Well, this is a pleasant surprise. Fancy meeting you here.”

Just a few kilometers west of Cap Ferrat, Villefranche-sur-Mer is a curious old Riviera town full of tourists enjoying its hidden Escher stairways, high tenements, and dark, winding cobbled streets. It’s a little like being in a Gallic version of a Fritz Lang movie, shadowy, secret, and full of awkward, fish-eye angles, perfect for a deracinated wanted man living quietly and under a false name. So it was surprising to bump into Mrs. French outside a bar on—of all places—the Rue Obscure, which is entirely vaulted over, like a crypt, and most reminds me of a part of old Berlin, which is probably why I go there. Alone. The La Darse Bar is a crummy, sepulchral sort of place with sawdust on the floor and sticky wooden tables and looks like it’s been in existence since the time of Charles V, but the house rosé they serve in earthenware pitchers is just about drinkable and I’m often to be found there, if anyone was ever inclined to look for me. Nobody ever had been inclined to look for me and so I couldn’t help but feel that Mrs. French finding me in the Rue Obscure wasn’t entirely the happy accident she claimed. She was wearing pink capri pants, a matching head scarf, a loose black sweater, and around her neck was a string of pearls and an even more expensive-looking Leica. Hers was the kind of carefree, casual look that women spend a lot of time in front of the mirror getting just right.

“Do you live around here, Mr. Wolf?” she asked.

“In a manner of speaking. I have a place on Quai de la Corderie. On the seafront.” I wondered who among my colleagues at the GHCF might have told her where I lived and, more to the point, my habits, and quickly arrived at the name of Ueli Leuthard, who was my boss and, I knew, a friend of Mrs. French.

“You realize we’re almost neighbors, don’t you? My house is on Avenue des Hespérides.”

I smiled. My house resembled the local jail. The houses on Avenue des Hespérides were large, well-appointed villas with several stories, sprawling gardens, and expensively uninterrupted views of the sea. Describing us as neighbors was like comparing a sea urchin with a giant octopus.

“I suppose we are,” I said. “But what brings you along this street, Mrs. French? It’s not called obscure for nothing.”

“Taking pictures, like everyone else. When I’m not writing, I take photographs. I’ve even sold a few. And call me Anne, please. We’re not at the Grand Hôtel now.”

“That’s for sure. You know, I wouldn’t have thought there’s enough light for a picture in here.”