The Corsican Caper by Peter Mayle Read Free Book Online Page A

G to say that he wasn’t coming in, then settled at a poolside table with a cup of coffee. He was thoughtful, trying to think who might be following him, and why. Taking outhis phone, he started to call Hervé, then cut the connection, chiding himself for being a nervous old woman. Even so, he told himself, it was not surprising he felt uncomfortable.
    Later, in the Vieux Port, Nikki was seated at a café table enjoying the afternoon sun—a more conventional Nikki, having replaced the hot pants and biker boots with the uniform of a gentleman on vacation: clean and well-pressed cotton trousers, a white linen shirt, and a wide-brim Panama hat. He was with a Marseillais named Rocca, a shadowy figure who made his living snooping for lawyers, or doing “legal research,” as he preferred to call it. He had been hired to follow Nikki’s invented client, a man of considerable wealth whose wife suspected him of maintaining a mistress and a love nest. Divorce and a multimillion-euro settlement were possible, but first it was necessary to find some evidence.
    “Well,” said Nikki, “where did he go?”
    Rocca shrugged and took a long pull at his
pastis
. “Where didn’t he go? All around the backstreets, down to the docks, and then up near Le Pharo, which is where I lost him; no, where he lost me. He went into this place, the Cercle des Nageurs—very chic, members only. They wouldn’t even let me into the parking area. So I waited outside until I came down to meet you. No sign of him.”
    “Bastard,” said Nikki. “Obviously meeting his mistress.What am I going to tell his poor wife?” Another shrug from Rocca. “Do you think he knew he was being followed?”
    “Don’t think so. But if you want me to keep tailing him I’ll need another car, something that isn’t a white Peugeot falling to bits.”
    Nikki nodded, and pushed an envelope across the table. “Rent another car. Make a list of where he goes, and call me at the end of every day.”
    Elena and Sam had decided to spend some time house-hunting, and had made an appointment to meet a real estate agent based in the Luberon, about an hour’s drive from Marseille. It was an area, so Philippe had told them, well known for its spectacular landscapes and its charming medieval villages. And equally well known, in these days of celebrity worship, for welcoming the invasion each summer of
les people
—movie stars and directors, rock musicians, members of the Paris elite, the occasional high-ranking politician—all hoping to be recognized despite their impenetrable sunglasses. Philippe had told them that the celebrity magazine
Gala
maintained a special summer correspondent to lurk in the neighborhood, watch the rich and famous at play, and, with a bit of luck, catch them behaving badly. But, he added, if one avoids this group and their goings-on, the Luberon is a calm and beautiful spot.
    “Well, it certainly is beautiful,” said Elena. They had driven through the Combe, a narrow, twisting road that cuts through the hills to link the more fashionable northern side of the Luberon with the quieter, less famous villages of the south. They were meeting the agent at her office in Gordes, sometimes called the capital of the summer
beau monde
, an absurdly picturesque arrangement of limestone buildings softened by centuries of sun and the mistral wind. The village sits on top of a hill, surrounded by long and lovely views, and it had recently come to life with a vengeance after the winter hibernation.
    English, American, German, and Japanese tourists, students from the nearby art school at Lacoste—they were all there, cameras clattering as they discovered yet another quaint cobbled passageway or an obliging inhabitant to pose with. Elena and Sam threaded their way through the crowd to find the agent’s office, tucked away in one of the steep streets that lead off the Place du Château.
    The office was approached through an archway that gave access to a tall, narrow house