(See Cover]
By 4 p.m., the blinds, shut tight all day against the Riviera sun, snapped open. A bustle of servants and bodyguards on the second floor of Cannes' Carlton Hotel proclaimed the fact that His Majesty was awake. Shortly afterwards, a fat man with a prematurely balding head and a rakish hussar's mustache, appeared on the hotel terrace, plumped his 225 pounds into a wicker chair and ordered a Coca-Cola. He wore the standard summer garb of the well-dressed Riviera yachtsman—grey flannel slacks, navy blue jacket and white yachting cap. The plump,...
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