The Marseille Caper sl-2

by Peter Mayle

  The first test of Sam’s disguise was about to take place. He adjusted his face mask and glasses and reminded himself that he didn’t understand English, while a gnomelike figure, squinting in the half-light, came across the deck toward him.

  “What’s all this?” Ray Prendergast was not pleased. To obtain some relief from the increasingly tense atmosphere on the boat, he had settled down to watch an old favorite, the vintage DVD in which John Wayne single-handedly conquers Iwo Jima. And now this. He thrust his head toward Sam. “Who the hell are you? And what are you doing here?”

  Sam looked at Daphne and shrugged, the picture of incomprehension. She took a step toward Prendergast and looked down at him from her superior height. “This gentleman is Dr. Ginoux. He unfortunately doesn’t speak a word of English, but I can interpret for him. And I’m afraid we have some most disturbing and unpleasant news.” She turned to Sam and, in rapid French, repeated what she had just said. Sam nodded, and waved a hand for her to continue.

  “There is a strong possibility that two of the deckhands on a boat that arrived here recently from the Ivory Coast are infected by tropical spastic paraparesis. This is a viral disease that culminates in a slow and painful death unless it is discovered and treated in its early stages. It is also extremely contagious.” Daphne paused to assess the effect her words were having on Prendergast, and was encouraged to see that his belligerent expression had been replaced by a frown.

  She continued. “The quarantine authorities here in the port are treating this as an emergency, and have instructed us and several other medical teams to inspect all vessels that have recently arrived from ports outside France.”

  Prendergast’s belligerent expression returned. “Wait a minute. This boat has come from England. We haven’t been anywhere near the bloody Ivory Coast.”

  “I’m sorry, but the authorities are quite clear about this. It’s possible, for instance, that some of your crew members may have had some contact with crew members from the infected vessel. Could you guarantee that no fraternization has taken place?”

  Prendergast was silent.

  “Of course you couldn’t,” said Daphne, “which is why, I’m afraid, we must inspect every cabin for traces of contagion. Fortunately, this can be done quite quickly by Dr. Ginoux. Now, if we could start with the master’s cabin and work our way back, I think that would cause the least possible disruption.”

  Prendergast stopped chewing his lip. “I’ll have to talk to the owner.” He ducked back into the stateroom, leaving them on deck.

  Daphne caught Sam’s eye, and gave him a wink. “So far, so good, dear,” she whispered. Flo, who had been quietly pacing the deck, came over to ask if he should go with them as they went through the cabins.

  “Yes, definitely,” said Sam. “When we find Elena, we’re going to need you and your gun.”

  Five minutes turned into ten before Prendergast came back, this time with Lord Wapping, his bulk draped in a maroon silk dressing gown, brandy snifter in hand. He glanced briefly at Sam and Flo before turning his attention to Daphne. “You’re the one who speaks English, right?” Daphne inclined her head. “Well then,” said Wapping, “let’s be sensible about this. I’m sure we don’t have to get everybody out of bed at this time of night. I’m quite happy to sign something that says you’ve carried out the inspection, and then we can all get our kip.” He took a sip of his brandy, looking at Daphne over the rim of his glass.

  “I’m terribly sorry, but that won’t be possible. Our instructions are …”

  “Yes, yes, I know all about the instructions. Ray here told me. But you know how the world works: a favor here, a favor there-I’m a generous man, know what I mean?”

  Daphne turned to Sam and unleashed a torrent of French. When she’d finished, Sam said nothing. His index finger, wagging violently back and forth, and the emphatic shaking of his head was reply enough.

  Daphne’s voice was cold. “If there are any further attempts to obstruct this inspection, they will be reported to the appropriate authorities. And now, if you don’t mind, we’ll start with your cabin.”

  “Bloody waste of time.” Wapping stalked back into the stateroom, followed by the others. Sam reached in his bag and put the light meter in his pocket.

  Opening the door to Wapping’s large and ornate cabin, they were greeted by the sight of Annabel sitting at her dressing table, brushing her hair. She was wearing a negligee of peach-colored silk, and at the sight of young Flo in his uniform she allowed one of the straps to slip a couple of inches down her suntanned shoulder. “What’s happening?” she said, batting her eyelashes. “I do hope I’m not going to be arrested.”

  She seemed disappointed to be told that no arrest was imminent, and the team moved over to the double bed while Daphne explained the form the inspection would take. It was very simple. Dr. Ginoux would pass his detection device-a kind of Geiger counter for viral germs was how Daphne described it-over the pillows and the bathroom towels. If it indicated the signs of any infection, a reading would come up on the miniature screen; no signs of infection would be indicated by a different reading.

  Watched by a glowering Lord Wapping and the pouting Annabel, Sam switched on his light meter and began to pass it across the surface of the pillows. The meter made impressive clicking noises, and tiny lights flashed on and off in a satisfying fashion each time the light density changed. Three minutes later, and the pillows were checked. Sam and Daphne moved into the bathroom, away from the view of spectators. “C’est bon?” They heard Daphne say, “Pas de reaction negative? Tres bien.”

  She was smiling as they came back into the cabin. “There,” she said brightly. “That didn’t hurt a bit, did it? And now perhaps we can get on with the other cabins.” Wapping stood in the cabin doorway nursing his brandy, watching them as they went down the main passageway toward the part of the boat where lesser mortals slept.

  Their first stop was Ray Prendergast’s cabin, where a low table showed traces of two of his passions. Recent copies of The Racing Post, the British horseracing bible, shared space with a comprehensive price list from Geoffrey’s of Antibes (this week’s special: Cottage Delight Tangy Orange English Breakfast Marmalade).

  Prendergast, the picture of hostile suspicion, watched intently as Sam went through his routine, running the light meter up and down the bunk and across the pillows. When Sam moved into the tiny bathroom, Prendergast broke his silence. “You’re not going to do this nonsense all through the boat, surely?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Daphne, “all the cabins, of course. Then there’s the kitchen, laundry room, storage room, even the engine room. Dr. Ginoux is extremely thorough, particularly with serious cases like this. Actually, it would be a great help if you could let us have a plan of the boat, just to make sure we don’t miss anything.”

  Prendergast didn’t reply. His mind was busy weighing the risks and possibilities, and as soon as the inspection team had left his cabin he started to make his way toward Lord Wapping’s suite, only to meet his lordship coming down the passageway.

  “Billy, we’ve got to do something.”

  “You’re bloody right we have.”

  They went up to the sunbathing deck, where they could talk well away from any curious ears.

  “She’s down the far end, right? In the spare cabin.”

  Wapping nodded. “At the rate they’re going, we’ve got about fifteen minutes to get her out of there. If they find her, the jig’s up. Luckily, the boys gave her another jab this evening, so she won’t be any bother. But where the hell can we put her? Get hold of Brian and Dave.”

  In Tiny de Salis’s cabin, Daphne and Sam once again came across clues to the occupant’s interests: the Old Etonian Review, published every Michaelmas, and a DVD entitled Hot Babes-They Are Saucy and They Sizzle! There was also an impressive stash of marijuana in an open cigar box on the bedside table. There was, however, no sign of de Salis himself.

  Events in the passageway began to take on aspe
cts of a French farce, with Brian and Dave ducking in and out of various doors until they came to the cabin being checked by Daphne and Sam. The door was ajar. Brian closed it gently and, using his passkey, locked it. They hurried down to the spare cabin.

  It was a good five minutes before Brian came back and responded to the hammering on the cabin door. He was apologizing even as he unlocked it. “Sorry, miss,” he said to Daphne, “it sometimes does this when the self-locking mechanism goes on the blink. Bloody nuisance, must get it fixed.”

  “What’s the problem?” asked Ray Prendergast, solicitous for the first time, as he joined them in the passageway. Brian explained what had happened, Prendergast apologized again, asked if there was anything he could do, and insisted on staying with them while they checked the rest of the boat, “Just in case there’s any more trouble with the doors.”

  They were just about to start on the next cabin when Daphne’s phone rang.

  “Allo?”

  “It’s Jo. Let me speak to Sam.” Daphne saw that Prendergast was hovering, his eyes fixed on the phone. “C’est l’hopital,” she said to Sam. “It’s the hospital,” she said to Prendergast. “I think it’s best if Dr. Ginoux takes the call in private.” She took Sam’s arm, guided him into the cabin’s shower room, and shut the door behind him.

  “You know how they are about the phone, the French,” she said to Prendergast. “Always want to be in their little private corner when they take a call.”

  Before speaking, Sam turned on the shower to make sure his voice didn’t carry. “What is it, Jo?”

  “Two men have been on deck here, right above me. I couldn’t see them, but I could hear their voices. I think they were loading something into the helicopter.”

  Ray Prendergast would remember the next few seconds for a long time. The French doctor burst out of the shower room and started speaking fluent English to the police officer who was standing by the door. “Flo, you stay here with him.” He jerked his head at the startled Prendergast. “If he tries to use his phone, break his arm. And if he tries to leave the cabin, knock him out and tie him up, OK? Daphne, you stay here-you’ll be safe with Flo. I think they’re trying to get out with Elena.”

  Sam ducked out of the cabin and raced up the passageway, through the main stateroom, and out onto the deck. The helicopter was a white mass at the far end of the boat. Much to his relief, he saw that the rotor blades were immobile. Moving more cautiously now and staying in the shadows as much as he could, he came to within a few yards of the helicopter. There was no sign of anybody. Now he was close enough to touch the helicopter. He reached up to open the door.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Sam turned to see Tiny de Salis, who had come around from the other side of the helicopter. He came closer. “Are you deaf? What are you doing?” He stood in front of Sam, legs braced apart, a big man ready to throw a punch.

  Sam was not by nature a violent man, and it was with a twinge of genuine regret that he kicked de Salis in the testicles and pitched his writhing body overboard. Without waiting to hear the splash, he pulled open the door of the helicopter. And there, breathing easily, was the unconscious Elena in one of the back seats. Taking off his face mask, he climbed into the cockpit, stroked her face, held her tight. “You’re safe now, girl. We’ll have you home before you wake up.”

  Sam heard footsteps on the deck, reached in his pocket for a syringe, then relaxed when he saw who it was. “She’s here, Jo. And she seems fine.”

  Jo’s grin was a flicker of white in the shadows. “Formidable, Sam. Vraiment formidable. Oh, in case you were worrying about him, I fished your big friend out of the water, but he won’t be going anywhere-I handcuffed him to the boat’s steering wheel. What do we do now?”

  Sam took out his phone. “First, we tell Francis. Then we get the police out here.” He paused as the thought struck him. “Are they likely to be a problem? I mean, you’re not exactly official.”

  “Don’t worry. The story is that we’re on special assignment from Corsica. The cops here can check with the police chief in Calvi. He’s my uncle.”

  Sam spoke for a few minutes with a vastly relieved Reboul, who volunteered to arrange for the Marseille police to come out to the boat at once. Leaving Jo to guard Elena, he went back to the cabin, where he found Prendergast perched on the side of the bunk, his head sunk in his shoulders, staring at the floor. There was a cut on his forehead and a smear of blood on his face.

  The reactions to Sam’s good news were immediate and enthusiastic: a smacking kiss on each cheek from Daphne, and a crushing bear hug from Flo. Prendergast’s head seemed to have slumped even lower.

  “Did he try anything?”

  Flo nodded. “Only once.”

  Relief had made Sam feel intensely alive, slightly lightheaded, and well disposed toward the world. With one notable exception. “The police will be here any minute now, and their first stop should be Wapping. Tell me, Flo-what’s the penalty in France for kidnapping?”

  The big man rubbed his chin. “That depends. If the victim has been harmed in any way, it’s twenty-five years. If no harm has been done, it’s only twenty years.”

  “Only twenty years. What are the jails like here?”

  Figatelli assumed his most innocent expression. “I’ve had no personal experience, of course. But I’ve heard they’re not exactly comfortable.”

  “Good. OK, let’s get going.” He turned to look at Prendergast, who had been listening closely, his expression a mixture of disbelief and despair. “Is there anywhere we can lock him up?”

  Flo shrugged. “Why bother? I’ll put him in with Wapping, and then stand outside the door until the cops come.” He bent down and, none too gently, pulled Prendergast to his feet. The procession set off, reaching the master cabin just in time to welcome the Marseille police, who had arrived in force on two speedboats.

  To Sam’s relief, Flo had decided to deal with the situation himself. He told the captain in charge that the kidnapper was in the stateroom; that the victim was in a drugged sleep in the helicopter, saved from abduction by Sam; and that he and his colleagues were ready to be helpful in any way they could.

  That, of course, was not the end of it. There were depositions to be taken, questions to be answered, and the curious appearance of two Corsican police officers to be explained. By the time this was over, what Daphne described as “dawn’s rosy fingers” were touching the eastern horizon, and they were at last free to go.

  Sam would always remember that short trip back to Marseille. Elena, still sleeping, was curled up in his arms, the sky was a misty pink, and the air smelled as though it had just been cleaned. Relief gave way to a deep, deep happiness.

  As they were driving back to the house, Sam called Philippe, who picked up on the first ring.

  “Good morning, my friend. I hope I didn’t wake you up?”

  “We haven’t slept. What happened?”

  As Sam finished going through the events of the night, a thought occurred to him. “Philippe, how would you like an exclusive? You know, kidnapper caught red-handed by Marseille’s finest, his attempts to escape by helicopter foiled, all that stuff. I can fill you in on the details.”

  There was a moment of silence, then a grunt of approval from Philippe. “Not a bad idea. We’ll make a journalist out of you yet.”

  Nineteen

  Elena stirred and turned over. With her eyes still half-closed, she reached out a hand, and when Sam took it, her face softened into a smile. “Oh, Sam, dear sweet Sam, where have I been? What time is it?”

  “You took a day off. I’ll tell you about it later. And it’s breakfast time. Do you feel like having anything?”

  “A shower. Coffee. A croissant. More coffee.”

  Despite Elena’s protests, Sam insisted on helping her as she got out of bed. She stretched, kissed him, and walked into the bathroom as though she’d been through nothing more dramatic than a good night’s sleep.

  Back in th
e kitchen, Sam found Mimi on the phone and Philippe pounding away on his laptop. “Listen to this, Sam,” he said, translating off the screen. “Millionaire Kidnap Suspect Helps Police with Their Enquiries-Beautiful Victim Rescued from Helicopter.” He looked up at Sam. “Pretty good headline, don’t you think? Mimi’s trying to get hold of the editor before he gets into the office. He’s going to love it. So will the police. They can always use some good press.” Philippe waved Sam away and resumed his pounding, humming with satisfaction as he wrote. He barely noticed Mimi put down her phone and give him the thumbs up. “He likes it,” she said, “but it’s going to have to go through the lawyers. So if you could get it to him by lunchtime, that would be great.”

  Sam prepared a tray with coffee and croissants and went back into the bedroom, where Elena, in her terrycloth robe, was sitting on the edge of the bed. She inhaled the steam coming from her cafe au lait, dipped the end of her croissant in it, took a first bite, and grinned. “Now, Mr. Levitt. Tell me what happened. Did I have fun?”

  The following morning saw Philippe’s article on the front page of La Provence, illustrated by a photograph of Wapping’s boat, with the helicopter on the stern clearly visible. Philippe had gone as far as the lawyers would allow, and anyone reading the piece would be left with the impression that The Floating Pound was manned by unsavory and possibly criminal foreigners. Those with a personal interest in the story were not slow in picking this up.

  It completely ruined Jerome Patrimonio’s breakfast. This he liked to take in a cafe on the Vieux Port, where he was cultivating a clandestine relationship with the young wife of the elderly patron. But today there was no flirting, there were no lingering glances, no intimate moments as hands touched while the bill was being paid. The other regular customers were aware of Patrimonio’s close connection with a veritable English lord-indeed, he frequently boasted about it-and one of them had shown him the article. He read it initially with a sense of shock, and then with increasing concern; not for Wapping, of course, but for himself. What would come out of the police investigation? Would he be implicated in any way? How could he protect himself as much as possible from any unpleasant repercussions? He left to go to his office, a distracted and worried man.