The Marseille Caper by Peter Mayle Read Free Book Online Page B

love,” he said. “A Frenchmanis …,” he performed a demi-shrug, with just the one shoulder cocked, “more subtle, more romantic, altogether more alluring.”
    “I like it,” said Elena. “Alluring is nice.”
    Sam felt it was time to change the subject. “Tell us about Mimi at the office. Is this the real thing? Has she started redecorating your apartment? She’s certainly redecorated you.”
    Philippe turned to Elena. “You see? He mocks me. Now then: what can I tell you about Mimi? Petite, red hair, highly intelligent, witty, wonderful legs, and, obviously”—here, he smirked—“excellent taste in men. You will adore her. She wanted to come tonight, but she has a martial-arts class.”
    Thoughts of Mimi gave way to consideration of dessert, with Philippe persuading Elena to try what he described as a profiterole on steroids, a veritable prince of profiteroles , plumped up with a miraculously light crème Chantilly . Sam contented himself with some Manchego cheese—sliced thin, the way it should be—with quince jam and a glass of solid red wine from the Languedoc. As he ate, he listened to Philippe describing to Elena a few of the city’s distractions: the Cathédrale de la Major, supported by 444 marble columns; the Vieux Port; twentieth-century art in the Musée Cantini; Pagnol’s Bar de la Marine; the magnificent Vieille Charité, designed by the court architect of Louis XIV to shelter the homeless; the view from Notre-Dame de la Garde. Or perhaps a tour of the boutiques, guided by Mimi, followed by a restorative session in the spa on the Corniche. And, of course, there was always Marseille’s favorite blood sport.
    “If you like soccer,” said Philippe, “this is not to bemissed—Olympique de Marseille’s last game of the season, against Paris Saint-Germain. We detest them. Mark my words, it will be a grudge match.”
    “Sounds interesting,” said Elena. “What does a girl wear to a grudge match?”
    “Body armor.” Philippe took a deep, noisy breath through pursed lips. “Those PSG fans are brutes.”
    Over coffee, it was agreed that Elena and Mimi would meet the next day. Sam was to continue polishing up his presentation, and Philippe planned to call his contacts in the city bureaucracy to see what he could dig up. They said their farewells in the soft, warm darkness outside the restaurant. Philippe slipped on his sunglasses against the glare of the moon, cocked a leg over his scooter, and clattered off. Tomorrow would be a busy day for all of them.

Six

    Sam finished reading the last of the documents and sat back with a sigh of relief. He now knew enough—more than enough—about Reboul’s development plans, from the number of berths in the marina to the color of the roof tiles and the size of the bathrooms. The next step would be to transform this mass of detail into a sixty-minute presentation for Patrimonio’s committee. He stood up, stretched to ease his aching back, and pushed open the shutters to let in the sunlight. It was a beautiful blue and gold Mediterranean morning. He wondered how Elena and Mimi were getting on, and resisted the temptation to call Elena and invite himself to lunch. Work, he said to himself. That’s what you’re here for. Work.
    He was saved from further self-improvement by his phone. It was Philippe, sounding furtive and conspiratorial.
    “Can you talk?”
    Sam wondered if he should check under the desk for eavesdroppers. “Sure. Go ahead.”
    “I have this contact who works in one of the bars on the Vieux Port. A man who keeps his eyes and ears open. Well, one of his friends does a little business in the summer with boats coming into Frioul—you know, those islands just off the coast. And guess who’s been there for the past few days, in one of the hidden moorings.”
    Sam’s mind ran the gamut from President Sarkozy to Brad Pitt. “I don’t know, Philippe. You tell me.”
    “Lord Wapping. Interesting, non ? And that’s not all. Last