The Corsican Caper (2 page)

“Reboul would never sell. It is well known from Marseille to Menton that he loves his house. And he doesn’t need the money.
Désolé
.” The speaker shrugged, and lit a cigarette with a gold lighter.

He was standing with Vronsky on the top deck of
The Caspian Queen
, which was paying a visit to the Cannes Film Festival. Vronsky’s yacht was moored offshore, well placed to appreciate the distant glitter of the Croisette. He had chosen to introduce himself to Cannes by giving a party on board, organized by his public relations company, and not a single invitation had been declined. It was a fairly typical gathering of the usual characters found at film festival events: thin, overtanned women; stout men with the pallor that comes from spending too much time in darkened screening rooms; starlets and would-be starlets; journalists;
and one or two festival dignitaries—to add a slightly formal touch of local color. And, of course, the gentleman in the white silk dinner jacket who was now having a discreet conversation with Vronsky.

He was, so Vronsky had been assured, the most successful and well-connected real estate agent on the coast. In his early days, his name had been Vincent Schwarz. This he had changed, for professional reasons, to the Vicomte de Pertuis—a title he invented that had nothing to do with noble birth—and during twenty years as a self-promoted aristocrat he had gained a near stranglehold on the top end of the coastal property market. Vronsky, he had to admit, was a challenge. So far he had proved to be a difficult and demanding client, turning up his nose at properties from Monaco to Saint-Tropez. But the Vicomte, encouraged by the thought of the agent’s commission—a generous 5 percent—had persevered. Now, to his carefully concealed frustration, his client had found the house he wanted all by himself, without any professional help.

Circumstances like these demanded considerable finesse on the part of the Vicomte. He could scarcely expect 5 percent for merely supervising the transaction. Unforeseen difficulties and problems would have to be created—problems that could only be overcome by someone as experienced and wise in the ways of negotiation as the Vicomte. It was a principle that had worked for him several times in the past, and
one which had prompted his negative response when Vronsky had asked him about Le Pharo.

“How do you know he doesn’t need the money?” Vronsky asked. His view was that there wasn’t a man alive who couldn’t be bought providing the price was right.

“Ah,” said the Vicomte, lowering his voice to little more than a whisper. “In my profession, one needs above all accurate information, the more private and personal the better.” He paused to nod, as if agreeing with himself. “I have spent years, many years, cultivating my sources. In fact, most of the properties I deal with never reach the open market. A word or two in the right ear,
et voilà
. A sale is made, always with the utmost discretion. My clients prefer it this way.”

“And you feel sure that the owner would never sell?”

Again the shrug. “That would be my opinion, in the absence of more detailed information.”

“And how do we get that?”

It was the question the Vicomte had been hoping for. “Of course, any inquiries would need to be carried out delicately, ideally by someone with a great deal of experience in these matters. Owners of important properties are never straightforward, often secretive, and sometimes dishonest. It takes someone with a shrewd eye and a keen nose to arrive at the truth.”

It was the answer Vronsky had been expecting. “Someone like you, perhaps?”

The Vicomte fluttered a modest hand. “I would be honored.”

And so it was agreed that the Vicomte would act as Vronsky’s ferret, gathering information about Le Pharo and its owner. The two of them could then work out a plan of action. With this settled, they returned to the party on the main deck, Vronsky to play the part of the gregarious host, the Vicomte to continue his efforts to persuade a tipsy film producer from Hollywood to buy a charming little penthouse in Cannes.

A hundred miles along the coast, another, much smaller party was taking place to welcome Elena and Sam, who had just arrived after spending a couple of days in Paris. Le Pharo was to be their base for the next three weeks, and Reboul had invited a few of the people whom Sam and Elena had met during a previous adventure in Marseille: the journalist Philippe Davin and his flame-haired girlfriend, Mimi; the redoubtable Daphne Perkins, this time without the nurse’s uniform she had worn so effectively when called upon to foil a kidnapping; and the well-connected Figatelli brothers, Flo and Jo, who had come over from Corsica for the evening.

Once the ritual hugs and kisses of renewed acquaintance had been observed, reminiscence began to flow. Daphne, Champagne flute in hand, little finger elegantly cocked, listened to Jo as he described the latest developments in the Corsican underworld. And then, taking advantage of a lull
in the conversation, she asked, “Whatever happened to that
ghastly
man?”

As everyone there knew, she was referring to Lord Wapping, the unscrupulous and crooked tycoon who had very nearly managed, by arranging for Elena to be kidnapped, to get the better of Reboul in a business deal. Daphne turned to Philippe. “I’m sure you’ve been keeping up with the case. Is he in prison yet? Is a life sentence too much to hope for?”

“He’s not quite there yet,” said Philippe. “He’s using what we call the Serbian war-criminal defense—a sudden and unexpected life-threatening illness that prevents him from being cross-examined. He’s still holed up in a Marseille clinic, doing his best to look half-dead. The word is that he’s bribing one of the doctors. But they’ll get him in the end.”

Elena shuddered, remembering the events, and Sam put his arm around her. “Take it easy, sweetheart. That’s one guy we won’t be seeing again.”

The mood was lightened by Mimi, with a rather sheepish Philippe in tow. “Look,” she said to Elena, “he’s making an honest woman of me.” She giggled, and held out her left hand to show the engagement ring on her third finger. It was the signal for congratulations and enthusiastic embraces. Reboul proposed a toast. Sam proposed a toast. Each of the Figatelli brothers proposed a toast. They floated into dinner on a tide of Champagne.

When they were all seated, Reboul tapped his wineglass
for silence. “Welcome, my friends, welcome to Marseille. It is truly a pleasure to see you all, this time under more relaxed circumstances.” He looked around the table, nodding at the smiling faces, before assuming a serious expression. “Now then, to business. Dinner tonight is a simple affair, but alternative arrangements can be made for anyone who is allergic to
foie gras
, rack of Sisteron lamb scented with rosemary, fresh goat cheeses, and
tarte Tatin. Bon appétit!
”

And with that, Reboul’s housekeeper, Claudine, appeared with the maid, Nanou, from Martinique, to start serving.

The food was too good to be rushed, as were the wines, the conversation, and finally the fond farewells. By the time Elena and Sam climbed the stairs and reached their top-floor suite it was almost two o’clock.

While Elena was busying herself in the dressing room, Sam strolled over to the floor-to-ceiling window, with its view of the pools of light scattered across the water of the Vieux Port. He wondered, not for the first time, what could induce otherwise sane adults to squeeze themselves into those tiny boats and endure discomfort and occasional danger on the heaving, unpredictable bosom of the sea. A sense of adventure? A desire to escape the cares of the world? Or was it just a refined form of masochism?

His musings were interrupted by the reappearance of Elena, her arms laden with the kind of expensive shopping bags that were sure to conceal even more expensive contents. “I wanted to show you what I bought in Paris while
you were spoiling yourself with your shirt guy at Charvet,” she said. And she carefully laid out on the bed a selection of underwear that would have been enough to stock a small boutique: silk, of course, some items in black, some in a very pale shade of lavender, all of them looking as though the slightest breeze would blow them off the bed. “There’s this great little place on the Rue des Saints-Pères, Sabbia Rosa. Mimi calls it a girls’ outfitters.” She took a step backward and smiled at Sam, her head cocked. “What do you think?”

Sam ran his fingers over the fine silk of something so insubstantial he thought for a moment that it was a small handkerchief. He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I think I need to see them on, to make sure that they fit.”

“Sure,” said Elena, as she scooped them up from the bed and headed back to the dressing room. She looked over her shoulder, and winked. “Don’t go away.”

The letter had been hand-delivered earlier that morning, so Claudine said, by a very well dressed gentleman who had arrived in a Mercedes. He hadn’t left his name.

Reboul opened the envelope, its inside lined with chocolate-brown tissue, and took out the single sheet of heavy, buff-colored paper. Instead of an address at the top, a discreetly embossed heading announced that the sender was the Vicomte de Pertuis. His message was brief and to the point:

This was followed by a one-word signature:
Pertuis
.

Over the years, Reboul, like most wealthy men, had received countless solicitations from people offering to increase his fortune by one shady means or another. Some had been amusing, others quite astonishing in their imaginative use of his money. This time, he found himself more than usually intrigued. Perhaps the title helped, although the aristocracy these days, God knows, had become thoroughly venal and commercialized. But one never knew. This might be worth a few minutes. He picked up his phone and called the number.

“Pertuis.”

“Reboul.”

The voice changed instantly, becoming unctuous. “Monsieur Reboul, how very kind of you to call. I’m delighted to hear from you.”

“Obviously, I received your note. I’m free this afternoon around three, if that would suit you. I think you know where I live.”

“Of course, of course. Three o’clock it is. I look forward to it immensely.”

Elena and Sam had spent the morning being tourists. Many changes had taken place in Marseille leading up to 2013, when it had taken its turn as the European Capital of Culture. And Elena, an avid collector of travel tips, had read
about them all, from the transformation of the once shabby docks (
Le Grand Lifting
) to Pagnol’s
“Château de ma mère”
becoming a Mediterranean film center. There were also new museums and exhibition sites, newly created gardens both wet and dry, even a glamorous glass
ombrière
to give visitors to the fish market some shelter from the elements, if not from the ripe language. All in all, there were enough novelties to occupy even the most fast-moving of sightseers for at least a month.

Sam did his best to keep up with Elena, but it was exhausting work. He looked with increasing longing at the cafés they rushed past until he could stay silent no longer. “Lunch,” he said, his voice steely with determination. “We must have lunch.”

He hailed a taxi, bundled Elena in, and told the driver to take them to the Vallon des Auffes, just off the Corniche. Elena put her travel notes in her bag and let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Culture is defeated, and gluttony wins again,” she said, “and just when I was enjoying myself. Where are we going?”

“It’s a little port with two terrific restaurants, Chez Fonfon and Chez Jeannot. Philippe told me about them: Jeannot for
moules farcies
, Fonfon for
bouillabaisse
.”

Elena looked down at her pale-blue T-shirt and cream linen skirt. “I’m not dressed for
bouillabaisse
. How about the
moules
?”

The Vallon des Auffes is a pocket port, too small to accommodate
any but the most modest boats. Without doubt, the best place to appreciate the miniature but highly picturesque view is the terrace at Chez Jeannot, and Elena settled into her seat with a little sigh of satisfaction. “This is cute,” she said. “Maybe you were right after all.”

“Sorry about that. I won’t let it happen again.” Before Elena had a chance to roll her eyes—her standard response to Sam’s attempts at sarcasm—he had buried himself in the wine list. “Let’s see: a vivacious little
rosé
? Or perhaps a crisp and beautifully balanced white, with just a hint of impertinence, from the vineyards of Cassis?”

Over the years, Elena had become used to Sam having
bon viveur
moments as soon as he set foot in France. It was part of the travel experience. “Do you think they have French fries to go with the mussels?”

“
Pommes frites
, sweetheart,
pommes frites.
”

“Sam, you’re behaving like a dictionary. Don’t be a pain.”