The Marseille Caper sl-2

by Peter Mayle

  The only two things Sam knew about the Camargue were that it was flat and that it was inhabited for part of the year by flamingos along with a particularly large and ferocious member of the mosquito family. While he waited on the terrace for Olivier he glanced through a guidebook he’d picked up from the house library and was immediately intrigued.

  The Camargue had supplied some of the first cowboys in America-men who had left the flamingos for a new life in the bayous of Louisiana and East Texas. Those who had stayed behind became known as gardians. They looked after the native black longhorn cattle which, unlike normal cattle, could not only survive but flourish on the Camargue’s salt grass. For transport, the gardians used another native of the Camargue-the elegant descendants of the white horse introduced by the Arabs many centuries before.

  Today, the guide continued, the Camargue is probably best known for its salt, and is sometimes described as the salt cellar of France. And it is no ordinary salt. The fleur de sel-the jewel of the salt pans, still gathered in the traditional way by man and his wooden shovel-is regarded as a supreme delicacy. Sam had always thought of salt as little more than white dust, and he shook his head as he read on, the prose waxing more and more ecstatic about the effects of fleur de sel applied to a raw radish. Only in France.

  The big car came to a stop below the terrace, and Sam settled into the passenger seat for the journey to Arles and then down into the Camargue. Olivier, delighted to practice his English on a captive audience, explained how Reboul had come to be the owner of a ranch.

  It had started off pleasantly enough when Reboul had invited a few acquaintances over for a poker game. Luck was running for Reboul that night, and he was collecting his winnings at the end of the evening when one of the others, a Marseille property dealer named Leconte, announced that he wasn’t ready to stop. He had lost consistently during the evening, and had consoled himself a little too generously with Reboul’s single malt Scotch. He also suffered from the conviction that he was a better poker player than Reboul, and wanted to prove it. Leconte had always been inclined to arrogance and boastfulness, and whisky made him worse. He proposed a two-handed game, just him and Reboul, for what he called serious stakes-not the small change they had been playing for so far.

  Reboul tried to persuade Leconte to drop the idea: it was late, and they all had to work the next day. But Leconte made the great mistake of inferring that Reboul was scared to play for big stakes, and persisted in his demand to keep playing, so Reboul humored him and let Leconte propose the stakes. Each player put up one euro. If Leconte won, he could buy Reboul’s yacht for his euro; if Reboul won, he could buy Leconte’s property in the Camargue for the same price.

  “I was there, serving the drinks,” said Olivier. “It was very dramatique, like a movie. And when Monsieur Reboul won, he tried to make a joke of it, and gave Leconte back his euro to cancel the debt. But Leconte refused. It was a matter of honor, he said. Et voila.”

  “Where is Leconte now?”

  “Oh, he said Marseille was becoming too provincial for him. He sold his business and moved to Morocco.”

  By now, they had left the autoroute linking Marseille and Arles and had turned south on one of the minor roads leading down to the coast. The landscape had changed; it was flat, vast, and empty. The sky, with no silhouettes of buildings, trees, or hills to interrupt it, seemed suddenly bigger. If the sun hadn’t been shining, Sam thought, it would all seem quite sinister.

  “Does Monsieur Reboul come here often?”

  “Once or twice in the spring. Sometimes at Christmas-and usually when one of the mares has little ones. He loves to see his horses when they’re babies.”

  The road was getting narrower, the surface cracked and crumbling. It seemed to be leading directly into the depths of the Camargue swamp when the car swung sharply to the right, past a wooden sign marked PRIVE, and down a graveled track. On they drove for perhaps half a mile before they came to a post-and-rail paddock with a range of stabling at one end. A dozen handsome horses, all of them white, gave the car a cursory glance and a flick of the tail as it passed. Another hundred yards and they had reached the ranch.

  It was an example of the haphazard school of architecture-a low, sprawling, L-shaped building made principally of wood, with windows of assorted sizes and a covered veranda running along the southern side. Three dogs interrupted their siestas to come over and sniff the car before returning to loll on the veranda. When Olivier turned off the engine, the silence was almost overwhelming. Sam got out and stretched as he looked around. He could imagine that nothing much had changed in the past hundred years. The only concession to the twenty-first century was the helicopter parked behind the house.

  “Monsieur Reboul must be here already,” said Olivier. “That’s what he calls his Camargue taxi.”

  They were halfway toward the massive front door when it opened and a small figure came out to greet them. He was dressed in black trousers, a black waistcoat, and a white shirt, with a face the color of old mahogany, and slightly bandy legs. Olivier introduced him as Luc.

  “He lives on the property as a guardian, and he’s a genius with horses.” Olivier turned to Luc and clapped him on the shoulder. “Les chevaux sont vos enfants, eh?”

  The little man nodded and smiled, adding yet more wrinkles to a face already pickled and rutted by the sun. He raised a hand to his ear, thumb and little finger extended. “Monsieur Francis parle sur son portable. Venez!” He led the way into the house and what was obviously the main room, dominated by an enormous fireplace. Lining the walls were paintings and black-and-white photographs of horses and flamingos, and overflowing bookshelves. The horns of a huge black bull’s head served as a hat rack. The furniture was wood and rough leather, primitive but comfortable.

  Reboul finished his call and beckoned Sam over. “My dear Sam, welcome to the Camargue. What can I offer you? Coffee? A beer? Something stronger to keep the mosquitoes away? Come and sit down.”

  The two men settled in front of a window overlooking the long, flat view. “Interesting place you’ve got here,” said Sam. “Do you have much land?”

  Reboul shook his head. “Not a lot-about a hundred acres. We grow a little rice, but the land is mainly for the horses, and it keeps Luc happy. You know, his father was one of the old-style gardians, and he taught Luc to ride when he was four. By the time he was ten, he was working.” Reboul took a look at his watch. “Now then. We’d better start.”

  Sam took a sheaf of papers from a folder and passed them over to Reboul. “There’s some helicopter reading for you. It’s the script. Perhaps you could take a look at it as soon as you can and see if there’s anything you think should be changed. I’m told that the committee speaks English, but to be safe I want to have this translated into French and put in a document that we can give to each of the members to take away. My friend Philippe can help me with that.”

  Reboul gave a nod of approval. “Good idea. Perhaps with a photograph of the project model? Or an artist’s impression? What do you think?”

  It was Sam’s turn to nod. “An artist’s impression would be best. It would allow us to cheat a bit, and put in some background touches.” He scribbled a note on his folder. “Right. Now we come to the big decision.” He reached for his beer and took a long swallow. “Where should we hold the presentation? The chapel of La Charite has already been used. A standard office in a standard office building or a conference room in a big hotel won’t work; they’re exactly what we’re competing against. Also, they’re anonymous and boring, and what I’d like to do is to give the committee something different, something that they won’t forget in a hurry. I’d like to do it on the beach.”

  Reboul’s eyebrows shot up, and then he smiled. “Of course. Let me guess. The Anse des Pecheurs?”

  “Exactly. It’s perfect. I want to get a tent-a big tent, a marquee-put up. We’ll make it into a kind of informal conference room, with a long table and chairs for the committee, maybe a bar-”
r />   “Definitely a bar.”

  “… and we’ll make the presentation at the end of the working day, in the early evening, just as the sun’s beginning to go down. I’ve been down there to check out the sunset. It’s spectacular.” Sam paused, and waited for Reboul’s reaction.

  Reboul shook his head. “Sam, what can I say except bravo? As you say, it’s perfect, a real coup de theatre. But you’re going to need help, and it can’t be seen to come from me.” He stared out of the window, then nodded to himself before turning back to Sam. “Luckily, I have one or two contacts. I will ask one of them to call you. His name is Gaston. You can trust him. He is extremely discreet. And if anybody should ask how you came to know him, you simply say you met him at a cocktail party.” Reboul stood up, came across to Sam, and administered the ultimate seal of approval, a kiss on each cheek. “Congratulations, my friend. Congratulations.”

  Ten

  “Sam, I think I have a problem.” Philippe’s voice sounded concerned and slightly breathless. “It’s business. Can we talk?”

  By now, Sam was familiar enough with Philippe’s working methods to know that one could never conduct an important conversation with him over the phone; it had to be face to face. And with Philippe, there was always a little bar somewhere. “Sure. Where do you want to meet?”

  “There’s a little bar in the Rue de Bir-Hakeim, near the fish market. Le Cinq a Sept. In half an hour. Is that OK?”

  True to form, Le Cinq a Sept was as Sam had come to expect from Philippe’s bars-small and seedy, with the inevitable photograph, in a place of honor behind the bar, of last year’s Marseille soccer team. A scattering of old men, saving up their stubble for the weekly shave, seemed to be the only other customers. Philippe was half hidden in a dim corner. He raised a hand in greeting. “Thanks for coming. I ordered you a pastis-it’s safer here than the wine.”

  Sam topped up his glass with water as Philippe started to talk.

  “An hour or so ago, I was leaving the office when this guy stepped in front of me-a little runt in a sharp suit-and asked me in English if I was Mister Davin. When I told him I was, he said this could be my lucky day. Well, you never know where the next tip-off is going to come from, so I agreed to go with him to a cafe to hear what he had to say. I’m not sure what I was expecting: some story about the English and their yachts, I thought. They often get into trouble down here. Anyway, he started off by telling me he’d seen the piece I did on the Anse des Pecheurs development, and it had really offended his client.”

  “Did he say who his client was?”

  “He didn’t need to. After a couple of minutes it was obvious that he was working for the Englishman Wapping.”

  “How did he recognize you?”

  “It’s the haircut. Remember? There’s a head shot of me at the beginning of the piece. Well, I gave him the usual stuff about the freedom of opinion in the press, and that my editor would probably be happy to give equivalent space in the paper to another point of view. He looked quite pleased with that, nodding and smiling, and then he took out an envelope. A fat envelope.” Philippe paused to take a drink.

  “ ‘Exactly,’ this little con said, ‘another point of view. And you’re just the man to write it. Perhaps you might like some encouragement.’ Then he slid the envelope over to me. ‘You’ll find ten thousand euros in there,’ he said, ‘and there’s more where that came from. A nice little earner, and it’s all yours for a couple of favorable pieces. This is just between you and me, you understand. Nobody else needs to know.’ ”

  “Suppose you went to the police?” said Sam.

  Philippe shook his head. “And tell them what-someone tried to give me ten thousand euros? They’d tell me to get lost.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I told him I didn’t take bribes. Grow up, he said. This is France-everyone takes bribes. That was when I lost it. I told him to take his envelope and shove it up his ass. I said that in French, so he probably didn’t understand it, but he would have understood the tone of my voice. And then I left. What do you think I should do?”

  “What else can you do? If you don’t have any witnesses, it’s your word against his. And if he works for Wapping, you can be sure there’s a crooked lawyer around somewhere who’d swear that the meeting never happened.” Sam shook his head. “No. Try to forget about it. I don’t think he’ll risk coming back, in case you’re ready for him with a recorder in your pocket. Now, I’ve got something that might cheer you up: a little scoop. I’ve got to work out the details, but here’s the idea.”

  Ray Prendergast, his mission unaccomplished, fiddled nervously with the envelope on the desk in front of him while he waited for Lord Wapping to get off the phone. His lordship didn’t take kindly to failure.

  The call over, Wapping poked at the envelope with a thick index finger. “So he didn’t bite?”

  “Afraid not, Billy.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, the last bit was in French, so I didn’t get all of it. But basically, he told me to piss off.”

  “Silly boy. Very silly boy.” Wapping sighed, as if he’d been disappointed by the foolish behavior of a close friend. “Doesn’t leave us much option, does he? You’d better talk to Brian and Dave. Tell them to teach him a lesson. But Ray?” Wapping lowered his voice. “Nothing terminal. Know what I mean? We don’t want any complications. Tell the lads to make it look like an accident.”

  There are certain men, blessed from birth, whose character and appearance inspire instant liking. Gaston Poirier was such a man: an oversized cherub with a pear-shaped body, a chubby, red-cheeked face, and a mop of curly gray hair. His brown eyes twinkled, and his mouth seemed to be permanently on the brink of a grin. Reboul had said he was the best fixer in Marseille. Sam had warmed to him at first sight.

  They were sitting on the terrace, a bottle of rose between them. “I haven’t been back to this house since Francis lived here,” said Gaston. “There were some parties then, I can tell you-girls, champagne, more girls. Wonderful times.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to his new project. Tell me all about it.”

  As Sam went through the background, Gaston made serious inroads on the rose, dabbing his forehead between glasses with a silk handkerchief as though he found the effort of drinking to be truly thirsty work. But he proved to be a model listener, silent and attentive, and when Sam had finished, he nodded several times, an indication that he liked what he had heard.

  “The tent is a good idea,” he said. “Now we must make it work. For the tent itself, pas de soucis, no problem. But the beach is uneven, so you will need a level, solid plank floor. Also electricity. We might need a generator, but I know a guy, an artist with anything electrical, who can tap us into the city’s power grid. And then a projector, a conference table and chairs, and maybe”-here Gaston paused to waggle his eyebrows-“a nice little bar with, bien sur, a nice little barmaid. Have I forgotten anything?”

  Sam knew France well enough to be extremely wary of the long arm of bureaucracy. Someone, somewhere in the city’s administrative labyrinth would have to be consulted, flattered, massaged, possibly taken out to lunch. “There is one thing,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll need a permit.”

  “Oh, that.” Gaston waved a dismissive hand. “Pas de soucis. The mayor is an intelligent man. He will realize that this will be good for Marseille’s image as a dynamique city, getting ready for 2013.” Gaston winked, and tapped the side of his nose. “Besides, we go hunting together in the winter. We’re friends. Maybe you should invite him to the presentation. Anyway, I think I can promise you that we won’t have any trouble with permits. When do you want to do it?”

  The next two days passed slowly for Brian and Dave, but with a pleasant undercurrent of anticipation. It had been a long time since they had been given a chance to do what they did best, which was to inflict grievous bodily harm-or, as they would describe it, putting the boot in. And as a bonus, the victim was French. Like many Englishmen of
their class and generation, they were ardent chauvinists. Here was an opportunity to strike a blow for Mother England against the teeming masses of foreigners who were taking over the world, including most of England’s best soccer clubs.

  They were sitting in a bar on the Vieux Port, which they had chosen because it called itself a pub, a description that, for them, held out the promise of warm beer, darts, and a large TV set permanently tuned to a snooker tournament. Unfortunately, it was a pub in name only, without even a dart board. The television was tuned to a game show, with a lot of Frogs shouting the odds, and the beer was chilled. But it would have taken more than these shortcomings to blunt their enthusiasm for the task in hand.

  So far, they had spent much of the past two days shadowing Philippe and learning his routine. They had followed him in their rented van as he commuted by scooter between the offices of La Provence on the Avenue Roger Salengro and his apartment in an old building just off the Corniche, the broad road that follows the coastline. Dave found it close to ideal, an excellent spot to stage an accident. Plenty of room to maneuver, he thought, and then there was that nasty old drop from the road to the rocks below. Landing on them would slow a man down.

  “Tell you what, Bri,” said Dave. “It looks like a bike job to me-one in front of him, one behind. Crash helmets, so nobody can clock our faces. No worries.” Brian nodded sagely. He always left organizational details to Dave, content to limit his own role to the more physical side of their assignments. This time, however, there was one detail that even he could see might be a problem.

  “But we haven’t got any bikes.”

  “We nick ’em, Bri. We nick ’em. You have a look when we get back out on the street. There’s bikes parked all over the place. Some of them even have a helmet hanging off the handlebars. Or else the helmet will be in that box behind the saddle, and my old mum could open one of those with a nail file.”