The Marseille Caper

Fifteen

The Mediterranean was a sheet of black glass-flat, calm, with a sickle moon high in a clear sky, as The Floating Pound eased slowly out of Saint-Tropez and turned west, destination Marseille.

Lord Wapping felt that he needed to get back to oversee the execution of an idea that was beginning to take shape in his head, and there was not a moment to lose. Hurried farewells had been made to his guests, and they had been hustled down the gangway, much to the displeasure of Annabel, who had no desire to leave Saint-Tropez, which she considered her spiritual summer home.

“I’m absolutely devastated, sweetie,” she said, displaying once again her ability to pout and talk at the same time. “The Forsyths-you know, Fiona and Dickie-had booked a table at the Byblos for dinner, and then we were going dancing. And now this. It’s too, too boring. Do we have to go back?”

Wapping grunted. “Something’s come up.” He added an invaluable phrase, knowing that it would put an end to any argument. “It’s business.” Experience had taught him that in Annabel’s mind business was synonymous with Cartier, Dior, Vuitton, and all the other little essentials of life that came her way after a successful deal. And so, for her, everything else took second place to business. Off she went, to find sympathy and a consoling glass of champagne with Tiny de Salis, while Wapping settled down in the deserted stateroom to ponder.

The presentation of his project was about to take place. A successful result would get the banks off his back and put millions into his pocket. The Parisian presentation, enthusiastically sabotaged by Patrimonio, had not impressed the committee. But that left the problem of the American. Patrimonio’s words came back to him: “If he could be persuaded to withdraw, that would put us in a much stronger position.”

Of course it would. But how? He considered once again those two old favorites, bribery and violence, and once again rejected them. The American stood to make more money out of the project than any bribe Wapping was able to offer, and any force short of murder was unlikely to work. In any case, to be credible and effective the withdrawal had to be voluntary; it had to come from the American himself. Lord Wapping stared out of the porthole, sipping the last of his 1936 cognac and letting his mind go back to the idea that had come to him, half-formed, following Patrimonio’s call. The more he thought about it, the better it seemed. And by the time he finally braved the chilly reception that awaited him in the cabin he shared with Annabel, he was feeling a great deal more optimistic.

The following morning, back at her old Marseille mooring in the Baie du Grand Soufre, The Floating Pound had recovered her good humor and was once again a happy ship. Lord Wapping was positively jovial at breakfast. Annabel had been tempted out of her sulk by the promise of an all-expenses-paid swoop on Marseille’s best boutiques, followed by lunch at Peron. Ray Prendergast had celebrated the change in the atmosphere on board with a solid English breakfast of sausages, bacon, eggs, baked beans, and two thick, greasy slices of fried bread. And the crew, having been a little disappointed by their brief glimpse of the prosperous respectability of Saint-Tropez, were pleased to be back in Marseille, with its superior opportunities for bad behavior.

Lord Wapping was humming the opening bars of “My Old Man’s a Dustman” as he selected his first cigar of the day. He was in the positive, benign mood that often follows the solution of a difficult problem, and he called Ray Prendergast into the stateroom to share his thoughts.

“I think I’ve cracked it, Ray-that bloody American and his beach huts. Somehow we’ve got to put him out of the running, and I think I’ve got the answer. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

As he explained his idea, Prendergast’s expression gradually changed from alarm to doubt to qualified approval. “It’s a bit dodgy, Billy, but it could work. I’ll have a chat with Brian and Dave. It’s a question of opportunity, isn’t it? Finding the right moment. But first, we need to know where he’s living. Oh, and another thing: We’re going to need a doctor, a friendly doctor. Know what I mean?”

Wapping nodded. “Leave it to me.” With a wave of his cigar, he dismissed Prendergast before reaching for the phone.

“Jerome? Couple of questions for you. I’ve been thinking about our little problem, and I need to know where our American friend is living while he’s in Marseille. Have you got his address?”

“Certainly.” Patrimonio reached into a drawer of his desk and pulled out a folder. “All the bidders had to provide contact details when they registered. Let’s see. Ah, yes, here it is: the Chemin du Roucas Blanc. Do you want the full address and the phone number?”

Patrimonio’s curiosity got the better of him while Wapping was jotting down the details. “What do you have in mind?”

“Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that, a bit of the other. Here’s the second question: I need a tame doctor-you know, someone who does what you want with no questions. That kind of doctor.”

As it happened, Patrimonio had several times needed just such a doctor himself, to help him deal with the results of some ill-advised liaisons with young ladies. He cleared his throat. “I might be able to help you there. What will you expect him to do, this doctor?”

“Jerome, you don’t want to know.”

“Of course not. No. Well, someone I can recommend is Doctor Hoffmann. German, but very good, very discreet, very-how can I put it? — very cooperative. And she speaks excellent English.”

“She?”

“Oh yes. But don’t worry-she can do anything a man can do. Would you like me to call her?”

Wapping was smiling as he put the phone down. The day was turning out better than he expected.

With the presentation over and all the committee members’ supplementary questions dealt with, there was nothing for Elena and Sam to do except keep their fingers crossed and wait for the decision. And so they had decided to take a break and look around the arriere-pays-the back country behind and to the west of Marseille.

They explored Provence’s most fashionable mountain ranges, the Luberon and the Alpilles, where, so it was said, movie stars, eminent politicians, and lesser celebrities haunted the hill villages and lurked behind every high stone wall. They saw the pink flamingos of the Camargue, the vast emptiness of Haute-Provence, the seething village markets, and the massed ranks of antique dealers in L’Isle-sur-Sorgue. As they went, they tasted the wines of Provence, sometimes in garages, sometimes in eighteenth-century palaces-the chilled sweetness of Beaumes de Venise, the big, voluptuous reds of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, the noble roses of Tavel.

And they ate, always well and sometimes memorably. Philippe had sent them off with a list of his favorite addresses, and they quickly slipped into the French habit of planning the day’s sightseeing around the stomach. Thus, lunchtime and the dinner hour would conveniently find them close to a little auberge or an exceptional chef.

Not surprisingly, all thoughts of presentations and projects were forgotten in the leisurely, magical haze of sunshine and shared discovery. Time seemed to have stopped. Elena was in a state of bliss, and Sam wasn’t far behind.

Meanwhile, a million miles away in Marseille, Lord Wapping was making his formal proposal to the committee. To help him-in fact, to make the presentation on his behalf-he had employed Frederic Millet, a young man with impeccable credentials, being not only bilingual but also a cousin of Jerome Patrimonio, whose taste in clothes and aftershave he had adopted.

As Frederic went through his charts and explanations, it became clear that at least two members of his audience were firmly on his side. Wapping and Patrimonio, nodding in unison at the appearance of each chart, accompanied the proceedings from time to time with murmured sounds of approval. “Bravo, bonne idee” and “tres bien” coming from Patrimonio, and “nice work, Fred” or “you tell ’em, sunshine” from Wapping, who was feeling increasingly confident.

Frederic had barely finished when Patrimonio got to his feet to deliver the chairman’s summing-up of what they had just heard. After the obligatory cuff-shooting and hair-smoothing, he plunged in. “First, let me congratulate Lord Wapping and his colleague Monsieur Millet on a most interesting and comprehensive presentation.” The brief niceties over, the Patrimonio brow furrowed, and his face took on the sincere, serious, deeply caring expression of a salesman about to pounce. “This scheme, it seems to me, fulfills all of our requirements. From the architectural point of view, it is very much of today, and I can see that before long it will have established itself as a contemporary landmark-a building with aesthetic resonance that will add enormously to the prestige of the Marseille coastline. Next, as you have heard, the scheme will generate hundreds of new jobs, not just during the period of construction, but permanently, for the operation and maintenance of all the facilities that have been described to us. It is difficult to predict in detail the benefits this will bring to the local economy, but it is safe to say that they will be very, very substantial. And finally, let me add a comment about a matter which, as you know, I consider to be most important-you might say it is the bee in the chairman’s bonnet.” He paused, as if to allow the committee to picture the chairman in his bonnet. “Air space, gentlemen. Air space. A precious resource, so often neglected. But here we see it maximized as it should be. I have no hesitation in commending this scheme to the members of the committee.”

Later, in the bar of the Sofitel, Wapping and Patrimonio compared impressions.

“Pretty glum lot, your committee,” said Wapping. “Not much in the way of questions. What do you reckon they thought of it?”

Patrimonio took a pensive sip of his whisky. “You must remember that these people make their living by sitting on the fence. We must wait and see. These things always take a little while to sink in. But we have ten days before the final decision will be made, and I shall use the time to do some lobbying-a lunch or two, a glass of champagne after work …” Patrimonio waved a generous hand to suggest the irresistible range of inducements available to a man of his position.

Wapping said nothing. He was too busy thinking about his own lobbying.

Ray Prendergast made his way up the Rue de Rome until he came to a low white building set back from the street. One of the brass plaques next to the entrance, more highly polished than the others, had the name of Dr. Romy Hoffmann engraved on it in fine copperplate script. Prendergast pressed the bell and the door clicked open.

Dr. Hoffmann’s assistant, a burly man in a white track suit, his head shaved and gleaming, showed Prendergast into an empty, all-white waiting room, where elderly copies of Stern magazine shared a low table with Paris Match and Gala. A TV set in one corner was showing a promotional film made by a pharmaceutical company in which two young women were having an animated conversation about menopause.

Prendergast looked at his watch. He had made the mistake of arriving on time for the appointment, forgetting that punctuality is the sworn enemy of the medical profession. He had been waiting for twenty minutes when a metallic voice emanating from a speaker in the corner told him that he should come through.

Dr. Hoffmann, a small, wiry woman in her forties, was dressed in a white cotton top and trousers, a surgical facemask hanging round her neck. Her dark hair was cropped short, her eyes concealed by tinted glasses. She gestured toward the chair in front of her desk. “Please. Sit. Monsieur Patrimonio told me to expect you. Tell me what brings you here.”

Ray Prendergast took a deep breath and started to talk.

For Brian and Dave, this was, as Lord Wapping had made clear, a last chance to redeem themselves. Their encounter with the journalist had been partly successful, although not successful enough to stop him making a bloody pest of himself after the accident. As for the business of the tent on the beach, the less said about that the better. They had, in their employer’s words, made a right Horlicks of it.

This time, they were to make no mistakes. But as they had agreed after the briefing from Prendergast, this was their kind of job: a bit of detective work, some shadowing, and just a touch of the nasty at the end. No worries. They rented a nondescript Peugeot, bought a street map of Marseille, and set off one morning for the Chemin du Roucas Blanc, parking a comfortable distance away from the gated entrance.

With painful slowness, the hours went by. People came and went, but not the people they were interested in. The Peugeot, despite its place in the shade of a tree, became intolerably hot. Dave nearly got himself arrested when a resident saw him responding to a pressing call of nature up against a garden wall.

They quickly learned to recognize those who came and went on a regular basis: Nanou the maid on her Mobylette, Claudine the housekeeper in her Fiat 500, Olivier the chauffeur in the big black car-sometimes with passengers, sometimes without. But not once did they see the solitary figure they were hoping to see. Tedious hours turned into tedious days, broken up by shadowing Olivier from time to time as he went off to carry out some errand in the city.

Their patience was finally rewarded one bright afternoon by the arrival of a taxi that roused Dave from his afternoon doze by sounding its horn at the gate.

“It’s empty,” said Brian. “Come to pick someone up.”

Dave focused his binoculars on the gate a hundred yards away, saw the taxi appear and pull out onto the road with a single female passenger in the back. “Right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

At a safe distance, they followed the taxi back down the winding Chemin du Roucas Blanc, closing the gap when the traffic thickened as they reached the center of town. They went along the side of the Vieux Port, through a narrow side street, and emerged into the Rue Paradis. The taxi came to a halt outside a tinted glass facade, and they saw Elena Morales get out and go through the entrance marked “Studio Celine Coiffure.”

“Gone for a hairdo, it looks like,” said Dave. “This could do us nicely if we can find somewhere to park.”

After ten minutes of automotive infighting, Brian managed to shoehorn the Peugeot into a spot opposite the salon, provoking a barrage of shouts and horn-blowing from frustrated drivers backed up behind him. A young man in a battered Renault extended his hand in the classic single-digit salute as he passed. “And the same to you, mate,” said Brian. “No bleeding manners, these French.”

“Not long now,” said Dave. “Got your syringe?”

Brian nodded. “Got yours?”

They waited a few minutes more, then left the car, crossed the street, and appeared to find something that fascinated them in the window of a menswear boutique two doors away from the salon.

Elena came out into the bright sunshine of the street and was putting on her sunglasses when Brian, holding a map, went up to her. “Excuse me, miss,” he said. “Do you speak any English?”

“Sure.”

“I’m a bit lost.” He moved around to be beside her, holding the map so that she could see it. Dave came up behind her and jabbed the needle of his syringe into the bicep of her bare arm. The effect was instant. Her head slumped forward, her legs started to give way. They had to stop her from collapsing and almost had to carry her across the street before putting her into the back seat of the Peugeot. Passers-by took one look and hurried on. In Marseille one didn’t interfere in such situations.

Brian was grinning as he started the engine. “Works a treat, that stuff, doesn’t it?”

Sam checked his watch. Six-thirty, that time of day when stomachs all over Marseille start to rumble in anticipation. He and Elena had arranged to have dinner with Mimi and Philippe, but where was she? How long could a haircut take? Or had shopping caused her to lose track of the time?

He called her cell phone, but there was no answer. He called again twenty minutes later, and again ten minutes after that. Still no answer. By 7:30 he was worried enough to call Reboul. An hour later, Reboul called back. “My people have checked with the police, and with the hospitals and clinics. There have been no reports of any accidents or emergencies involving anyone of Elena’s description. I’m very sorry, my friend, but so far we’ve drawn a blank. We’ll keep trying.”

Sam passed a miserable evening with Philippe and Mimi. They made more unsuccessful calls to Elena’s number. Philippe called all his contacts-the informers, the night people, bar and club owners, a friend who owned a private ambulance service. Nothing. Evening stretched into what would prove to be a long, black, sleepless night for Sam.

Tired of pacing the bedroom, and more in desperation than hope, he tried Elena’s number. This time there was an answer.

“We were hoping you’d call.” The voice at the other end sounded tinny and slightly distorted, as if speaking through some kind of baffle, but it was distinct enough.

Sam made an effort to stay calm. “Where’s Elena?”

“Oh, she’s fine.”

“Let me speak to her.”

“That won’t be possible, I’m afraid. She’s catching up on her sleep. It would be a shame to disturb her.”

“Where is she? Who are you?”

“That needn’t concern you. Now listen carefully. Miss Morales will be returned to you unharmed as soon as you withdraw your bid for the development on the Anse des Pecheurs, officially and unconditionally. You may give any excuse you want-apart, of course, from the real one. Is that clear? You can call me on this number when you’ve made the necessary arrangements. I’d advise you not to waste any time.”

“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

“You don’t.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“What other options do you have?”

There was a click, and the line went dead.