Peter Mayle - The Marseille Caper

The first test of Sam’s disguise was about to take place. He adjusted his face mask and glasses and reminded himself that he didn’t understand English, while a gnomelike figure, squinting in the half-light, came across the deck toward him.

“What’s all this?” Ray Prendergast was not pleased. To obtain some relief from the increasingly tense atmosphere on the boat, he had settled down to watch an old favorite, the vintage DVD in which John Wayne single-handedly conquers Iwo Jima. And now this. He thrust his head toward Sam. “Who the hell are you? And what are you doing here?”

Sam looked at Daphne and shrugged, the picture of incomprehension. She took a step toward Prendergast and looked down at him from her superior height. “This gentleman is Dr. Ginoux. He unfortunately doesn’t speak a word of English, but I can interpret for him. And I’m afraid we have some most disturbing and unpleasant news.” She turned to Sam and, in rapid French, repeated what she had just said. Sam nodded, and waved a hand for her to continue.

“There is a strong possibility that two of the deckhands on a boat that arrived here recently from the Ivory Coast are infected by tropical spastic paraparesis. This is a viral disease that culminates in a slow and painful death unless it is discovered and treated in its early stages. It is also extremely contagious.” Daphne paused to assess the effect her words were having on Prendergast, and was encouraged to see that his belligerent expression had been replaced by a frown.

She continued. “The quarantine authorities here in the port are treating this as an emergency, and have instructed us and several other medical teams to inspect all vessels that have recently arrived from ports outside France.”

Prendergast’s belligerent expression returned. “Wait a minute. This boat has come from England. We haven’t been anywhere near the bloody Ivory Coast.”

“I’m sorry, but the authorities are quite clear about this. It’s possible, for instance, that some of your crew members may have had some contact with crew members from the infected vessel. Could you guarantee that no fraternization has taken place?”

Prendergast was silent.

“Of course you couldn’t,” said Daphne, “which is why, I’m afraid, we must inspect every cabin for traces of contagion. Fortunately, this can be done quite quickly by Dr. Ginoux. Now, if we could start with the master’s cabin and work our way back, I think that would cause the least possible disruption.”

Prendergast stopped chewing his lip. “I’ll have to talk to the owner.” He ducked back into the stateroom, leaving them on deck.

Daphne caught Sam’s eye, and gave him a wink. “So far, so good, dear,” she whispered. Flo, who had been quietly pacing the deck, came over to ask if he should go with them as they went through the cabins.

“Yes, definitely,” said Sam. “When we find Elena, we’re going to need you and your gun.”

Five minutes turned into ten before Prendergast came back, this time with Lord Wapping, his bulk draped in a maroon silk dressing gown, brandy snifter in hand. He glanced briefly at Sam and Flo before turning his attention to Daphne. “You’re the one who speaks English, right?” Daphne inclined her head. “Well then,” said Wapping, “let’s be sensible about this. I’m sure we don’t have to get everybody out of bed at this time of night. I’m quite happy to sign something that says you’ve carried out the inspection, and then we can all get our kip.” He took a sip of his brandy, looking at Daphne over the rim of his glass.

“I’m terribly sorry, but that won’t be possible. Our instructions are …”

“Yes, yes, I know all about the instructions. Ray here told me. But you know how the world works: a favor here, a favor there-I’m a generous man, know what I mean?”

Daphne turned to Sam and unleashed a torrent of French. When she’d finished, Sam said nothing. His index finger, wagging violently back and forth, and the emphatic shaking of his head was reply enough.

Daphne’s voice was cold. “If there are any further attempts to obstruct this inspection, they will be reported to the appropriate authorities. And now, if you don’t mind, we’ll start with your cabin.”

“Bloody waste of time.” Wapping stalked back into the stateroom, followed by the others. Sam reached in his bag and put the light meter in his pocket.

Opening the door to Wapping’s large and ornate cabin, they were greeted by the sight of Annabel sitting at her dressing table, brushing her hair. She was wearing a negligee of peach-colored silk, and at the sight of young Flo in his uniform she allowed one of the straps to slip a couple of inches down her suntanned shoulder. “What’s happening?” she said, batting her eyelashes. “I do hope I’m not going to be arrested.”

She seemed disappointed to be told that no arrest was imminent, and the team moved over to the double bed while Daphne explained the form the inspection would take. It was very simple. Dr. Ginoux would pass his detection device-a kind of Geiger counter for viral germs was how Daphne described it-over the pillows and the bathroom towels. If it indicated the signs of any infection, a reading would come up on the miniature screen; no signs of infection would be indicated by a different reading.

Watched by a glowering Lord Wapping and the pouting Annabel, Sam switched on his light meter and began to pass it across the surface of the pillows. The meter made impressive clicking noises, and tiny lights flashed on and off in a satisfying fashion each time the light density changed. Three minutes later, and the pillows were checked. Sam and Daphne moved into the bathroom, away from the view of spectators. “C’est bon?” They heard Daphne say, “Pas de reaction negative? Tres bien.”

She was smiling as they came back into the cabin. “There,” she said brightly. “That didn’t hurt a bit, did it? And now perhaps we can get on with the other cabins.” Wapping stood in the cabin doorway nursing his brandy, watching them as they went down the main passageway toward the part of the boat where lesser mortals slept.

Their first stop was Ray Prendergast’s cabin, where a low table showed traces of two of his passions. Recent copies of The Racing Post , the British horseracing bible, shared space with a comprehensive price list from Geoffrey’s of Antibes (this week’s special: Cottage Delight Tangy Orange English Breakfast Marmalade).

Prendergast, the picture of hostile suspicion, watched intently as Sam went through his routine, running the light meter up and down the bunk and across the pillows. When Sam moved into the tiny bathroom, Prendergast broke his silence. “You’re not going to do this nonsense all through the boat, surely?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Daphne, “all the cabins, of course. Then there’s the kitchen, laundry room, storage room, even the engine room. Dr. Ginoux is extremely thorough, particularly with serious cases like this. Actually, it would be a great help if you could let us have a plan of the boat, just to make sure we don’t miss anything.”

Prendergast didn’t reply. His mind was busy weighing the risks and possibilities, and as soon as the inspection team had left his cabin he started to make his way toward Lord Wapping’s suite, only to meet his lordship coming down the passageway.

“Billy, we’ve got to do something.”

“You’re bloody right we have.”

They went up to the sunbathing deck, where they could talk well away from any curious ears.

“She’s down the far end, right? In the spare cabin.”

Wapping nodded. “At the rate they’re going, we’ve got about fifteen minutes to get her out of there. If they find her, the jig’s up. Luckily, the boys gave her another jab this evening, so she won’t be any bother. But where the hell can we put her? Get hold of Brian and Dave.”