The Corsican Caper by Peter Mayle Read Free Book Online

thinking,” said Nikki, “about that guy in New York, the one who fell off his terrace and made such a mess on Park Avenue.”
    “Tragic accident. Very sad.” There was a brief pausewhile the two men struggled to control their grief. “But why do you ask? Do you have something in mind?”
    “Perhaps another tragic accident. After all, accidents happen all over the world.” Nikki turned away from the view to look at Vronsky, his expression innocent, his eyebrows raised and questioning.
    “Let me think about it,” said Vronsky.
    “Of course, we would need to know much more about Reboul’s habits—where he goes for amusement, if he has a bodyguard, if he has any dangerous hobbies, who he sleeps with, where he eats, that sort of stuff. You never know what might be useful.”
    Vronsky sighed. This would all be so much easier in Russia.
    Later that evening, as the lights went on in Marseille, Vronsky was back on deck, smoking a cigar and gazing once again at Le Pharo. If anything, it looked even more seductive at night, with the façade bathed in a soft wash of light. Vronsky could imagine himself there—the genial host entertaining elegant women and their wealthy and influential escorts at dinner. And then perhaps a little dancing—there was plenty of space at Le Pharo for a ballroom. All that was standing between him and this delightful existence was that stubborn idiot of a Frenchman.
    Nikki’s solution, death by accident, was, as Vronsky admitted, a last resort. But he had run out of other resorts, and now the decision was simple: either let Nikki loose or say good-bye to any chance of realizing his dream. As for the larger question—was it worth killing for something you wanted?—Vronsky had answered that many years ago, when sound business reasons had required the removal of troublesome colleagues. Any moral qualms had long since disappeared.
    Vronsky yawned, stretched, and made up his mind. He slept particularly well that night.
    Reboul settled into the passenger seat while Olivier, his chauffeur, put the finishing touches to the adjustment of his sunglasses before joining the early morning traffic heading toward the Vieux Port. They were going to the small, shabby building where Reboul had his office. Shabby though it might be on the outside, visitors were always astonished by the interior, which was sleek, comfortable, and modern. The only vintage item among the Eames chairs and polished teak desk and tables was Reboul’s secretary, a sixty-year-old treasure named Madame Giordano, who had been with him since he was a young man starting off in business thirty years ago. Madame G, as she was usually known, adored Reboul, ran his professional life with brisk efficiency, and generallytreated him with the patient indulgence of a mother toward a much-loved errant child.
    Olivier slowed down and was about to pull up outside the office when Reboul tapped him on the shoulder. “Keep going,” he said. “There’s something I want to check out. See that white Peugeot behind us? It was parked on the road outside Le Pharo when we left. I noticed it because his side mirror is almost falling off, and it’s been repaired with black tape. It’s still with us, and that’s quite a coincidence. I have a feeling we’re being followed.”
    Olivier glanced up at the rearview mirror. “You want me to lose him?”
    “No—just make life a little difficult for him.”
    There was nothing Olivier liked better than a chase, and he set off on a tour of the side streets, doubling back on his tracks and jumping the occasional light. The Peugeot was never more than fifty yards behind them.
    “This guy knows how to drive,” said Olivier. “And you’re right. He’s following us, no doubt about it.”
    They eventually lost him by turning off the Boulevard Charles Livon at the Cercle des Nageurs, a private swimming club not far from Le Pharo, where nonmembers driving grubby white Peugeots were not admitted. Reboul called Madame