"That's some kind of car," the guard finally said. "What is it?"
"A Daimler," replied Pitt.
"Sounds British."
"It is."
The guard shook his head in admiration and looked at his guest list. "Your name, please."
"Pitt."
"I can't seem to find your name. Do you have an invitation?"
"Mrs. LeBaron and I had an earlier appointment."
The guard went into the gatehouse and checked a clipboard. "Yes, sir, your appointment was for four o'clock."
"When I phoned to say I was running late, she said to join the party."
"Well, since she expected you," the guard said, still soaking in the Daimler's lines, "I guess it's all right.
Have a good evening."
Pitt nodded a thank-you and eased the immense car silently up the winding drive to the LeBaron residence. The main building sat on a low hill above a tennis court and a swimming pool. The architecture was common to the area, a three-story brick colonial with a series of white columns holding up the roof over a long front porch, the wings extending to each side. To the right a clump of pine trees shielded a carriage house with a garage below, what Pitt assumed were the servants' living quarters. Opposite and to the left of the manor sat a huge glass-enclosed structure, lit by crystal chandeliers hanging from the roof. Exotic flowers and shrubs blossomed around twenty or more dinner tables while a small orchestra played on a stage beneath a waterfall. Pitt was properly impressed. The perfect setting for a party on a brisk October evening. Raymond LeBaron got high marks for originality. He pulled the Daimler up to the front of the greenhouse where a liveried parking valet stood with the awed expression of a carpenter gazing at redwoods.
As he slid from behind the wheel and straightened the jacket of his tuxedo Pitt noticed a crowd beginning to gather behind the transparent wall of the greenhouse, pointing and gesturing at the car. He gave the valet instructions on how to shift the transmission and then passed through the glass doors. The orchestra was playing themes from John Barry scores, light on the brass and heavy on the strings. A woman, elegantly dressed in the latest designer fashion, was standing just inside the entrance, greeting the guests.
He had no doubt she was Jessie LeBaron. Cool composure, the embodiment of grace and style, the living proof women can be beautiful after fifty. She wore a glittery beaded green and silver tunic over a long, slim velvet skirt.
Pitt approached and gave a brief bow. "Good evening," he said, flashing his best gate crasher's smile.
"What is that sensational car?" Jessie asked, peering through the doorway.
"A Daimler powered by a 5.4 liter, straight-eight engine with Hooper coachwork."
She smiled' graciously and extended her hand. "Thank you for coming, Mr. . ." She hesitated, gazing at him curiously. "Forgive me, but I don't seem to recall meeting you before."
"That's because we've never laid eyes on each other," he said, marveling at her throaty voice, almost husky, with a sensual coarseness about it. "My name is Pitt, Dirk Pitt."
Jessie's dark eyes looked at Pitt in a most peculiar way. "You're four and a half hours late, Mr. Pitt.
Did you suffer some sort of accidental delay?"
"No accident, Mrs. LeBaron. I planned my arrival most carefully."
"You weren't invited to the party," she said smoothly. "So you'll have to leave."
"A pity," said Pitt mournfully. "I seldom get a chance to wear my tux."
Jessie's face registered scorn. She turned to a prim woman wearing large-lensed glasses and standing slightly to her rear, who Pitt guessed was her secretary, Sandra Cabot.
"Find Angelo and tell him to show this gentleman out."
Pitt's green eyes glinted mischievously. "I seem to have a talent for spreading ill will. Do you wish me to go peacefully or cause a nasty scene?"
"I think peacefully would be best."
"Then why did you ask to meet with me?"