The Marseille Caper

out of the water, but he won’t be going anywhere-I handcuffed him to the boat’s steering wheel. What do we do now?”

Sam took out his phone. “First, we tell Francis. Then we get the police out here.” He paused as the thought struck him. “Are they likely to be a problem? I mean, you’re not exactly official.”

“Don’t worry. The story is that we’re on special assignment from Corsica. The cops here can check with the police chief in Calvi. He’s my uncle.”

Sam spoke for a few minutes with a vastly relieved Reboul, who volunteered to arrange for the Marseille police to come out to the boat at once. Leaving Jo to guard Elena, he went back to the cabin, where he found Prendergast perched on the side of the bunk, his head sunk in his shoulders, staring at the floor. There was a cut on his forehead and a smear of blood on his face.

The reactions to Sam’s good news were immediate and enthusiastic: a smacking kiss on each cheek from Daphne, and a crushing bear hug from Flo. Prendergast’s head seemed to have slumped even lower.

“Did he try anything?”

Flo nodded. “Only once.”

Relief had made Sam feel intensely alive, slightly lightheaded, and well disposed toward the world. With one notable exception. “The police will be here any minute now, and their first stop should be Wapping. Tell me, Flo- what’s the penalty in France for kidnapping?”

The big man rubbed his chin. “That depends. If the victim has been harmed in any way, it’s twenty-five years. If no harm has been done, it’s only twenty years.”

“Only twenty years. What are the jails like here?”

Figatelli assumed his most innocent expression. “I’ve had no personal experience, of course. But I’ve heard they’re not exactly comfortable.”

“Good. OK, let’s get going.” He turned to look at Prendergast, who had been listening closely, his expression a mixture of disbelief and despair. “Is there anywhere we can lock him up?”

Flo shrugged. “Why bother? I’ll put him in with Wapping, and then stand outside the door until the cops come.” He bent down and, none too gently, pulled Prendergast to his feet. The procession set off, reaching the master cabin just in time to welcome the Marseille police, who had arrived in force on two speedboats.

To Sam’s relief, Flo had decided to deal with the situation himself. He told the captain in charge that the kidnapper was in the stateroom; that the victim was in a drugged sleep in the helicopter, saved from abduction by Sam; and that he and his colleagues were ready to be helpful in any way they could.

That, of course, was not the end of it. There were depositions to be taken, questions to be answered, and the curious appearance of two Corsican police officers to be explained. By the time this was over, what Daphne described as “dawn’s rosy fingers” were touching the eastern horizon, and they were at last free to go.

Sam would always remember that short trip back to Marseille. Elena, still sleeping, was curled up in his arms, the sky was a misty pink, and the air smelled as though it had just been cleaned. Relief gave way to a deep, deep happiness.

As they were driving back to the house, Sam called Philippe, who picked up on the first ring.

“Good morning, my friend. I hope I didn’t wake you up?”

“We haven’t slept. What happened?”

As Sam finished going through the events of the night, a thought occurred to him. “Philippe, how would you like an exclusive? You know, kidnapper caught red-handed by Marseille’s finest, his attempts to escape by helicopter foiled, all that stuff. I can fill you in on the details.”

There was a moment of silence, then a grunt of approval from Philippe. “Not a bad idea. We’ll make a journalist out of you yet.”

Nineteen

Elena stirred and turned over. With her eyes still half-closed, she reached out a hand, and when Sam took it, her face softened into a smile. “Oh, Sam, dear sweet Sam, where have I been? What time is it?”

“You took a day off. I’ll tell you about it later. And it’s breakfast time. Do you feel like having anything?”

“A shower. Coffee. A croissant. More coffee.”

Despite Elena’s protests, Sam insisted on helping her as she got out of bed. She stretched, kissed him, and walked into the bathroom as though she’d been through nothing more dramatic than a good night’s sleep.

Back in the kitchen, Sam found Mimi on the phone and Philippe pounding away on his laptop. “Listen to this, Sam,” he said, translating off the screen. “Millionaire Kidnap Suspect Helps Police with Their Enquiries-Beautiful Victim Rescued from Helicopter.” He looked up at Sam. “Pretty good headline, don’t you think? Mimi’s trying to get hold of the editor before he gets into the office. He’s going to love it. So will the police. They can always use some good press.” Philippe waved Sam away and resumed his pounding, humming with satisfaction as he wrote. He barely noticed Mimi put down her phone and give him the thumbs up. “He likes it,” she said, “but it’s going to have to go through the lawyers. So if you could get it to him by lunchtime, that would be great.”

Sam prepared a tray with coffee and croissants and went back into the bedroom, where Elena, in her terrycloth robe, was sitting on the edge of the bed. She inhaled the steam coming from her cafe au lait, dipped the end of her croissant in it, took a first bite, and grinned. “Now, Mr. Levitt. Tell me what happened. Did I have fun?”

The following morning saw Philippe’s article on the front page of La Provence, illustrated by a photograph of Wapping’s boat, with the helicopter on the stern clearly visible. Philippe had gone as far as the lawyers would allow, and anyone reading the piece would be left with the impression that The Floating Pound was manned by unsavory and possibly criminal foreigners. Those with a personal interest in the story were not slow in picking this up.

It completely ruined Jerome Patrimonio’s breakfast. This he liked to take in a cafe on the Vieux Port, where he was cultivating a clandestine relationship with the young wife of the elderly patron. But today there was no flirting, there were no lingering glances, no intimate moments as hands touched while the bill was being paid. The other regular customers were aware of Patrimonio’s close connection with a veritable English lord-indeed, he frequently boasted about it-and one of them had shown him the article. He read it initially with a sense of shock, and then with increasing concern; not for Wapping, of course, but for himself. What would come out of the police investigation? Would he be implicated in any way? How could he protect himself as much as possible from any unpleasant repercussions? He left to go to his office, a distracted and worried man.

For Lord Wapping, too, the day started badly. He was under house arrest on the boat, his phone confiscated, his helicopter immobilized, police uniforms wherever he looked. He was enough of a realist to accept that he had been caught en flagrant delit, as one of the police officers had informed him (or, as Ray Prendergast put it, with his trousers round his ankles). This was bad enough, but it was not the only cloud on his horizon. Ever since the arrival of the police, Annabel had been behaving as if she hardly knew him.

Poor Annabel. She didn’t need to see Philippe’s article to know that she, and everyone else on the boat, would probably be treated as an accomplice to a criminal act unless she could prove that she had no knowledge of the kidnapping. In fact, this was almost the case. During her time with Wapping, she had developed a very efficient blind eye to what she called his business interests, and she had instinctively avoided asking any questions about the sleeping figure that Brian and Dave had brought on board. Now her mind was racing. If only she could find a way to get off the boat and over to her dear friends in Saint-Tropez. They would know what to do. It was all too, too ghastly.

For Patrimonio, the morning was rapidly spinning out of control. One after another, the members of the committee had called him to express their grave concerns about a known criminal being involved in a municipal project of this importance. There had also been a highly uncomfortable conversation with the mayor, who had told him in the most forceful language to take urgent steps to distance himself and his colleagues from Lord Wapping. With those angry words still fresh in his mind, Patrimonio had, as the mayor instructed, called an emergency meeting of the committee.