The Marseille Caper (13 page)

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 monologue. 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.”

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 garçon,”
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
rosé
. 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.