by Peter Mayle
Brian nodded again. This was what he liked about working with Dave: his grasp of the fine points. By now, Brian’s beer had become warm enough to drink. As he took a cautious swallow, he thought longingly of something tasty to go with the beer-a proper English pork pie, the kind served in his favorite pub, The Mother’s Ruin, in Stepney. Of course, the Frogs didn’t understand about these things. All the rubbish they ate, it was a miracle they were able to keep body and soul together. Snails, for God’s sake. Horsemeat. He shuddered.
“So when do you reckon we should do it?”
Dave had another swig of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Best would be after work, when he goes out for his dinner. When it’s dark.”
They left the pub and walked back to the van, pausing from time to time to consider the range of bikes on display. It was as Dave had said. Bikes were everywhere-BMWs, Kawasakis, Hondas, Ducatis, even a highly polished Harley-and they had been left in places consistent with the cavalier French habit of parking wherever you please, regardless of regulations.
“We don’t want anything too flash,” said Dave. “Nothing that anyone would remember. And we’ll have to muddy up the number plates.” He ran his hand over a nearby Yamaha and patted the saddle. “Right. Here’s what we’ll do. Tonight, around two o’clock when it’s nice and quiet, we’ll nick the bikes and load ’em in the van. Tomorrow night we’ll do the job and dump the bikes. Piece of cake.”
Brian nodded. “Piece of cake, Dave.”
Philippe was working late, putting the final touches to the article he had spent the afternoon writing. His brush with Ray Prendergast still rankled, and this had caused him to be more than normally enthusiastic about Sam’s idea of putting a tent on the beach. It was, so he wrote, a breath of fresh air blowing into the murky, secretive, and often corrupt world of urban development. He went on to add to the complimentary remarks he’d already made about Sam’s project in a previous article, and finished off with a question: Would the other two projects show similar imagination, or was it going to be business as usual behind closed doors?
He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes, and looked at his watch. An evening of duty lay ahead-the monthly dinner with Elodie and Raoul, Mimi’s parents. If this followed its normal course, there would be discreet questions about his career prospects and a gentle hint or two about getting rid of his scooter, buying a car, and, as Elodie always put it, “settling down.” It was a source of constant surprise to Philippe that this implacably bourgeois couple could ever have produced an unconventional daughter like Mimi. He remembered when she had dyed her hair that wonderful deep red. The parental shock-and barely concealed disapproval-had lasted for weeks. Ah, well. They were basically good, kind people, and Elodie was a magnificent cook. Philippe decided to have a shave in her honor and take her a bunch of roses.
Elena was packing. Sam had learned over the years and on many occasions that this was a sensitive ritual, never to be disturbed. Elena didn’t like to be watched when she was packing. She didn’t like to be helped. Most of all, she didn’t like to be talked to. Her relationship with her suitcase and its contents was one of mystical communion, and woe betide anyone who broke the spell. So Sam had decided to make himself scarce with a book in the living room.
Elena was off to Paris for two or three days, the result of a long and deeply apologetic phone call from her boss, Frank Knox. The Paris office was having a problem with its most important client, the CEO of a group of luxury hotels. He felt neglected, above all by the Knox head office. He felt he needed reassurance about the quality of service he was getting. He felt, in a word, unloved. Would it be possible, Frank had asked, for Elena to go up to Paris and smooth his ruffled feathers? If it seemed as though she had come all the way from Los Angeles just to have a chat with him over dinner, so much the better. In return, Frank had said, he would insist on Elena extending her vacation by an extra week. On hearing the news, Sam had been very understanding. He was going to be busy over the next few days anyway, and her return would be a good excuse to celebrate.
He got up and went over to put his ear against the bedroom door. He was just able to make out the sound of the shower coming from Elena’s bathroom, always a sure sign that the challenges of packing had been successfully overcome. He went through to the kitchen and opened a bottle of the Domaine Ott rose that Reboul had left for them. Carrying two glasses, he arrived back in the living room just as Elena, wet-haired and wrapped in a towel, came through the opposite door.
“All done?” Sam asked.
“All done.” Elena took a sip of her wine and put down her glass. “You know you said we could celebrate when I got back? Well …” She unwrapped the towel and let it drop to the floor. “How about a rehearsal?”
Eleven
“Will you miss me?”
Elena, dressed for the city in business black, was waiting for the early-evening flight to Paris to be called, and she and Sam were having a cup of coffee at the airport bar.
“How am I going to survive?” Sam’s hand, under the table, stroked her silken knee. “Seriously, I’d love to be coming with you, but there’s all kinds of stuff to get ready before the presentation. You know me-a slave to my work. I can’t resist a cozy evening with my laptop.”
Elena smiled. “Mimi taught me this great word the other day. Blagueur. Describes you perfectly.”
“It doesn’t sound good. What does it mean?”
“Joker. Kidder. Someone who’s full of it.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Sam looked up at the departures board. “You’d better get going. Give my love to Paris.”
A kiss, a wave, and she was gone.
Philippe took a final look at the piece he’d just finished, pressed the key that would send it through to the copy desk, and leaned back in his chair. This, for him, was one of the most satisfying moments of his job. Tomorrow, the words he had written would be history, but tonight, they still looked fresh-clear, incisive, well argued, with one or two touches of humor. He allowed himself a mental pat on the back. He had a couple of calls to make, and then he would be done for the day.
It was late, almost nine o’clock, by the time he went downstairs to pick up his scooter from the parking garage.
Reboul answered his phone on the third ring.
“Francis? Sam-I hope I’m not calling at a bad time?”
“Not at all, Sam, not at all. I’m all alone with a pile of papers from my accountant.” A gusty sigh came down the phone. “Business! One of these days I’m going to give it up, move to one of those shacks on the beach, find a brown-skinned girl, and become a fisherman.”
“Sure you will. And I’m going to enter a monastery. Meanwhile, I have a bit of good news: Philippe just called. He’s done what sounds like a useful piece about our presentation: ‘A Tent on the Anse des Pecheurs’ is the headline. It’s going to be in the paper later this week.”
“Good. That should make Patrimonio’s day. Has he fixed the date for the presentation yet?”
“End of next week, so Gaston has plenty of time to set everything up.”
“What did you think of him?”
“Gaston? A total rogue.”
Reboul chuckled. “You’re right. But don’t forget, my dear Sam, he’s our rogue. Let me know if you have any problems, d’accord? Oh, and Sam? I thought it would be amusing to celebrate the presentation with a little dinner-very quiet, just the four of us. I’d like you to meet my new friend.”
Let’s hope we have something to celebrate, Sam thought as he put the phone down. Both Reboul and Philippe seemed to think the result was a foregone conclusion, but Sam wasn’t so sure. Wapping was a tough opponent, and Patrimonio was no fool. They weren’t about to give up quickly.
Restless and already missing Elena, Sam tried her number. Her phone was switched off. By now, she was probably sitting in some pompous restaurant with her client, doing her best to appear fascinated by his description of the problems of running a c
hain of hotels. Not for the first time, Sam thought how lucky he was to have a life that offered so much variety and so little routine. Consoled by this, he poured himself a glass of wine and went back to his presentation.
The atmosphere in the master’s cabin of The Floating Pound was not as convivial as usual. Lord Wapping was somewhat on edge. His spies had been picking up altogether too many favorable comments made by the committee about Sam’s proposal. And so Patrimonio had been summoned for a council of war.
“I don’t like what I’m hearing, Jerome. All this rubbish about a breath of fresh air, something for the people of Marseille-well, you’ve heard it all, I’m sure. It’s got to stop. Can’t you tell those blokes on the committee to put a cork in it?”
Wapping’s vocabulary often puzzled Patrimonio, but this time the sense was clear. His Lordship wanted his hand held. Patrimonio shot his cuffs, smoothed back his hair, and put on his most reassuring smile. “Oh, I don’t think we need to worry. I know these men, and they know I’ll take care of them. Let them have their say. In the end they will come to their senses. In any case, it’s votes that count, not a few remarks made for the benefit of the public. And votes, we must remember, are cast in secret.”
Wapping was sufficiently encouraged to pour two glasses of Krug from the bottle that stood in a crystal bucket at his elbow. Patrimonio took a first sip, raised his eyebrows in approval, and leaned forward, a frown on his face. It was his turn to be reassured. “There is a small concern.” He shrugged, as if to show how small it was. “That little salaud of a journalist. I hope we can be sure he won’t be writing any more of his nonsense, and I remember you said he would be taken care of.”
Wapping looked at him in silence for a moment. “As I said to you the other day, I don’t think you want to hear any details.”
Patrimonio sat back in his chair and fluttered a manicured hand. “No, no. It’s just …” His voice tailed off, and he dived back into his champagne.
“Good.” Wapping raised his glass. “Well then. Here’s to a well-deserved success.”
Five minutes later, Patrimonio was in a boat taxi heading back to Marseille.
Ray Prendergast, although not a gourmet by nature, had recently begun to look forward to his meals with increased interest. France was all very well for some people, he thought, but not for him. Quite apart from the irritating babble of the language, he had a problem with French food. It was always mucked about with-all those sauces and bits and pieces, a man didn’t know what he was eating. And then, a few days ago, someone had told him about Geoffrey’s of Antibes. It had come as a truly life-changing revelation.
Geoffrey’s was an emporium-no other word could do it justice-dedicated to the particular taste buds of hungry expatriates homesick for British grub. All the traditional favorites of British cuisine were there: bacon, proper sausages, baked beans, pork pies, beef curry. There was blue Stilton, there was Old Speckled Hen beer. There was even porridge, and McVitie’s Chocolate Digestive biscuits. And when he learned that the maritime division of Geoffrey’s provided a boat delivery service, Ray Prendergast thought that fate had indeed smiled upon him.
He was just settling down with a bacon sandwich and a pornographic DVD that had been lent to him by Tiny de Salis when his phone rang. Lord Wapping had a couple of questions.
“You’ve been missing a lot of meals lately, Ray. Chef’s worried about you. You all right?”
“Better than ever, Billy.” He was halfway through an enthusiastic account of his new gastronomic discovery when Wapping cut him short.
“Some other time, Ray. What I need to know now is where we stand with that little tosser of a journalist. What’s happening?”
“Well, the lads have done their homework, they’re tooled up, and they’re waiting for the right moment. Timing is everything, know what I mean? But Dave did say that tonight could be the night. He’s going to call me when it’s done. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear.”
Wapping nodded. “You do that, Ray. Oh, this bloke Geoffrey that you’re so keen on. Does he do kippers?”
“There he is.” Moving as one, Brian and Dave pulled down the visors of their crash helmets and kicked their bikes into life. They had spent the evening waiting for Philippe to leave the office. Tonight he was later than usual, which Brian and Dave thought was a good omen. The Frogs would all be at the trough having dinner, there would be less traffic on the roads, and so it would be easier to keep an eye on their victim from a distance.
Staying about a hundred yards behind him, they followed Philippe as he cut through a tangle of back streets and alleys that eventually led to the Vieux Port. This was the crucial moment. Was he going out to dinner somewhere in the crowded center of the city, or was he going home along the less busy Corniche?
He headed south along the side of the Vieux Port, then kept going straight. Brian and Dave exchanged a thumbs-up; he was heading home.
The air was still quite warm, and the breeze coming in from the sea had a pleasantly salty smell. The Corniche was hardly deserted-it never was-but traffic was light, and Philippe relaxed in his saddle, pleased that for once he didn’t have to dodge too many lunatic, scooter-hating motorists.
He heard the sound of an engine behind him, and glanced across at the big Kawasaki as it passed. It moved over until it was directly in front of him, and slowed down. Then he heard another engine closing in, and saw a second bike in his rear-view mirror. And that’s when he knew he was in trouble. He was now the filling in the sandwich. It was the classic hijacker’s setup. His underpowered scooter had no chance of getting away.
The next few moments passed in a blur. The bike behind him drew level with him and closed in until it was almost touching the scooter. Brian’s size-twelve boot thumped into Philippe’s knee, throwing the scooter off balance, unseating Philippe, and sending him skidding across the Corniche. His last conscious thought was that he should have worn his crash helmet. After that, darkness.
“Nice one,” said Dave. “I thought that went off very well.” They were back in their rented van after leaving the bikes neatly parked behind the Gare Marseille Saint-Charles, Marseille’s principal railroad station. “I’d better call Ray and put him out of his misery.”
“It’s all done and dusted, Raymond. A good, neat job. No witnesses.”
“What was the damage?”
Dave rolled his eyes. “I didn’t stop to ask him, did I? But he’s not going to be playing football for a few weeks, that’s for sure.”
Lord Wapping received the news with satisfaction, tinged with relief. He needed something to cheer him up after a day when the banks had been peppering him with e-mails. They had become more and more insistent, and all with the same depressing message: Where’s our money? We need our money. Wapping would have loved to tell them to shove it, but he had nowhere to go. It was too late to raise that kind of money anywhere else. He sat there brooding over his champagne. He had started off as the favorite, and he and Patrimonio had done all they could to sweeten the committee’s pie. Even so, he had the nagging feeling that this particular race was in danger of going to the outsider, the American and his bloody beach huts.
Back in his old bookmaking days, there had usually been a chance to fix the result of a race. Jockeys-some of them, at least-had been known to accept a discreet bribe. Horses, delicate creatures that they were, could be made to feel out of sorts on race day, with the cooperation of a helpful stable lad. One way or another, the performance of a promising outsider could sometimes be adjusted to meet the needs of business. It was called nobbling.
Wapping stared out at the blackness of the Mediterranean, turning this over in his mind.
By the time Sam closed his laptop it was almost midnight. Too late, he decided, to call Elena. And so her call came as a pleasant surprise.
“Sam, I hope I didn’t wake you, but after this evening I need some light relief.”
“That bad, was it?”
“Worse. Dinner was just one long mon
ologue. Then he wanted to go dancing at Castel. Sam, what is it with short men?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve noticed it before. They’re like climbing plants. Hands everywhere.”
It reminded Sam of the old story about Mickey Rooney, who was famously short and famously attracted to very tall women. He shared the story with Elena. Many years ago, in Paris, Rooney was introduced to one of the Bluebell Girls, the troupe of dancers noted for their beauty and their statuesque proportions. Mickey was instantly smitten.
“You’re sensational,” he said to the girl. “Oh God, how I’d like to make love to you.”
The Bluebell Girl looked down on him from her considerable height (she was six foot four in heels). “Well, if you do,” she said, “and I ever find out about it, you’ll be in serious trouble.”
Elena laughed. “Thanks, Sam. I needed that. Luckily, he has to be in Berlin tomorrow afternoon. We have a morning meeting, and then I’m out of here. Can’t wait.”
Twelve
Philippe opened one bleary eye, and flinched. Everything was bright and white, including the nurse who was bending over him.
“How do we feel?” Her voice had that optimistic perkiness nurses adopt when they’re sure that the patient won’t die on their shift.
Philippe considered the question. He was warm, comfortable, relaxed, free of pain, almost floating. He grinned at the nurse. “We feel terrific.”
“That’s the morphine. You’ve had a bad accident, but you’ve been very lucky. You hit a lamppost, and that stopped you going over the edge of the Corniche. You’ve broken a couple of ribs, and you have multiple lacerations and a black eye, but that’s all.”
“That’s all?”
“It could have been much worse. Now then. Drink this. Dr. Joel will be coming to see you in a few minutes. There’s a phone on your bedside table if you want to call anyone.”
