Peter Mayle - The Marseille Caper

“Heart problems, Ray. Severe heart problems.”

“I didn’t know you had a dicky heart.”

“I will have. Leave it to me.”

The police officer on duty outside the stateroom glanced through the window just in time to see Lord Wapping topple from his chair and lie on the floor clutching his chest, his mouth gaping.

Jerome Patrimonio called the meeting to order, somewhat inhibited by the presence of the mayor, an impassive figure at the far end of the conference table. In what he would later think of as one of his most effective performances as chairman, Patrimonio began by deploring the shocking behavior of Lord Wapping. Here was a man, he said, who had deceived them all, and had proved himself to be totally unsuitable as a partner in this vitally important project. Fortunately, his true character had been revealed before any commitments had been made. Also, Patrimonio went on, two other excellent schemes had been submitted, and the committee had already had ample time and information to consider each of them. And so, in the interests of fairness, democracy, and complete transparency, always close to his heart, he now proposed to put the matter to a vote. A simple show of hands around the table, he suggested, should be sufficient.

He looked at the mayor, slightly less impassive now, who nodded his approval. The members of the committee adjusted their expressions-grave and responsible, as befitted important men about to make an important decision. They were reminded by Patrimonio that they had the right to abstain.

The first proposal to be put to the vote was the hotel complex put forward by Madame Dumas on behalf of Eiffel International. Patrimonio looked around the table. Two hands were raised.

It was the turn of the second proposal, presented by Monsieur Levitt on behalf of the Swiss/American consortium. One by one, five hands went up, much to Patrimonio’s relief; his decisive chairman’s vote was not going to be necessary. He could not be blamed if anything went wrong.

“Well, gentlemen, I think we can agree that the committee has sent a very clear message, and I congratulate them on their decision.” And with that, he shot his cuffs and declared the meeting closed.

Back in his office, Patrimonio made two calls: the first to a surprised Sam, the second to a senior editor at La Provence . Patrimonio’s day, after a dreadful start, was beginning to look more promising.

“ Mais c’est pas possible . I don’t believe it.” Philippe was laughing and shaking his head as he passed the morning’s edition of La Provence across the breakfast table to Mimi. “Take a look. That rascal Sam-he never said a word to me about this.”

Mimi put down her croissant, licked the flakes of pastry from her fingers, and spread the newspaper in front of her. There, above the fold on the front page, was a photograph of Patrimonio and Sam shaking hands and beaming into the camera. “A New Look for the Anse des Pecheurs” read the headline, followed by several paragraphs of breathless prose that congratulated the committee on its difficult decision and emphasized the amicable and constructive relationship between Monsieur Jerome Patrimonio and Monsieur Sam Levitt. The piece went on to announce that there would be a press conference shortly, when full details of the winning project would be revealed. The final seal of approval was provided by Patrimonio. “I am particularly pleased with the committee’s decision,” he said, “because this project was a personal favorite of mine from the very beginning.”

On reading this, Mimi snorted, almost choking on her coffee. “ Qu’il est bestiasse! What an idiot.”

Philippe was still grinning. “Now there’s a press conference I’d hate to miss. Want to come?”

Following the arrest of Lord Wapping and his crew, Philippe and Mimi had decided that it was safe to move back into his apartment. As a result, they had been seeing less of Sam. “Leave him alone for a minute,” said Philippe, “and he starts mixing with all kinds of weird people.” He reached for his phone and tapped in Sam’s number.

“Is that Monsieur Sam Levitt, who has an amicable and constructive relationship with that horse’s ass Patrimonio?”

Sam groaned. “I know, Philippe, I know. Don’t be too hard on me. He called and said it was important that we meet at his office. When I got there, he’d just finished an interview with one of your guys on the paper. Then the photographer comes in …”

“And the rest is history. I bet he was wearing makeup for the shot. Now tell me-when’s the press conference?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. His secretary’s calling around to the media this morning. You can come, but only if you behave yourself.”

“ Moi? Misbehave? I shall be a perfect example of the professional journalist.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. See you tomorrow.”

“Now, my dear Monsieur Levitt, it would probably be best if I handled all the questions,” Patrimonio said, glancing around the conference room, searching the walls in vain for a mirror. He was at his sartorial best for the occasion, in a cream silk suit, pale-blue shirt, and his treasured Old Etonian tie. “Of course, if I need to consult you on a technical matter, I will. But I think it best if there is one official spokesman for the project, don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely,” said Sam, who was more than happy to let Patrimonio take the questions. He was already enjoying the delightful irony of the situation: Here was Patrimonio promoting the project of his old enemy Reboul. “Apart from anything else,” Sam said, “your French is so much better than mine.”

Patrimonio’s secretary put her head around the conference room door. “I think they’re all here,” she said.

“Show them in, my dear. Show them in.” Patrimonio went through his ritual of hair-smoothing, cuff-shooting, and tie-tweaking before assuming a welcoming smile as the media filed in. A three-man television crew from a local station was followed by half a dozen writers from the specialist press-design and architecture, Cote Sud magazine-and a small troop of real-estate agents anxious to get a foot in the door. Bringing up the rear was Philippe. At the sight of him, Patrimonio’s smile faltered for a second before he recovered.

In his presentation, Patrimonio was careful to allocate credit where it was due; that is, to himself. There he was, the steady hand of guidance at every stage of the process, from choosing the short list to overseeing the final decision. It was, if you believed what you heard, the story of one man’s dedication and sound judgment. Halfway through, Sam made the mistake of catching Philippe’s eye, and was rewarded by an exaggerated wink.

When Patrimonio finally stopped, the questions, as he had hoped, were soft. How much would the project cost? What was the schedule of work, and when would it start? What were the purchase arrangements for the finished apartments? Patrimonio gave adequately optimistic answers, and was congratulating himself on the smooth progress of the meeting when Philippe cleared his throat loudly and raised his hand.

“Monsieur Patrimonio,” he asked, “what has happened to the millionaire kidnapper? I understand he was on the short list. You two were quite friendly, weren’t you? Any news about him?”

But Patrimonio, a man well versed in the art of evasion, had no intention of going anywhere near that particular subject. “For legal reasons, I can’t possibly comment on that. It’s a matter for the police.” He consulted his watch. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, unless there are any further questions, Monsieur Levitt and I have work to do.”

Reboul had decided that the decision called for a celebration. It was still too soon, he felt, to be seen publicly in Marseille with Sam and Elena, and so he had made arrangements for what he called “a little country lunch.” Two cars would come to the house to take Elena, Sam, Mimi, Philippe, and Daphne to a discreet restaurant hidden away in the Luberon. Reboul would meet them there.