The sea jumped and bustled in Manville, pounding surf along the shores. Queen Priscilla docked: a twenty-first stop from George Town, someplace north.
Dr Val Montreaux stepped down the pier. He twirled his moustache and tucked in the round belly contained by a three-piece suit. A colourful entourage of butler, houseboy and gardener shuffled straight behind, closely followed by a very black cook named Gemini.
Three huge chests of stained oak wobbled between them. Porters staggered in and out of the vessel. Before long, half the ship's cargo turned out, labelled with the doctor's name.
"What's he need that much stuff for?" Manville wondered lightly, having raised no brow at the appearance of workmen at a private field on the hilltop a year before yesterday. The weave of a manor under their very eyes piqued little interest, as did now the owner come to claim it: Dr Val Montreaux. His regal abode housed nine bedrooms, four poodles, sweeping doors and gliding stairways of solid oak. A few arched hallways dazzled with sixteen-bulb chandeliers. Marble-paned windows offered three splendid views to the sea night and day.
Three weeks later, Queen Priscilla delivered one more king size chest, five horses, a boxful of books, two stable boys and one fiery red Porsche. The good doctor drove quietly away.
Montreaux being a mouthful, pretty much anyone who cared to think of the fat little man regarded him as Dr Val. He draped himself in Guccis, Pradas and much else but achieved no camouflage for his rotund shape. A gold watch flashed on his wrist. Faint rumours no one took seriously indicated the lavish piece was clean out of Switzerland, from a watchmaker whose impeccable trade crossed nine generations and a still-birth.
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