The Marseille Caper (21 page)

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 aspects 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’hôpital,”
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 the 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
café 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 Jérôme Patrimonio’s breakfast. This he liked to take in a café 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.

For Lord Wapping, too, the day started badly. He was under house arrest on the boat, his phone confiscated, his helicopter immobilized, police uniforms wherever he looked. He was enough of a realist to accept that he had been caught
en flagrant délit
, as one of the police officers had informed him (or, as Ray Prendergast put it, with his trousers round his ankles). This was bad enough, but it was not the only cloud on his horizon. Ever since the arrival of the police, Annabel had been behaving as if she hardly knew him.

Poor Annabel. She didn’t need to see Philippe’s article to know that she, and everyone else on the boat, would probably be treated as an accomplice to a criminal act unless she could prove that she had no knowledge of the kidnapping. In fact, this was almost the case. During her time with Wapping, she had developed a very efficient blind eye to what she called his business interests, and she had instinctively avoided asking any questions about the sleeping figure that Brian and Dave had brought on board. Now her mind was racing. If only she could find a way to get off the boat and over to her dear friends
in Saint-Tropez. They would know what to do. It was all too, too ghastly.