Peter Mayle - The Marseille Caper

Heads were nodding around the table. “OK. I’d like one policeman, Flo, to come aboard with Daphne and me. Jo stays in the speedboat in case anyone tries to slip away. Now here’s the tricky part. We don’t know what we’re going to find on board. We don’t know the boat’s layout or where the hiding places might be. But I’m counting on the element of surprise. They won’t be expecting us, and so Elena will probably be locked in one of the cabins.” He stopped and looked around the table.

“If that’s the case, it’s possible they might refuse to unlock the door. That’s when Flo gets nasty. Through Daphne, he’ll tell them that they’re obstructing official business, and if they don’t open the door he’ll kick it down. These are Englishmen we’re dealing with, and they’re not going to argue with a foreign police officer.”

Philippe raised a hand. “Let’s say everything goes according to plan,” he said, “and you find Elena. How are you going to get her off the boat? Wapping and all the crew aren’t going to just stand there and wave goodbye.”

Sam nodded. “We talked about this coming over from Corsica. The moment we find Elena, Flo will take out that ugly big gun of his and fire a shot-into the air, into the ceiling, through a porthole, it doesn’t matter. A gunshot at close quarters does two things to people: it makes them scared and it makes them freeze. In this case, it will also be the signal for Jo to come up and join us. We will then have two armed men. I don’t think anyone would be stupid enough to try his luck with two guns pointed at him. Also, Daphne and I have half a dozen syringes filled with a powerful anesthetic-one jab would make an elephant go down. And, as I said, we’ll have surprise on our side. So we should be OK. Anything else?”

Flo raised a hand. “We need six glasses.” He reached down and produced a dark-green bottle with a handwritten label. “We must drink to our success.”

Sam laughed, and the tension left the room. “Why not?”

While Mimi was getting the glasses, Daphne asked Jo what was in the bottle. “ Myrte, chere madame, myrte , the Corsican liqueur. Very good. I made it myself. We have a custom in the Figatelli family to drink a toast before we go out on a job. We have found it brings luck.”

The glasses were filled, the mission was toasted, and Daphne, who was drinking myrte for the first time, gave a little shudder of pleasure as her first sip went down. “Oh my, that’s very good indeed. Do you know, it reminds me of Owbridges.” Seeing the blank looks around the table, she added, “It’s a cough syrup I used to have as a girl at school. Delicious, and quite addictive-how we girls used to long to get a cough.” She emptied her glass, looked down at the watch pinned to her bosom, and stood up. Sam could hear the dry whisper of starch against starch. “That did me a power of good,” said Daphne. “Now I’m ready for anything.”

Sam looked back at the house as they walked to the car. Philippe and Mimi, framed by the lighted doorway, were waving them off, and Philippe put his fist, thumb, and little finger extended, to his ear. “Call us as soon as you’ve got her.”

Tension returned as the car made the short trip down to the Vieux Port. Sam took the syringes out of his bag and passed three to Daphne. “These work very quickly, and you don’t need to find a vein. Neck, arm, wrist, anywhere there’s a patch of bare skin.” Daphne nodded, and arranged the syringes carefully in her empty breast pocket. “Mustn’t get them confused with the thermometers, must we?” she said.

The cafes opposite the Vieux Port were still busy with afterdinner customers who were sitting outside, taking advantage of the gentle night air. The quay on the other side of the road was almost deserted, quiet enough to hear the creak of rigging as the boats rode the swell in their moorings. The Figatellis were leading the way, and they had almost reached the speedboat before Sam noticed a car parked on its own at the end of the quay. The headlights flashed once, then again. The others stopped to watch as Sam went over.

The back window slid down, and Sam was able to make out the familiar face of Francis Reboul. “I shall wait here until you come back,” he said. He reached out of the window and grasped Sam’s hand. “Good luck, my friend. Good luck.”

“Not too fast, Jo. We’d like to get there dry.” Sam wiped the spray from his face and looked at his watch. He looked across at Daphne. She was in profile, and with her head held back and her redoubtable bosom, she made Sam think of a clipper ship’s figurehead. She turned toward him and smiled. “What an adventure,” she said, and then her face became serious. “I’ve been thinking, dear. Suppose someone asks us the name of this disease that we’re looking for. What would we say?”

“Thank God you reminded me. I’m sorry-I should have told you earlier. The technical name is tropical spastic paraparesis. I came across it a few years ago when I was in Africa. We used to call it the Congo flux, and it’s really nasty: drowsiness, fever, convulsions, vomiting, and death.”

“Splendid,” said Daphne.

“The curious thing about it is that it’s spread by breath. If someone who is infected breathes on clothes or a handkerchief or a pillow, the virus stays contagious for several hours. In its early stages it’s invisible. You don’t know you’ve got it until the first symptoms appear.”

“Is there a cure?”

“Induced total bodily evacuation, but that only works if you catch it within forty-eight hours.”

Daphne nodded. “That should give them something to think about, if they ask. Oh, look! Isn’t that pretty .”

They had passed the tip of the island of Ratonneau and turned back into the Baie du Grand Soufre. There, at the end of the bay, The Floating Pound lay at anchor, lights blazing, a floating symbol of the capitalist dream come true. The Figatellis murmured their appreciation. “See that?” said Jo to his brother. “The helicopter parked on the stern? That is some piece of equipment. Tres serieux .”

Sam leaned forward. “Now, Jo. Once we’re on board, I’d like you to park somewhere you can keep an eye on the helicopter. If anyone wants to make a quick getaway, that’s what they’ll try to use.” Jo nodded, cut the engine until the boat was just making way, and glided closer to the yacht. They could see a crew member, in silhouette against the light flooding out from the main stateroom, take a final drag on his cigarette before flicking the butt over the rail and going back inside.

The speedboat eased gently up to the main gangway and came to a halt, riding easily on the swell. “OK,” said Sam. “Here we go. Give them a shout.”

Flo took the megaphone and requested permission to come aboard. They waited. No response.

“They don’t understand French, obviously,” said Daphne. “Here-let me have that.” She took the megaphone and stood up, bracing herself against the speedboat’s movement.

“Ahoy! The Floating Pound! Ahoy!” Her voice, a powerful instrument, bounced off the sea and echoed against the side of the yacht. “Medical emergency! I repeat, medical emergency!”

A figure appeared from a door behind the main stateroom and peered down at the speedboat.

“You there! Young man! I say again: this is a medical emergency. Now lower the gangway so the doctor can come aboard. Look sharp!”

A second figure appeared, and after a brief consultation the steps were lowered. A surprisingly nimble Daphne, followed by Sam and Flo, led the way on to the deck. She looked the two young crew members up and down, and clearly found them lacking in stature. “I need to speak to someone in authority at once,” she said. They looked back at her, bleary-eyed and uncertain. “At once!”