by Peter Mayle
Philippe called Mimi, Mimi called Elena, and by the time Dr. Joel had come and gone, the two of them, plus Sam, were gathered around his bed.
“Mon pauvre garcon,” said Mimi, kissing the tip of Philippe’s nose. “Whatever happened? Were you …?” She brought her fist up to her mouth, thumb extended, the classic gesture that is shorthand for too much to drink.
Philippe shook his head gingerly. “I hadn’t touched a drop, honestly-not even a glass of rose. Two bikes boxed me in, one in front, one behind. And then, paf!, a kick in the knee knocked me off the scooter. I’m sure it was a professional job, but God knows why they did it. I don’t think they stole anything-there was nothing to steal-so perhaps it was just for a bit of fun.”
“Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”
Another tentative shake of the head. “Not a chance. They had the visors on their helmets pulled down.”
Sam was frowning. In his experience, professionals didn’t do anything for fun. These two had meant to teach Philippe a lesson, perhaps even kill him. But why? Who would gain if he were out of action? It didn’t take long to come to the obvious conclusion. “When is that piece on the tent coming out?”
“Tomorrow,” said Mimi. “The editor loved it.”
“So it couldn’t have been that. But your first article didn’t go down too well with some people-Patrimonio, for one. And you had that row with him at the cocktail party. Even so, that’s not reason enough to take someone out. No, it wouldn’t be Patrimonio; it has to be Wapping. He’s in bed with Patrimonio, and he tried to bribe you to shut you up. It has to be him.”
Philippe fixed Sam with his one good eye. “OK. That makes sense. And I’ll tell you something: If the first piece made him furious, tomorrow’s piece will give him a heart attack.” He turned to Mimi, and grinned. “Do you think the paper will spring for a bodyguard?”
“I have a better idea,” said Sam. “I think you should disappear.”
“Sam, you’ve been reading too many thrillers. Besides, I’m not going to stop working just because of that connard.”
“You won’t have to stop working. You just won’t be working in your office, in your apartment, or anywhere else you normally go, because then you’d be a sitting duck for Wapping’s goons. You’re going to vanish from all your old haunts. You’re going to come and live with us.”
Sam held up his hand before Philippe could interrupt. “It’s perfect. There’s plenty of room. The house is secluded and protected; it couldn’t be safer. There’s a car and driver whenever you need them, there’s a housekeeper, a maid, and us to look after you. As I said, it’s perfect. I don’t want an argument. How soon can we get you out of here?”
Dr. Joel was consulted and he eventually agreed, on the condition that a nurse come in every day to check on Philippe and change his dressings. Olivier the driver met them at the hospital entrance, while Mimi went off to collect a few clothes from Philippe’s apartment. By the time the good people of Marseille were sitting down to lunch, Olivier and his passengers were making their way through the double gates leading to the house.
“This is bizarre,” said Philippe. “I think I know this place.” He nodded once or twice as he looked around. “In fact, I’m sure I know it. A few years ago-it must have been a flat time for news-the paper did a big feature on the homes of Marseille’s rich and famous. This was one of them. It used to belong to Reboul before he bought Le Pharo. Maybe it still does.” He looked at Sam, his face made slightly sinister by his black eye. “So how did you find it?”
For a few days now, Sam had been feeling increasingly uncomfortable that he had hidden his connection with Reboul from Philippe. He decided it was time to come clean. “We need to have a chat,” he said, “but not on an empty stomach. It’s a long story. Let’s leave it until after lunch.”
Alas, that proved to be too much of a wait for Philippe. A man desperate for a nap, he only just missed falling asleep in his dessert. It wasn’t until the early evening, l’heure du pastis, that they settled down on the terrace. Sam collected his thoughts and started at the beginning.
Philippe was fascinated. It was a story within a story, and it was only with the greatest reluctance that he agreed to keep Reboul’s name out of the articles he was planning to write.
For the time being, anyway. “Once this is over,” said Sam, “I can guarantee you an interview with Reboul. Exclusive. Do we have a deal?”
Philippe reached over to shake hands. “We have a deal.”
“Actually, I’m sure you’ll like him.”
Philippe shook his head and grinned. “I never met an exclusive I didn’t like.”
The following morning, reactions to Philippe’s article were predictably mixed.
Philippe himself enjoyed a few moments of modest satisfaction. For once, he didn’t want to rewrite the piece as soon as he saw it in type. It was flagged on the front page, and took up most of page three. The tone was informative and concise, with the occasional graceful turn of phrase, and the artist’s impression of the tent on the beach needed only a few topless sunbathers to look just like Saint-Tropez. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Sam was looking over Philippe’s shoulder as he read. “Nobody’s going to miss that,” he said. “But I don’t think Patrimonio will be sending you a Christmas card this year.”
The piece had already ruined Patrimonio’s breakfast, and was doing the same to his entire morning. Members of the committee had been calling to express their opinions, and they were almost all favorable. “Good to see a little imagination” was mentioned more than once, as was that old standby, “a breath of fresh air.” The only minor criticism came from the committee’s oldest member, a veteran in his eighties, who complained that there was no mention of toilet facilities, a subject of particular interest to him. But on the whole, it was seen as an enthusiastic endorsement of Sam’s idea.
Patrimonio’s call to Wapping was short, loud, and hostile.
“I thought you said you were taking care of that salaud of a journalist?”
Wapping bristled. He wasn’t used to being shouted at. “What are you talking about? The boys sorted him out the night before last.”
“Have you seen this morning’s paper?”
“Why? What about it?”
“C’est une catastrophe. Call me when you’ve read it.”
Elena swept out of the bedroom and performed a twirl so that Sam could appreciate her dress-summery, flimsy, almost diaphanous. “Worth the wait,” he said. “Well worth the wait. Are you ready?”
Sam had promised to celebrate Elena’s return from Paris with lunch overlooking the sea. But first, there was a little business: a rendezvous with Gaston on the beach, where the tent was being put up in preparation for the presentation.
Gaston saw them as they arrived and waddled across the beach to greet them. By now, Sam was used to the effusions of gallantry that Elena inspired in French men, and Gaston was no exception. Cradling Elena’s hand in both of his, he raised it to his lips like a thirsty man reaching out for water. While one hand continued to hold hers, the other began a slow, smooth movement up her arm, which would doubtless have continued if Elena hadn’t giggled.
“What a delightful surprise,” said Gaston. “I was expecting only Sam.” And then, with a wink directed at Elena, “Come with me to my tent.”
As they walked inside, Sam was struck by the warm, golden glow made by the sun filtering through white canvas. If the presentation was held as planned in the early evening there would be no need for artificial light. “Once the floor’s down, this is going to look great,” he said. “But suppose people start dropping in off the street and having a party?”
“Pas de soucis. I’ve arranged security-two big boys, Jules and Jim, and two Rottweilers. They’ll be here every night.” Gaston led them over to the far side of the tent. “Here is where I think the bar should be. You see? If you turn around and look through the entrance over there, you’ll be able to watch the sun set as
you drink your champagne. What could be more agreeable?”
As Gaston’s guided tour continued, Sam relaxed. The details had been taken care of. Everything from the size and positioning of the bar to the provision for electricity if needed, from the conference table and chairs to notepads and pencils-it had all been thought through and dealt with. There was even a small but elegant cabinet de toilette tucked away behind the tent.
Gaston waved aside Sam’s congratulations. “C’est normal, my friend. And now, although it breaks my heart to say au revoir to mademoiselle, I must leave you. I have a lunch appointment with my friend the mayor.”
Back on the Corniche, they stopped so that Elena could slip off her shoes and shake out the sand. “What did you think of our new partner in crime?” asked Sam.
“Gaston? He’s cute,” she said. “And I’m starving. How far is lunch?”
“Just up the road.”
Peron is one of those restaurants you dream about in the depths of a cold, dark winter. It is suspended high above the Mediterranean, facing south, and so the urban clutter of cranes, buildings, and power lines is nowhere to be seen. The view is pure, shining sea, its surface ruffled from time to time by the wake of the occasional small boat. In the distance is the miniature archipelago of the Frioul islands, gray-green at midday, turning purple at sunset. And when you tear yourself away from the view, there is the food-fish of every local variety caught that morning and cooked by one of the best chefs on the coast.
Feeling as though they had left dry land and stepped onto the deck of a spacious, immobile boat, Elena and Sam followed the hostess as she led them toward the corner of the terrace. A bellow of English coming from a large group nearby announced the presence of Lord Wapping, seated at his regular table, surrounded by his regular entourage of hangers-on. The group fell silent as Elena and Sam passed. Sam exchanged nods with Wapping, who turned to watch them as they reached their table, his expression malevolent.
“What a pretty girl, sweetie, don’t you think?” said Annabel. “Although perhaps not-she’s a little ethnic for you, with that rather suspect dark skin and all that black hair. You prefer us English roses, don’t you.” There was a grunt from Wapping, the sound of a laugh from the end of the table, and conversation resumed.
After their first chilled sip of Cassis, Elena and Sam turned their attention to the menu, which Elena discovered was filled with exotic names that she had never seen in Los Angeles: pagre and rascasse, rouget and daurade. And then her eye was caught by the veritable bouillabaisse de Marseille, the legendary “golden soup.”
“Have you ever had that, Sam?”
“Last time I was in Marseille, with Philippe. He’s a bouillabaisse addict-he spent the entire dinner telling me about it. It’s good. Kind of messy, but good.”
“What’s in it, exactly?”
“Pretty much anything that swims in the Mediterranean: John Dory, conger eel, scorpion fish, sea hen, lots more. Then you have tomatoes, potatoes, onions, garlic, saffron, olive oil, parsley. And then there’s the rouille-that’s a kind of thick, spicy mayonnaise, with more garlic, more saffron, more olive oil, and hot peppers. And last, you need thin slices of toasted baguette. Oh, and an oversized napkin to cover you from the neck down. Try it. You’ll like it.”
Elena was not too sure. “Well …”
“There’s a bonus. As this is the first time you’ve had it, you’re entitled to a wish.”
“Will you still find me irresistible when I reek of garlic?”
“I’m having it too. We’ll reek together.”
Helped by their waiter, Elena adjusted her napkin until she felt she was safe from attacks by flying rouille, and watched as the ingredients were laid out in front of her.
“Allow me,” said Sam. He took a small slice of baguette, spread it with thick, dark-red rouille, and soaked it in the soup until the bread was soft and thoroughly moist. “You ready?”
Elena leaned forward, opened her mouth, and closed her eyes.
She chewed, she swallowed, her eyes opened wide. “Mmm,” she said. “More.”
One minor drawback of bouillabaisse is that it takes up so much of the eaters’ concentrated attention that simple speech is often difficult, let alone the cut and thrust of spirited conversation. And so this first part of their meal passed with little more than small sounds of pleasure. It wasn’t until the debris had been cleared away and fresh napkins provided that they could lean back and talk to one another again.
Sam was the first to break the contented silence. “Have you made that wish?”
“Right now? I think my wish would be to stay like this, a long way away from the insurance business, crooked clients, pompous executives, endless meetings, L.A. smog, desk lunches-in other words, away from real life.” She put down the menu she’d been studying, and grinned. “But for the time being, I’ll settle for the black-and-white ice cream.”
They lingered over their coffee, watching the seagulls swooping low over the terrace in search of scraps. A long, sunny afternoon lay ahead, and they were comparing the merits of a boat trip to the calanques with the lure of the pool when Sam’s phone rang.
Real life was on the line, in the form of Jerome Patrimonio’s secretary. It was necessary, so she said, for Sam to come at once to the office for an urgent and important meeting with Monsieur Patrimonio. Sam sighed and shook his head as he put down the phone. He had probably forgotten to dot an i or cross a t on one of the seemingly endless documents that had to be presented with the bid.
But when he arrived at Patrimonio’s office, the great man clearly had more pressing matters on his mind, and Sam had barely taken his seat before Patrimonio shot his cuffs and got down to business.
“This affair of the tent,” he said. “It is, I’m afraid, unacceptable. Completely unacceptable. We cannot have Marseille’s public spaces used to promote commercial interests.”
“Why not?” said Sam. “This is a development that will benefit the city and the people who live here.”
“That may be so. But you must agree that you are trying to create an unfair advantage for yourself over the other two bidders.”
“I thought that’s what business was all about. In any case, there is nothing to stop them using other public spaces for their presentations-the O.M. stadium, for instance. Or La Vieille Charite, which I seem to remember you yourself used.”
Patrimonio shot his cuffs with a violence that threatened to rip his shirtsleeves off. “Altogether different,” he said. “And you have chosen to ignore the crucial matter of permissions.” He sat back in his chair and nodded with considerable emphasis, as though he had just scored a definitive victory. “Without my permission, this scheme of yours cannot go ahead. Point final. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another meeting.”
Sam resisted the impulse to shoot his own cuffs in reply. “You didn’t give me the chance to tell you,” he said. “But I do have permission. From the mayor. Your boss.”
Thirteen
“I don’t believe this. He’s got permission from the mayor? Have you checked?” Lord Wapping took his half-smoked cigar-a Cohiba, he liked to tell people, fifteen quid apiece-and crushed it to death in the ashtray.
“It’s true,” said Patrimonio. “I regret infinitely, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“As per bloody usual. And I thought you had the whole thing sewn up. But no. First the journalist and now this. What about the mayor? Is he for sale?”
Patrimonio thought about the mayor’s irreproachable record, his constant efforts to reduce crime, his loathing of corruption. “I think it would be most unwise to try anything with the mayor. That would immediately destroy our chances.”
“What about that other place? Have you got that sorted out?”
“Of course. No problem.”
“That makes a change.” Wapping put down the phone and tried to relight the remains of his cigar. As soon as he had heard about the tent on the beach, he had told Patrimonio to find an
equally unusual setting for his presentation, and a renovated grain silo down near the port had been suggested. It wouldn’t attract the publicity of the tent, but it was certainly better than the Parisian team’s choice of the conference room in a Marseille hotel, where their presentation was being held that afternoon.
His Lordship brooded. He was running out of time, and he was running out of excuses to fend off the banks. Desperate measures were called for. He summoned Ray Prendergast, and went over the situation with him.
Prendergast listened and nodded, looking more than ever like an attentive gnome. “What we have here, Billy,” he said as Wapping finished his tale of woe, “is an opportunity to think outside the box. Now then, when is Levitt’s presentation? Day after tomorrow, right? So there’s not time to start all over again if an accident should happen.”
“Who to?”
“Not who to, Billy. Not this time. I was thinking of something more along the lines of a natural catastrophe-Brian and Dave and a box of matches. Very careless with the matches, our Dave. And what happens? Guy Fawkes’s night with all the fireworks, that’s what. Whoops, the tent goes up in flames, and so does the presentation.”
The idea appealed to Wapping instantly. It was crude, simple, and menacing, like some of the stunts he’d pulled in the old days. Besides, time was short and there weren’t many options. He nodded. “All right, Ray. We’ll give it a go. Wait until the last minute-tomorrow night. Don’t let them have a chance to find another tent.”
In addition to all his other responsibilities, Gaston had been given the task of finding an interpreter to help with Sam’s presentation. Most of the project committee spoke some English, but Sam was anxious that nobody should miss any important details.
Two candidates had survived Gaston’s selection process, and Sam had arranged to interview them at the house. Elena was standing by, more out of curiosity than a sense of duty, to welcome the two hopefuls. The first was a young Frenchwoman in her twenties, Mademoiselle Silvestre, and it was instantly clear why Gaston had picked her. Despite the black dress and the attache case, there was more than a hint of the bedroom about her, accentuated by her perfume, the height of her heels, and the elaborate way in which she adjusted her skirt and crossed her legs after she’d sat down.
