The Marseille Caper sl-2

by Peter Mayle

  Introductions were made, and Sam’s hand was vigorously mauled by each of them. Brawny, barrel-chested, black-haired, with the blue eyes that one sometimes finds around the Mediterranean, they looked tough and competent. “Serious men” was how Reboul had described them. He looked at his watch. “We don’t have much time. Did you bring the uniforms?” The Figatellis nodded. “Good. Now let me fill you in.”

  Half an hour later, the four of them were on their way back to the airport. Sam had been impressed by the way the brothers had responded to the briefing, listening intently, interrupting only to ask intelligent questions. He allowed himself to feel renewed stirrings of optimism. Now all he had to do was recruit his nurse.

  He called her from the plane. “Daphne, it’s Sam. I’ve got a real problem. Could you possibly meet me at the house in an hour or so?”

  “What have you been up to, you naughty boy? Of course I’ll be there.” As Daphne Perkins finished the call she experienced an agreeable tingle of anticipation. She had arranged an afternoon of whist and polite conversation with some friends, but this would undoubtedly be more interesting. Sam was always getting up to something interesting. Such a scamp.

  Elena stirred, opened her eyes, and tried to sit up. She felt thick and nauseous. Her throat was dry, and she was having difficulty focusing. She was barely aware of the figure sitting at her side in the darkened cabin, barely felt the needle going into her arm. She slept again.

  “If you have a bottle of stout, dear, that would do very nicely. It’s the heat.”

  Sam looked in the fridge. The nearest thing to stout he could find was a bottle of German Bock, which he poured into a glass and put in front of Daphne. She took a long, thirsty swallow. “That’s much better, dear. Thank you. Those roads are so hot, and my poor old 2CV doesn’t have air-conditioning.” She took another swallow, and dabbed her lips with a lace handkerchief. “Now then. What is this problem you mentioned?”

  By the time Sam had finished explaining, Daphne’s mouth was tight with anger. “Blackguards!” she said. “They should be horsewhipped. That poor, poor girl. What can I do to help?”

  Sam took her through the preparations that were being made for the rescue attempt. “And I’m going to be the doctor,” he said. “But here’s the problem. I can disguise my appearance, but I can’t disguise my voice. So I’m going to pretend to be a French doctor who doesn’t speak a word of English. And that’s where I hope you come in, as an interpreter with full medical qualifications, able to pass on my instructions in English. In other words, you will be Nurse Perkins, the doctor’s right arm.” Sam looked at her, his expression quizzical, his head cocked. “That is, if you’re prepared to do it.”

  The beam on Daphne’s face was answer enough. “What fun!” she said. “Of course I’ll do it.”

  “You don’t happen to have a nurse’s uniform, by any chance?”

  Daphne pursed her lips. “It’s been many years since a man asked me that, dear. I don’t. But I can get one from my friend who works at La Timone. It’s a big hospital, and they have everything there-plenty of uniforms. Shall I get a stethoscope as well?”

  Sam was smiling with relief. “Why not? Actually, get two.”

  They agreed that Daphne should come back to the house that evening around nine o’clock, and they would set off for the Vieux Port just before ten. As Sam watched her drive the old Deux Chevaux through the gate, he gave her a mental three cheers. With women like that, he thought, it was no wonder the British Empire had lasted so long.

  Sam found Mimi and Philippe by the pool-Mimi wrapped up on a chaise longue under a parasol, and Philippe in the shallow end doing the exercises that had been prescribed by his nurse. He waved to Sam and climbed up the steps from the pool, wincing as he climbed. “It’s bizarre,” he said, “I can move in the water with no pain at all, but now … ouf! How did you get on?”

  “We have our nurse: Miss Perkins, the lady who helped me out with the presentation. She’s terrific. She’ll be here tonight in her full nurse’s regalia. If you like, I’ll get her to take Mimi’s temperature.”

  “What about your outfit?”

  “Olivier’s picking it up now. And the two boys from Corsica are coming up to the house at nine. We’ll all go off together. If we get to the boat just after ten, between dinner and bedtime, that should be about right. With any luck they’ll all be drunk.”

  “Is there room for a disabled journalist on the speedboat?”

  “Not a chance. But look at it this way: you get the story without getting wet.”

  Seventeen

  A soft, warm Marseille evening held the promise of a fine, calm night. A good omen, Sam thought. You can plan just about everything else, but you can’t plan the weather. Rain and a tearing mistral in an open speedboat would have made a depressing start to the expedition, and it was an expedition that had enough problems already.

  He looked at his watch: 8:30. It was time to transform himself into Dr. Ginoux, specialist in contagious tropical diseases. He went into the bedroom, where his disguise-compliments of Reboul’s contacts-had been laid out on the bed: a full set of hospital scrubs, a pair of white rubber Crocs (the discerning doctor’s footwear of choice), a close-fitting cotton operating hat, a face mask, and a well-worn Gladstone bag. Next to these were two purchases Sam had made that afternoon: a high-tech light meter of the kind used by professional photographers, and a pair of heavy, black-framed glasses with plain lenses.

  Sam took off his clothes. Was the correctly dressed doctor supposed to have medically approved underwear? Too bad. He put on the scrubs, the mask, the glasses, and the close-fitting hat, and went over to inspect himself in a full-length mirror, his Crocs squeaking on the parquet. A totally unrecognizable figure peered back at him. He felt a shiver of adrenaline. It wouldn’t be long now.

  He checked the contents in both sides of the Gladstone bag. There were enough thermometers to take the temperature of an entire boat’s crew, several pairs of Latex gloves, a flashlight, spare face masks, and half a dozen loaded syringes. In the bag’s other compartment, a selection of dressings, antiseptic ointment, and a stethoscope. He was ready. Now all he needed to do was to find the patient.

  Mimi and Philippe, waiting for him in the living room, looked him over. Mimi pronounced Sam completely anonymous. And, she added, a little frightening.

  Philippe did a tour of inspection around him, nodding as he went. “Very good,” he said. “Maybe you could have a look at my ribs? No, seriously-not even Elena would recognize you.”

  Sam pushed the face mask down until it hung around his neck, took off the glasses and the hat, and looked at his watch. The hands seemed to be stuck.

  “Waiting is hard, isn’t it?” said Mimi.

  “Sure is.”

  They heard the sound of tires on gravel and the slamming of car doors. Sam went to open the front door. The Figatelli brothers, still carrying their bulky bags, loomed large in the half-light of the entrance.

  “You en forme, Sam? Ready to go? We’ve been down in the Vieux Port, checking the boat. Everything’s fine, and we’re lucky with the weather. The sea is like this.” Jo passed a flat hand, palm down, in front of his body, as if stroking a straight line.

  Sam introduced the brothers to Mimi and Philippe and had just shown them into the bedroom to change when he heard the tinny clatter of another car, Miss Perkins’s 2CV. The final member of the team had arrived.

  Nurse Perkins, as Sam would henceforth think of her, was an immaculate credit to the medical profession. A severe bun had replaced her normal, more relaxed hairstyle. Her long white jacket, starched rigid, carried a small battery of thermometers in one breast pocket. Pinned to the outside of the other pocket was a nurse’s watch attached to a black ribbon. A starched white skirt, white stockings, white shoes, and a clipboard with pen completed the outfit. Florence Nightingale would have been proud of her.

  “Perfect,” said Sam. “Absolutely perfect.”

  “I do hope so, dear.
I’m a little late because I had to restarch everything. These young girls nowadays never use enough, and then one becomes rumpled, which would never do for me.”

  Mimi and Philippe were watching, fascinated by this vision in white.

  “Mimi and Philippe,” said Sam, “meet Daphne. She’s our secret weapon.” Smiles and handshakes were exchanged, and Philippe was just about to ask exactly what a secret weapon would do on a boat when Daphne, looking over his shoulder, said, “Oh my goodness-what strapping young men.”

  With the change into police uniform, Flo and Jo seemed to have grown even bigger, the pistols and handcuffs on their belts adding an extra touch of menace to their already forbidding appearance. They saluted, took off their peaked hats, and grinned.

  “Florian and Joseph,” said Sam, “but I think they prefer to be called Flo and Jo.”

  “So much more chummy,” said Daphne, looking from one to the other. “But how do we tell who’s who?”

  “I’m the good-looking one,” they said in unison.

  Sam led them through to the dining room and sat them down. “I’d like to go through a few points so we’re all on the same page tonight. Stop me if you have any questions, OK?” He looked around at the attentive faces and smiled. “First, thank you for helping me. This is a lousy situation, and I don’t know what I’d have done without you. These people have already gone after our friend here”-he nodded toward Philippe-“and when I think of them taking Elena, I feel … well, I’m sure you know how I feel. So thank you. Thank you very much.”

  Sam stopped to take a breath and gather his thoughts. “Now, problem number one is getting on board Wapping’s boat. The uniforms are going to help, obviously, and then there’s the cover story of a rogue virus going around the port. I’m hoping that should do it.” He looked at the Figatellis. “There’s a megaphone on the speedboat, right?” Florian nodded and gave him the thumbs up. “Good. Well, let’s assume that the emergency medical team has talked its way on board. Here’s where Daphne is crucial. Remember that I’m supposed to be a French doctor, and I only speak French. So, right at the start, Daphne will have to tell them that she will translate my instructions into English. If we need to, we can consult together in a corner, somewhere they can’t hear my voice. All clear so far?”

  Heads were nodding around the table. “OK. I’d like one policeman, Flo, to come aboard with Daphne and me. Jo stays in the speedboat in case anyone tries to slip away. Now here’s the tricky part. We don’t know what we’re going to find on board. We don’t know the boat’s layout or where the hiding places might be. But I’m counting on the element of surprise. They won’t be expecting us, and so Elena will probably be locked in one of the cabins.” He stopped and looked around the table.

  “If that’s the case, it’s possible they might refuse to unlock the door. That’s when Flo gets nasty. Through Daphne, he’ll tell them that they’re obstructing official business, and if they don’t open the door he’ll kick it down. These are Englishmen we’re dealing with, and they’re not going to argue with a foreign police officer.”

  Philippe raised a hand. “Let’s say everything goes according to plan,” he said, “and you find Elena. How are you going to get her off the boat? Wapping and all the crew aren’t going to just stand there and wave goodbye.”

  Sam nodded. “We talked about this coming over from Corsica. The moment we find Elena, Flo will take out that ugly big gun of his and fire a shot-into the air, into the ceiling, through a porthole, it doesn’t matter. A gunshot at close quarters does two things to people: it makes them scared and it makes them freeze. In this case, it will also be the signal for Jo to come up and join us. We will then have two armed men. I don’t think anyone would be stupid enough to try his luck with two guns pointed at him. Also, Daphne and I have half a dozen syringes filled with a powerful anesthetic-one jab would make an elephant go down. And, as I said, we’ll have surprise on our side. So we should be OK. Anything else?”

  Flo raised a hand. “We need six glasses.” He reached down and produced a dark-green bottle with a handwritten label. “We must drink to our success.”

  Sam laughed, and the tension left the room. “Why not?”

  While Mimi was getting the glasses, Daphne asked Jo what was in the bottle. “Myrte, chere madame, myrte, the Corsican liqueur. Very good. I made it myself. We have a custom in the Figatelli family to drink a toast before we go out on a job. We have found it brings luck.”

  The glasses were filled, the mission was toasted, and Daphne, who was drinking myrte for the first time, gave a little shudder of pleasure as her first sip went down. “Oh my, that’s very good indeed. Do you know, it reminds me of Owbridges.” Seeing the blank looks around the table, she added, “It’s a cough syrup I used to have as a girl at school. Delicious, and quite addictive-how we girls used to long to get a cough.” She emptied her glass, looked down at the watch pinned to her bosom, and stood up. Sam could hear the dry whisper of starch against starch. “That did me a power of good,” said Daphne. “Now I’m ready for anything.”

  Sam looked back at the house as they walked to the car. Philippe and Mimi, framed by the lighted doorway, were waving them off, and Philippe put his fist, thumb, and little finger extended, to his ear. “Call us as soon as you’ve got her.”

  Tension returned as the car made the short trip down to the Vieux Port. Sam took the syringes out of his bag and passed three to Daphne. “These work very quickly, and you don’t need to find a vein. Neck, arm, wrist, anywhere there’s a patch of bare skin.” Daphne nodded, and arranged the syringes carefully in her empty breast pocket. “Mustn’t get them confused with the thermometers, must we?” she said.

  The cafes opposite the Vieux Port were still busy with afterdinner customers who were sitting outside, taking advantage of the gentle night air. The quay on the other side of the road was almost deserted, quiet enough to hear the creak of rigging as the boats rode the swell in their moorings. The Figatellis were leading the way, and they had almost reached the speedboat before Sam noticed a car parked on its own at the end of the quay. The headlights flashed once, then again. The others stopped to watch as Sam went over.

  The back window slid down, and Sam was able to make out the familiar face of Francis Reboul. “I shall wait here until you come back,” he said. He reached out of the window and grasped Sam’s hand. “Good luck, my friend. Good luck.”

  Eighteen

  “Not too fast, Jo. We’d like to get there dry.” Sam wiped the spray from his face and looked at his watch. He looked across at Daphne. She was in profile, and with her head held back and her redoubtable bosom, she made Sam think of a clipper ship’s figurehead. She turned toward him and smiled. “What an adventure,” she said, and then her face became serious. “I’ve been thinking, dear. Suppose someone asks us the name of this disease that we’re looking for. What would we say?”

  “Thank God you reminded me. I’m sorry-I should have told you earlier. The technical name is tropical spastic paraparesis. I came across it a few years ago when I was in Africa. We used to call it the Congo flux, and it’s really nasty: drowsiness, fever, convulsions, vomiting, and death.”

  “Splendid,” said Daphne.

  “The curious thing about it is that it’s spread by breath. If someone who is infected breathes on clothes or a handkerchief or a pillow, the virus stays contagious for several hours. In its early stages it’s invisible. You don’t know you’ve got it until the first symptoms appear.”

  “Is there a cure?”

  “Induced total bodily evacuation, but that only works if you catch it within forty-eight hours.”

  Daphne nodded. “That should give them something to think about, if they ask. Oh, look! Isn’t that pretty.”

  They had passed the tip of the island of Ratonneau and turned back into the Baie du Grand Soufre. There, at the end of the bay, The Floating Pound lay at anchor, lights blazing, a floating symbol of the capitalist dream come true. The Figatellis murmured their a
ppreciation. “See that?” said Jo to his brother. “The helicopter parked on the stern? That is some piece of equipment. Tres serieux.”

  Sam leaned forward. “Now, Jo. Once we’re on board, I’d like you to park somewhere you can keep an eye on the helicopter. If anyone wants to make a quick getaway, that’s what they’ll try to use.” Jo nodded, cut the engine until the boat was just making way, and glided closer to the yacht. They could see a crew member, in silhouette against the light flooding out from the main stateroom, take a final drag on his cigarette before flicking the butt over the rail and going back inside.

  The speedboat eased gently up to the main gangway and came to a halt, riding easily on the swell. “OK,” said Sam. “Here we go. Give them a shout.”

  Flo took the megaphone and requested permission to come aboard. They waited. No response.

  “They don’t understand French, obviously,” said Daphne. “Here-let me have that.” She took the megaphone and stood up, bracing herself against the speedboat’s movement.

  “Ahoy! The Floating Pound! Ahoy!” Her voice, a powerful instrument, bounced off the sea and echoed against the side of the yacht. “Medical emergency! I repeat, medical emergency!”

  A figure appeared from a door behind the main stateroom and peered down at the speedboat.

  “You there! Young man! I say again: this is a medical emergency. Now lower the gangway so the doctor can come aboard. Look sharp!”

  A second figure appeared, and after a brief consultation the steps were lowered. A surprisingly nimble Daphne, followed by Sam and Flo, led the way on to the deck. She looked the two young crew members up and down, and clearly found them lacking in stature. “I need to speak to someone in authority at once,” she said. They looked back at her, bleary-eyed and uncertain. “At once!”