Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(62)

I entered after the couple left with their purchases. Ms. Glinka looked at me pleasantly, welcomed me, and offered to answer any questions.

I thought that was a good beginning, and I jumped at the opportunity too eagerly, asking if she knew that Lou Sabatino had disappeared.

That took her aback; her mouth opened but no sound came out.

I explained I was an investigator — I gave her my card — and that I’d been tasked to find Lou. His disappearance, I said, may have had something to do with the video recording she had shown him.

I was hoping for a quick admission that we could take to court but made the classic error of ignoring sound practice. I ought to have warmed her up, flattered her, congratulated her on her new business, asked to be shown about, perhaps bought an aid to masturbation. But no.

Wordlessly, she advanced on me, and I braced myself for a physical attack. But she merely gripped my right elbow, turned me around, and propelled me toward the door.

I dared not resist this athletic woman, but urged her to hear me out, to help save the life of her good friend and former neighbour.

But in seconds, I was outside her door, which she locked. I was without a plan, and could only stand there, staring within, as she made a phone call.

Handily, there was a cafe directly across the street, and a sidewalk table was free. So I ordered a latte and pretended to read the Guardian while peeking over it.

When Svetlana showed up at her window, still on the phone, she observed me observing her. I was feeling very foolish. The best I could do was wait her out. During the next thirty minutes, a few customers tried her door, peered inside, then wandered off.

Then a tall, thin gentleman in a natty suit, with an old-fashioned cravat, alighted from a taxi directly in front of me and came to my table.

“Would you permit me to join you, sir?” he said — in English, for which I was thankful, my French being laboured. This was obviously Svetlana’s emissary, and he seemed a decent sort, and I offered a chair beside me.

He was, as I had guessed, un homme de loi. He gave me his card: Emmanuel Lopez, avocat, of the firm of Guelle, Lopez. He thanked me for my card, but merely glanced at it — its contents had already been relayed to him.

“I am honoured,” he said. “You are highly regarded. I read several comments on Google praising you as number one in Canada at your profession.”

I assured him that was an exaggeration, but regaled him with a few anecdotes, which he enjoyed. He in turn told me some of his own background. He was from Seville, though he took his law degree in Paris, and does entertainment law.

I admitted to my Costa Rican roots, and we were delighted to be able to switch to our mother tongue. His seemed more loosened as we went along, though that may be due to the excellent carafe of Merlot we shared.

I made no bones about why I was in Nice, and on whose behalf, and put everything on the table, except for Lou Sabatino having pirated the tape. M. Lopez had followed the Great Canadian Scandal, of course, and found it highly amusing. He reverted to French: “A peu près francais.”

I suggested that his client might not find it amusing once the press descended, as it eventually would. He shook his head sadly at that. She had no choice but to be fuerte, he said, and still her tongue.

Of course M. Lopez was forbidden to relate any of his conversations with his client. Instead, what he did, as the Merlot flowed, was pose a “fictional” scenario.

It went like this: let us assume a certain woman of the world, in return for financial favours, signed a non-disclosure agreement, and she risks all, perhaps her very life, if she whispers a word about a certain politician.

Let us also assume that no copies exist of a certain little film showing the politician taking his pleasure in unorthodox ways. That is because our hypothetical woman has rendered up her only copy of it, along with all her computer equipment, external drives, webcams, recording devices, everything electronic, as well as address book, memo pad, notes, even the calendar on the wall and stickies on the fridge.

(And here, Arthur, I footnote my earlier reference to the couple who were armed with a key to Svetlana’s therapy clinic and were seen carting this stuff off.)

Let us further assume (he went on) that this certain woman’s luggage and purse and pockets were thoroughly searched before she was escorted to the airport’s personal security screening area. And, oh, yes, let us also assume the needle of a polygraph machine did not waver when she denied having access to any copies of that video.

I asked M. Lopez whether, in his imaginary scenario, the woman mentioned to her inquisitors anything about a certain news reporter.

A shrug. “Let us presume she did,” he said sadly.

I mused over this, dispirited. Doubtless, Farquist’s team have been beating the bushes for Mr. Sabatino, hoping to silence him one way or another. They wouldn’t know about Sabatino’s pirated video, but would know he’d seen Glinka’s original version, and presumably suspected he had related the contents to Margaret. Despite all their precautions, they may be worried that a copy is floating around somewhere. Lou would be at severe risk if they discover he’d copied the video.

M. Lopez told me politely but adamantly that he could not allow me to interview his client.

You will doubtless consider the option of subpoenaing Ms. Glinka, which you know better than I would be costly, difficult, and subject to the vagaries of French law. I fear she would be a dangerous witness in any event. I don’t like to say this, Arthur, but much hinges on our finding Lou Sabatino. Everything.