Peter Mayle - The Marseille Caper

The beam on Daphne’s face was answer enough. “What fun!” she said. “Of course I’ll do it.”

“You don’t happen to have a nurse’s uniform, by any chance?”

Daphne pursed her lips. “It’s been many years since a man asked me that, dear. I don’t. But I can get one from my friend who works at La Timone. It’s a big hospital, and they have everything there-plenty of uniforms. Shall I get a stethoscope as well?”

Sam was smiling with relief. “Why not? Actually, get two.”

They agreed that Daphne should come back to the house that evening around nine o’clock, and they would set off for the Vieux Port just before ten. As Sam watched her drive the old Deux Chevaux through the gate, he gave her a mental three cheers. With women like that, he thought, it was no wonder the British Empire had lasted so long.

Sam found Mimi and Philippe by the pool-Mimi wrapped up on a chaise longue under a parasol, and Philippe in the shallow end doing the exercises that had been prescribed by his nurse. He waved to Sam and climbed up the steps from the pool, wincing as he climbed. “It’s bizarre,” he said, “I can move in the water with no pain at all, but now … ouf! How did you get on?”

“We have our nurse: Miss Perkins, the lady who helped me out with the presentation. She’s terrific. She’ll be here tonight in her full nurse’s regalia. If you like, I’ll get her to take Mimi’s temperature.”

“What about your outfit?”

“Olivier’s picking it up now. And the two boys from Corsica are coming up to the house at nine. We’ll all go off together. If we get to the boat just after ten, between dinner and bedtime, that should be about right. With any luck they’ll all be drunk.”

“Is there room for a disabled journalist on the speedboat?”

“Not a chance. But look at it this way: you get the story without getting wet.”

A soft, warm Marseille evening held the promise of a fine, calm night. A good omen, Sam thought. You can plan just about everything else, but you can’t plan the weather. Rain and a tearing mistral in an open speedboat would have made a depressing start to the expedition, and it was an expedition that had enough problems already.

He looked at his watch: 8:30. It was time to transform himself into Dr. Ginoux, specialist in contagious tropical diseases. He went into the bedroom, where his disguise-compliments of Reboul’s contacts-had been laid out on the bed: a full set of hospital scrubs, a pair of white rubber Crocs (the discerning doctor’s footwear of choice), a close-fitting cotton operating hat, a face mask, and a well-worn Gladstone bag. Next to these were two purchases Sam had made that afternoon: a high-tech light meter of the kind used by professional photographers, and a pair of heavy, black-framed glasses with plain lenses.

Sam took off his clothes. Was the correctly dressed doctor supposed to have medically approved underwear? Too bad. He put on the scrubs, the mask, the glasses, and the close-fitting hat, and went over to inspect himself in a full-length mirror, his Crocs squeaking on the parquet. A totally unrecognizable figure peered back at him. He felt a shiver of adrenaline. It wouldn’t be long now.

He checked the contents in both sides of the Gladstone bag. There were enough thermometers to take the temperature of an entire boat’s crew, several pairs of Latex gloves, a flashlight, spare face masks, and half a dozen loaded syringes. In the bag’s other compartment, a selection of dressings, antiseptic ointment, and a stethoscope. He was ready. Now all he needed to do was to find the patient.

Mimi and Philippe, waiting for him in the living room, looked him over. Mimi pronounced Sam completely anonymous. And, she added, a little frightening.

Philippe did a tour of inspection around him, nodding as he went. “Very good,” he said. “Maybe you could have a look at my ribs? No, seriously-not even Elena would recognize you.”

Sam pushed the face mask down until it hung around his neck, took off the glasses and the hat, and looked at his watch. The hands seemed to be stuck.

“Waiting is hard, isn’t it?” said Mimi.

“Sure is.”

They heard the sound of tires on gravel and the slamming of car doors. Sam went to open the front door. The Figatelli brothers, still carrying their bulky bags, loomed large in the half-light of the entrance.

“You en forme , Sam? Ready to go? We’ve been down in the Vieux Port, checking the boat. Everything’s fine, and we’re lucky with the weather. The sea is like this.” Jo passed a flat hand, palm down, in front of his body, as if stroking a straight line.

Sam introduced the brothers to Mimi and Philippe and had just shown them into the bedroom to change when he heard the tinny clatter of another car, Miss Perkins’s 2CV. The final member of the team had arrived.

Nurse Perkins, as Sam would henceforth think of her, was an immaculate credit to the medical profession. A severe bun had replaced her normal, more relaxed hairstyle. Her long white jacket, starched rigid, carried a small battery of thermometers in one breast pocket. Pinned to the outside of the other pocket was a nurse’s watch attached to a black ribbon. A starched white skirt, white stockings, white shoes, and a clipboard with pen completed the outfit. Florence Nightingale would have been proud of her.

“Perfect,” said Sam. “Absolutely perfect.”

“I do hope so, dear. I’m a little late because I had to restarch everything. These young girls nowadays never use enough, and then one becomes rumpled, which would never do for me.”

Mimi and Philippe were watching, fascinated by this vision in white.

“Mimi and Philippe,” said Sam, “meet Daphne. She’s our secret weapon.” Smiles and handshakes were exchanged, and Philippe was just about to ask exactly what a secret weapon would do on a boat when Daphne, looking over his shoulder, said, “Oh my goodness-what strapping young men.”

With the change into police uniform, Flo and Jo seemed to have grown even bigger, the pistols and handcuffs on their belts adding an extra touch of menace to their already forbidding appearance. They saluted, took off their peaked hats, and grinned.

“Florian and Joseph,” said Sam, “but I think they prefer to be called Flo and Jo.”

“So much more chummy,” said Daphne, looking from one to the other. “But how do we tell who’s who?”

“I’m the good-looking one,” they said in unison.

Sam led them through to the dining room and sat them down. “I’d like to go through a few points so we’re all on the same page tonight. Stop me if you have any questions, OK?” He looked around at the attentive faces and smiled. “First, thank you for helping me. This is a lousy situation, and I don’t know what I’d have done without you. These people have already gone after our friend here”-he nodded toward Philippe-“and when I think of them taking Elena, I feel … well, I’m sure you know how I feel. So thank you. Thank you very much.”

Sam stopped to take a breath and gather his thoughts. “Now, problem number one is getting on board Wapping’s boat. The uniforms are going to help, obviously, and then there’s the cover story of a rogue virus going around the port. I’m hoping that should do it.” He looked at the Figatellis. “There’s a megaphone on the speedboat, right?” Florian nodded and gave him the thumbs up. “Good. Well, let’s assume that the emergency medical team has talked its way on board. Here’s where Daphne is crucial. Remember that I’m supposed to be a French doctor, and I only speak French. So, right at the start, Daphne will have to tell them that she will translate my instructions into English. If we need to, we can consult together in a corner, somewhere they can’t hear my voice. All clear so far?”