused."
"Not a bit," she said. "They were all for it. They think you'll make a mistake, and then they'll have their evidence."
"That doesn't surprise me," Simon replied. "Since we have their blessing, the list?"
Ellen handed him the paper and Simon looked it over carefully.
"Well done, Ellen," he said. "Wish I'd known someone in insurance back when I was stealing. Took me months to get similar information." He continued to read. "I'll start with this pair at the top, the film magnate and his son."
"I'm having a late supper with them this evening. I could introduce you."
Simon grinned, shaking his head. "Ellen, please. We can't do this sort of thing on the level."
Ryan sat at dinner with Merv and their insurance agent, Ellen, who'd become a good friend in the last few years. Ryan had been relieved to find that she was in France, looking after her American clients. She was always good for a joke or some fun, unlike the often-stuffy Brits who looked down their noses at someone as unconcerned with appearances as Merv Griffin was. Even Ryan sometimes winced a little at Merv's outfits and jeweled cravats and loud laughter, but it kept the worst of the fortune hunters well away. And at least Merv was no phony.
"Ooh," Merv said. "What about him? Better than the boys you're usually staring at, eh, Ryan?"
Ryan looked up. The restaurant was nearly empty, so it wasn't difficult to spot the man in a tuxedo striding confidently across the room to the door. He was small, barrel-chested, dark haired with a tan. "He's all right," Ryan said.
"He's more than that," Merv said. "Look how he moves. Like a panther."
"Maybe he's the Cat," Ryan said, smiling.
"Oh, I don't know about that," Ellen said quickly.
Ryan cocked his head. "Thefts making you nervous?"
"The Home Office never likes paying settlements," Ellen said. "The entire point is to avoid the risk. For example, if you left some of your jewelry in the hotel safe, Mr. Griffin."
"Nope," Merv said. "I worked hard for these gems, and I like watching them sparkle. If I was gonna leave them in the safe, what's the point in buying them in the first place?"
Ryan patted his hand. "That's right, Padre. You tell 'em."
The waiter approached with the check then. "Don't even think about reaching for your wallet," Merv said to Ellen, signing his room number at the bottom. "Now you deserve some fun since you put up with me so well. Let's hit that casino, my treat," Merv said, rising.
"Oh, no need, Mr. Griffin," she said. "It's really a pleasure."
"Not everyone likes to gamble, Padre," Ryan said.
"Aw, hell, Ryan," Merv said. "As vices go it's actually relatively cheap. Better than some gigolo taking it all and leaving me broken-hearted, or spending it all on cocaine and not remembering the party the next day. No, at least I'll know exactly where my money is going, and have the fun of watching it go there."
"But there aren't any horses here," Ryan said. "And I won't let you play poker with strangers."
"Blackjack?" Merv asked.
"No cards," Ryan said, firmly.
"I'm starting to like roulette, actually," Merv replied. "Completely does away with any pretense of skill."
In the casino they saw the man from the dining room, and of course Merv became distracted. "How about craps?" he asked, making a beeline for the table.
"I should have said 'no dice,'" Ryan muttered to Ellen.
Merv got to the table and looked over the other players, then put his bet down.
It was the handsome man's turn to shoot the dice. "So a seven or an eleven, eh?" he said in an English accent. "I'm still trying to work out how this is different from what I played in the alleys of London as a boy."
Merv grinned. "Chances are it isn't," he said.
"Oh, well," the man replied with a smile. "Why didn't they say so in the first place?" He flicked his hand, and threw a neat seven.
"Well done," Merv said.
"Thank you," the man said, and shot the dice again. The others around the table cheered as he won for the table.
"Well," Merv said.
Ryan watched as the man continued to win. A crowd was gathering but he paid little attention to that, keeping his eyes on his dice and the table. After four more passes, he handed the dice over and threw up his hands. "I still have money because I know when to quit," he said, and the crowd applauded him. He grinned and took a little bow, his dark eyes sparkling.
Merv picked up his chips, which had tripled thanks to the man's efforts. "Let me buy you a drink," Merv said to him, "since you won me this money."
"I think you brought me luck," the man replied. "Or confidence, anyway." He shook Merv's hand. "Name's Leach."
"Mine's Griffin," Merv said. He put an arm around Leach. "Come on, let's get a cocktail," he said, and led him to the bar. "Isn't often we find a fellow bootstrapper around these parts."
"Bootstrapper?" Leach asked as they found a table.
"You know, self-made man," Merv said. "Not many Brits who can afford to stay on the Riviera played craps in alleyways when they were a kid."
"I suppose not," Leach replied. "But whether I can afford to stay here or not, I don't run with those crowds. Bright young things are a bit too young for me, and anyway, I haven't a title. I'm just in trade."
"They don't have much time for an old vaudevillian turned Hollywood man either," Merv said, "but they'll take to Ryan all right, as long as I stay out of the picture."
"C'mon, Padre," Ryan said. "They think you're a scream and you know it."
"I'm sure they do," Leach said.
The waiter arrived, and after Ellen and Ryan asked for martinis, Merv ordered his usual Manhattan.
"Make that two," Leach said.
Merv turned. "Well, never knew a Brit to drink bourbon, either," Merv said. "But I like to know that I'm drinking."
"I've always preferred whiskey," Leach said smoothly. "So you two are father and son?"
"Ryan favors his mother," Merv said, "and good thing, too. Never known a girl who belonged on that stage as much as she did."
"And is the younger Mr. Griffin also in show business?" Leach asked.
"Seacrest, actually," Ryan said. "Took my mother's name after she passed. Didn't want to trade on the padre's reputation."
"That's very admirable," Leach said, and Ryan inclined his head in response.
"Eva was a real lady," Merv said. "It's a shame she didn't get to appreciate our success." He took a drag of his cigarette. "We met in vaudeville, you see-"
Ryan interrupted, "I'm sure that Mr. Leach-"
"No, no," Leach said. "I'd love to hear about her."
Merv smiled. "Eva was a glowing thing. Just lit up that stage. And the camera loved her. That was the beginning of everything, when we put her in that movie back in '08."
"Wait," Leach said, thinking. "Little Evie Seacrest? That was your mother?"
"Yep," Ryan replied.
"But she was just a girl," Leach said.
Ryan smiled. "She always played younger parts," he explained. "She was small and youthful-looking enough for the camera."
"Everyone loved her," Merv said. "She was the best hostess in Hollywood." He smiled, remembering. "But enough about that. What's your line, Leach?"
"Me?" he asked. "I have a little factory in England, makes door handles for automobiles."
"Doing well?" Merv asked.
"Very well," Leach replied. "I'm on holiday in France, aren't I?" He winked.
"Looking for a wife?" Merv asked.
"Well, I don't discriminate," Leach said.
"Oh really?" Merv replied, and he was almost purring.
Ryan dug his fingers into his knees under the table and turned to Ellen, who was trying not to laugh.
"Would you mind if I called Pinkerton's about you?" Merv asked.
"No," Leach replied, "but why would you need to have me investigated?"
"If I were Ryan's age," he said, "I'd think you were too good to be true. In fact, you must be, because you've barely looked at him since we sat down."
Leach looked at Ryan appraisingly, and Ryan could have sworn he felt a vibration, a hum of electricity. He concentrated on keeping his expression neutral. "He is quite a handsome man," Leach replied.
"Why thank you," Ryan said. "And thanks, Padre, but I can find my own playmates."
"Yes, you've done very well so far," Merv replied, not quite rolling his eyes.
Ryan shifted in his chair. "It's getting late," he said. "Better get your beauty sleep, so Mr. Leach will keep coming around."
"I'm pretty sure he isn't here for me, kiddo," Merv replied, "but you're right. Let's toddle off."
Ellen said goodnight at the elevator, but Leach insisted on escorting Ryan and Merv to their suite, even taking Merv's key.
"Quite the gentleman," Merv said as Leach unlocked the door. "Goodnight, young people."
"Goodnight," Leach said, then turned to Ryan. "Aren't you going in?"
"I'm on the other end," Ryan said, walking down to the next door. He opened it, then turned back to Leach and thought, why not? He reached up and pulled the man into a kiss. Leach was surprised, but he clearly knew his way around a kiss. Ryan did, too, and made sure Leach knew it.
He pulled away. "Good night, Mr. Leach."
Leach blinked. "Good night," he said.
Ryan closed the door, grinning to himself as he walked into his bedroom. "Leach, is it?" he whispered to himself. "Fine, if that's how you want to play it. But you're not going to con your way into the padre's jewels, Mr. Cowell. Not if I can help it."
Simon had to hand it to the kid-he was determined. To do what, he wasn't sure, but it took him a moment to shake off that kiss Ryan gave him. Then he snuck down the hallway to a door at the end that opened onto a balcony. Outside, he looked up at the roof, checking the access to Merv's room. It would be a pretty simple mark-plenty of hand holds to take you down from the roof to his window and back again, and just one policeman on patrol on the street below. Really, if they were so worried about a cat burglar, one would think they would put a few more men on the hotels. But that was French efficiency for you.
The next morning he woke to a summons from Ryan to come up to their suite, though when he arrived Ryan didn't appear to be up yet. Merv was full of news, however, and Ellen was with him.
"There's been another burglary," Merv said, all excitement.
"Really?" Simon asked.
"The wife of a government official," Ellen replied.
"How much?" Simon asked.
"Nearly fifty thousand American dollars," Ellen said. She turned to Merv. "This is why I'd like you to keep your jewels in the hotel safe," she said.
"And put the safe on my finger when I go out?" Merv asked. "No, I bought those jewels to wear them. If you don't like the risk, you shouldn't have insured them. I can't help it if some silly burglar has named himself after an animal."
"Of course we'll pay you," Ellen said, "but we can't replace the sentiment."
"Please," Merv said, waving a hand. "Those jewels are just to attract attention, get the kid in places they might not accept an aging song and dance man. You heard him last night. I make myself into a character, and the kids think I'm a scream, instead of merely vulgar."
"I know I've only known you a day, Mr. Griffin," Simon said, "but you are far from vulgar."
"That's what I keep telling him," Ryan said as he came into the room from his adjoining suite, "but he just won't believe me. Hello, Ellen. You look worried."
"There was another burglary last night," she replied.
"Oh really?" Ryan asked, looking at Simon. "The Cat strikes again."
"It would seem so," Simon said, returning his even stare. "So, you sent for me, Mr. Seacrest?"
"I did," Ryan said, smiling. "I thought we might go for a swim, or just sunbathing if that's too much for you. It's the latest thing."
"I think I can manage to stay afloat," Simon replied. "I'll just go get my trunks and meet you downstairs."
"Perfect," Ryan said.
"Say, Leach," Ellen said.
"Yes?" Simon replied.
"Um, watcha doin' this afternoon?" she asked, giving him a light punch in the shoulder.
"What? Oh, I have a list here from my realtor of some furnished villas for rent," he said, pulling the list of potential targets Ellen had given him from his inside jacket pocket. "I'm going to take a look at them after lunch. Some of them apparently have roofs that need careful inspection."
Ellen's expression didn't change, to her credit. "Sounds like a plan!" she said.
Ryan kept him waiting a bit in the lobby, which didn't surprise Simon, so he went to the desk to drop off his key. "You have a message, monsieur," the attendant said, and handed him an envelope. Inside was a sheet of hotel paper, and written in block printing:
Cowell,
You've used up 8 of your lives. Don't risk the 9th. Go while the going is good.
"Guess I'm getting close," Simon said to himself as he ripped up the message.
"Bad news, Leach?" Ryan asked, walking toward him.
"Just business," Simon said. "And nothing important. You'd think they'd realize I'm on holiday." He looked up and saw that Ryan was in a rather snug shirt that stretched across his shoulders and chest, and crisp white pleated trousers-just the fashion, but Simon had rarely seen anyone wear it quite so well.
Ryan raised his eyebrows. "Well, shall we?"
"Indeed," Simon said, walking through the lobby with him. Women-and some men-stared at Ryan, who bore it all as though he were used to it. Perhaps he was.
They changed into their trunks in the cabana, and when Ryan emerged in trunks and sunglasses Simon realized why he'd seemed familiar-he and Merv had been the Americans next to him on the beach the morning before. Of course Merv looked very different in evening wear than in his beach caftan and truth be told, he hadn't been looking at the young man's face at the time. But he also realized how much he'd been drawn in by Ryan's green eyes-the young man was much more difficult to read with his sunglasses on.
Ryan looked him up and down. "You're more muscular than you look," he said.
Simon inclined his head. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"It is," Ryan said. "Do you want an umbrella?"
"No, no," Simon replied. "I like basking in the sun."
Ryan grinned. "I bet you do," he said.
They found two chairs right at the water, and settled into them. A silence fell, more charged than awkward, and Simon found it difficult to keep from just staring at Ryan. He had no doubt that was precisely what Ryan wanted, but somehow he didn't want to give him the satisfaction. Not yet, anyway.
Only a few minutes later he noticed Paula, standing by the cabanas and waving to him, then swimming to the float a few feet out from the beach. Simon got up and asked Ryan if he'd like a swim, and to his relief Ryan shook his head and waved him off.
Paula was lying on the float when he reached it. "What the hell, Paula?"
She grinned. "That was some score you pulled off last night, Simon," she said.
"All in a night's work," Simon replied.
"And already today you're working on your next target, I see," Paula said.
"What makes you think I'm not interested in him for his looks?" Simon asked.
"Because then you'd have to spend your money to keep him," Paula replied, "and he doesn't look like the type to be understanding about your night job."
"I'd say he's more of a useful friend than he looks," Simon said.
"You know, your old friends at the restaurant were very unhappy that the police had to let you go yesterday."
"Unsurprising, as I'm sure one of them tipped off the police about the meeting at the flower market in the first place."
"Please," Paula said, "they would never say anything to the police. They hate the police almost as much as they hate you."
"Well, someone told them."
"Still, they would love it if you were caught at your next job."
"Nice to know I still have friends," Simon said.
"Maybe it would be better if you were caught. In the kitchen they are wondering if it wouldn't be better for them if something happened to you. Those roofs are awfully high, you know."
"Lovely," Simon said. "My old friends want me dead, the police want me in jail, and the Cat wants me out of town."
"Out of town?" she asked.
"Yes, I got a message from him today, warning me away."
"Then why stay, with so many people after you? Come to the Argentine with me, and I'll be the only one after you."
"Sounds dangerous either way," Simon said.
"I hope so," Paula said with a leer.
"Do remember that you are married to a friend of mine," Simon replied.
Paula sat back, scowling. "Simon, I'm serious-if you pull off another job they'll do something to you. They're determined not to go back to jail."
"Duly noted. But I'd better get back."
Paula looked at Ryan, still lying in his chair. "What would you want with him anyway?" she asked. "He's so … typical. And you don't need his money."
"Actually, he's not typical at all," Simon said. "He's a lot smarter than he looks."
"Why would you want to start all over with someone new," she asked, "when you can already have me? We all know how much you hate courting."
"A man likes unchartered territory," Simon replied. "Or at least someplace that doesn't have prior claims." He turned to go, and noticed the chair was now empty. "Now you've done it. He's wandered off."
"Or wandered in," Ryan said, swimming up to them. "I thought I'd come out and see what the big attraction was."
"Oh," Simon said, thinking quickly. "Miss, ah, you didn't tell me your name."
Paula slipped off the float to tread water next to them. "Paula Abdul."
"Miss Abdul, Mr. Seacrest," Simon said, and they shook hands.
"Pleased to meet you, Miss Abdul," Ryan said. "Mr. Leach has told me so little about you."
"Well, ah, we only just met a few minutes ago," Simon said.
"Yes, just now on the float," Paula said.
"Only a few minutes ago?" Ryan asked. "And you talk like old friends. Well, they do say we Americans are friendly, don't they, Miss Abdul?"
"I was thinking of renting a motorboat," Simon said. "Ryan, would you like me to teach you how to drive a one?"
"Thanks, but I've won the speedboat races at Catalina Island three years running," he replied.
"Well, it was just an idea," Simon replied.
Ryan cocked his head. "Are you sure you were talking about speedboats?" he asked. "Looked to me like Miss Abdul was starting a very different sort of race."
Paula scowled.
"Say something nice to him, Paula," Simon said.
Paula regarded him. "He looks even more ordinary, up close," she said.
Simon turned to Ryan.
"Better than being obvious about one's charms," Ryan replied.
"Obvious?" Paula said. "Why don't you swim a little closer and say that again?"
Simon tried to keep from smirking and failed.
"Having a nice time, are you, Leach?" Ryan asked.
"The sun is very nice," Simon replied.
"Well, it's too much for me. I'm going in. I'll see you at the hotel." Ryan turned and swam back in.
"Thanks, Paula, that was very helpful," Simon said.
Paula just smiled. "You know I'm right," she said. "Keep going after that boy, or his daddy's jewels, and you'll end up dead or in jail."
"I'll take my chances," Simon replied.
He went to the cabana and changed, and as he slipped on his jacket he noticed that the list in his pocket was a bit more crumpled than before. He took it out, and there was a distinct wet fingermark on the paper for which he was sure he was not responsible. He handed the cabana key back to the attendant-the same young man who'd been there the day before. Worried, he walked back to the hotel, to see Ryan standing just outside in his third outfit of the day-trousers, a shirt and a sleeveless sweater, all in varying shades of deep green.
"Do you have time for me now?" he asked.
Simon winced. "I'm sorry I was so long out there at the float."
Ryan shrugged. "I've known you for a day. I have no claims of ownership."
"Yes, well," Simon said. "How about cocktails? Six o'clock?"
"Oh, we can talk about that on the way," Ryan replied.
"On the way to what?"
"Well, to rent you a villa," Ryan said, smiling.
Simon crossed his arms. "Renting a villa is a personal decision-"
"I have my car right here," Ryan went on, "and a picnic lunch with chicken and beer."
"No, I can't take advantage of you like that. It's bound to be a tiring trip over all those mountain roads-"
"That I know like the back of my hand," Ryan said. "We've been coming here for years. And I'm from California. Any excuse to drive is good for me."
"I was going to hire an English-speaking chauffeur."
"Now you've got a French-speaking one, too," Ryan replied.
Simon sighed. "It appears you've thought of everything."
"I usually do," Ryan said. "I'm a very good planner."
"I see that. Well, no sense in resisting any further."
Ryan led Simon to a small blue two-seater parked just next to the hotel.
"A French car?" Simon asked.
"Yeah, it's our one big indulgence, keeping a car on the continent," he replied. "But I love driving, and Merv loves being driven, so there you go. I'm sorry these aren't your door handles."
"Well, no, they wouldn't be," Simon said, deftly avoiding Ryan's little trap. "What with the Citroen bodies being American-made and all."
"Exactly," Ryan said, pulling on a pair of soft leather driving gloves. "Merv has a cap and goggles in the glove box if you want them. I'll warn you, I drive pretty fast."
"I'm sure I'll be just fine," Simon said.
"Great. I like feeling the wind in my hair myself, and it's warm enough today that we can do without overcoats I think. Where is our first stop?" he asked.
Simon pulled out the list, holding it at an angle so Ryan couldn't read it. "Avenue Albert Ler," he replied.
Ryan looked at him for a moment. "I know exactly where that is," he said, and pulled out onto the street.
Part Two