The Marseille Caper (9 page)

Some years before, La Charité had taken on a new role as
a home for museums of art and archaeology. Inside the chapel was a permanent sculpture exhibition, and it was here that Patrimonio had arranged to hold the reception. Sam passed through a quartet of massive columns and into the entrance to the chapel, where he was immediately confronted by a large woman holding a clipboard.

“On est fermé, Monsieur.”
The words were uttered—and the inevitable stern finger wagged—with barely disguised satisfaction, as is often the case when French petty authority tells you that what you want to do is impossible. Sam gave her his best smile and showed her his invitation, his dossier, and even his name tag, all of which she peered at with considerable suspicion before standing aside to let him in.

Inside the chapel, groups of people armed with crates of bottles and glasses hurried to and fro putting the finishing touches to a bar that had been set up in an alcove under the blind stare of a marble statue. Taking up much of the far end of the chapel were three long tables, each draped in a white cloth. The project models, one per table, had been arranged so that the lowest, Reboul’s apartment block, was in the middle, towered over by the skyscrapers on either side. Models were identified by the names of their backers: Wapping Enterprises, London; Van Buren & Partners, New York; and Eiffel International, Paris.

As far as Sam could see, the installations had been done carefully and correctly. He was bracing himself for another encounter on his way out with the dragon at the door—no doubt to include a strip search in case he’d decided to steal one of the smaller sculptures—when he found he had company.
A slim, dark-haired woman in a black pantsuit had arrived, apparently also to inspect the models. She was attractive in that slightly vulpine way brought about by years of strict dieting, and, as Sam quickly noticed, immaculately made up. Late thirties, by the look of her, but who could tell for sure with French women?

“Hi. See anything you like?”

The woman turned to face Sam, her eyebrows raised, her blue eyes glacial. “And you are?”

“Sam Levitt.” He nodded toward his model. “I’m with Van Buren.” He extended his hand, and the woman extended hers, palm down, leaving Sam of three minds as to whether to shake it, kiss it, or admire the manicure.

“Caroline Dumas. I represent Eiffel. So we are competitors.”

“Looks like it,” said Sam. “What a pity.”

Madame Dumas inclined her head and attempted a smile. Sam did the same. She turned away from him to resume her inspection of the models.

Back outside in the sunlit quadrangle, Sam wondered if French women took lessons in the art of the brush-off, or if it was something instinctive, implanted at birth. He shook his head, and went off in search of lunch.

Eight

It was cocktail hour at La Charité, and a line of guests stretched from the door of the chapel to halfway across the courtyard. The line had formed because Patrimonio, relishing his role as the gracious host, had decided to follow the example of royalty and heads of state and greet each of his guests personally. And so they waited in the evening sunlight with varying degrees of impatience, entertained by a string quartet that was playing Mozart in the long gallery.

Elena and Sam joined the end of the line, taking a look at their fellow guests as they went. They were mostly Marseille businessmen and their wives, suntanned and jolly, a tribute to the invigorating qualities of pastis. There were also some visiting bureaucrats, with their pallid northern complexions, a three-man team from the local television station, one or two smartly dressed couples—presumably friends of Patrimonio—and a press photographer. There was no sign
of Philippe, who had arrived early to take a good look at the models.

Sam noticed Caroline Dumas, chic in dark-gray silk, talking on her cell phone. They made eye contact. Sam nodded. Madame Dumas raised her eyebrows. “Somehow I don’t think she’s a fan of yours,” said Elena. “Who is she?”

“Madame Dumas, one of the competition. From Paris. See if you can pick out the one from England, Lord Wapping.”

“What does he look like?”

“English, I guess. Bulletproof pinstripe suit, big tie, good shoes, bad teeth—wait a minute. I think that must be him. Over there, with the blonde.”

Sam’s guess was confirmed by the sound of a guffaw and a loud English voice. “Well, he asked for it, didn’t he? What a prat.” The speaker shook his head and looked at his watch. “If Jérôme doesn’t get his finger out we’ll be here all night.”

He was with Annabel, in what she called her LBD, or little black dress, and another couple. The man could have been Wapping’s younger brother—like him, short, florid, and burly. Both men were wearing well-cut suits that almost disguised their bulk. The fourth member of the group, taller than the rest of them by a good five or six inches, was an Amazonian girl of exceptional beauty, most of which was on display thanks to a silver dress of exceptional brevity.

“She doesn’t look English,” said Sam.

Elena sniffed. “She doesn’t look real.”

The line gave a sudden lurch forward, and it was only a few minutes before they were being greeted by their host. Patrimonio had changed for the occasion, and had chosen
a putty-colored linen suit, set off by the jaunty red and gold striped tie usually reserved for members of London’s Marylebone Cricket Club. Sam had the impression that there had been another generous application of aftershave since that morning.

“Monsieur Levitt, I believe. How delightful. And who is this?” He took Elena’s hand as though he had no intention of giving it back, and without waiting for Sam’s reply, bent over to kiss it.

“Elena Morales,” said Sam. “This is her first visit to Provence.”

“Ah, mademoiselle. Make me a happy man. Stay forever.” Patrimonio, exuding gallantry, at last released her hand. Elena smiled at him. He straightened his tie and smoothed his hair.

“Well, you were certainly a hit,” said Sam, as they moved into the chapel and toward the bar. “I thought he was going to ask you to dance.”

Elena shook her head. “I can’t get too excited about guys who wear more perfume than I do. But the hand-kissing I could get used to.”

“I’ll practice.” He signaled to the bartender. “What are you having?”

“Daddy told me I should never say no to champagne.” Elena looked around at the chapel—the alcoves around the side, each with its graceful arch and marble statue, the lovely proportions of the room, the domed ceiling, the soft evening light filtering through the high windows—and let out a sigh. “This is magic. Why don’t we do buildings like this anymore?”

Armed with their champagne, they began to do their duty
and mingle. Sam found Patrimonio’s secretary and asked her to introduce them to members of the committee, who were standing in a pensive group in front of the three project models. The introductions were made, Elena was discreetly admired by the committee, and Sam answered the not-too-searching questions put to him by Monsieur Faure, who seemed to be the senior member. Sam was distracted for a moment by the sight of Philippe coming through the crowd glued to his cell phone. As agreed, they didn’t acknowledge one another.

Monsieur Faure nodded toward the bar. “Have you met your competitor Lord Wapping? A most sociable man. Let me introduce you.”

Sam’s first impression of Wapping had surprised him. He had expected a conventional product of Wall Street and the City: serious, quietly arrogant as rich men tend to be, and dull. Instead, he found himself looking at a plump, jovial face that would have been benign except for the shrewd and calculating eyes that were now focused on Sam with unblinking intensity.

“So you’re the Yank who wants to put up a block of flats,” Wapping said with a grin.

“That’s me,” said Sam. “This is Elena Morales.” He pointed toward the row of models. “And there’s my block of flats.”

“Well, good luck, mate. May the best man win, as long as it’s me.” He clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Just kidding. Here, meet Annabel.”

As Annabel looked at Sam, her eyes widened—an old
femme fatale
trick—as though she had never seen such an attractive man in her life. “You must have been told this a
thousand times,” she said, “but I can’t resist. You look just like a blond George Clooney.”

Elena suppressed a snort as she nodded to Annabel.

Wapping continued with the introductions. “This layabout is Mikey Simmons. Nothing to do with the project. He’s in top-end motors. Exclusive concession in Saudi and Dubai. Astons, Ferraris, Rollers, whatever you want. And here”—Wapping turned toward the statuesque young lady—“here we have Raisa from Moscow.” Feeling that he had discharged his social responsibilities, Wapping looked at his glass, found it empty, and waved it at the bartender. “Oy, Jean-Claude! I could murder another glass of champagne.”

Sam made their excuses and steered Elena away from the bar. “Now you’ve seen the competition, what do you think?”

“I can see why Lord Wapping gets his own way. He’s like a human bulldozer. As for the blonde, she’s a real piece of work.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“No.”

They had stopped at the edge of the crowd when Sam’s eye was caught by a couple sharing an alcove with one of the statues: Patrimonio was chatting to Caroline Dumas, and Sam was not surprised to see that she was a great deal more lively and friendly with Patrimonio than she had been with him. She gazed up at him when he spoke, she rested her hand on his arm when she replied, she showed all the signs of a woman fascinated by what her companion had to say. Patrimonio, naturally, was enjoying this display of attention from a pretty Parisienne, and it was with obvious irritation that he had to
break off their conversation when it was interrupted by the arrival of a third person.

It was Philippe. Even from a distance, Elena and Sam could see that the encounter was not amicable. Philippe was waving an accusing finger in Patrimonio’s face. Patrimonio was swatting it away. And Caroline Dumas, lips pursed in disapproval, had tactfully stepped aside to commune with the statue. The scene had the makings of a brawl. And then Philippe abruptly turned on his heel and stalked out of the chapel, leaving Patrimonio to smooth his hair and calm himself in preparation for his big moment: the speech.

Sam noticed that the string quartet had filed in from the gallery. He was wondering if the speech was to be delivered with a musical accompaniment when Patrimonio’s secretary asked him to go and stand next to Lord Wapping and Caroline Dumas in front of their respective models. There they waited while Patrimonio fiddled with his notes and cleared his throat. He nodded to his secretary. She tapped loudly on the rim of her glass with her silver pen. The chapel fell silent.

Patrimonio started quietly enough by thanking his audience for coming to what he referred to as a very important evening; indeed, a landmark in the history of the great city of Marseille. Sam glanced to one side and saw that Wapping, still clinging to his champagne glass, was wearing an expression of glazed incomprehension. He clearly didn’t understand a word of what was being said in such carefully enunciated French.

It wasn’t long before Patrimonio became more animated as he described the talent, the hard work, the
vision
of his committee. And perhaps, he added with due modesty, as chairman
of this galaxy of stars he too had played his part. Moving on to the projects that had been proposed, Patrimonio introduced Caroline Dumas, Wapping, and Sam to the audience, leading a round of applause for each one. The models were there to be inspected, he said, and he was sure that the ideas they represented were of such excellence that choosing one of them would be most difficult. However, he was confident that the members of the committee were up to the task. They had done their homework, and they hoped to have reached a decision within the next two weeks. Finally, with a flourish worthy of a great conductor, he stretched out both arms to the string quartet, which broke into a spirited rendering of “La Marseillaise.”

As the last notes died away Sam rejoined Elena, who had been standing not far from Wapping’s friends. She had heard him confess to them that the only parts of the speech that were familiar to him were his name, and that tune of theirs at the end—“the whatsit, you know, the Mayonnaise.”

None of the French showed any signs of going as long as the champagne kept flowing, and so Sam and Elena were able to slip away unnoticed. They were crossing the quadrangle when Sam’s phone rang. It was Philippe.

“I had a little
contretemps
with Patrimonio.”

“We saw. What was it all about? Where are you?”

“Just around the corner. There’s a bar called Le Ballon, in the Rue du Petit-Puits. You can almost see it from La Charité. I’ll be waiting outside, OK?”

On his previous visit to Marseille, Sam had experienced Philippe’s fondness for disreputable bars, and this was another scruffy example. Above the door, a tin sign that had seen better
days had been decorated with a painting of a soccer ball,
le ballon
, next to a small wine glass, also known as
un ballon
, brimming with a lurid mixture that the artist hoped could be mistaken for red wine. Philippe, neat and well pressed in his black suit and white shirt, looked very much out of place.