The Marseille Caper

“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.

At eleven o’clock sharp, two black Mercedes pulled into the driveway of the house. The two young chauffeurs, in black suits and sunglasses, guided the passengers to their seats, and they set off. Daphne had asked to travel with Elena and Mimi-“all girls together, dear, so we can gossip about you two,” as she said to Sam-leaving the men to follow in the second car.

In little over an hour they found themselves in a completely different world. After the crowds and concrete and sea views of Marseille, the Luberon looked lush and deserted. The rains of spring had helped to give the mountains a covering of every shade of green, fresh and shining, and the sky was postcard blue. It was perfect weather for lunch, as Philippe said to Sam.

The final part of the drive took them up the narrow, twisting road that climbs to the top of the Luberon until they came to a painted wooden sign, half-obscured by ivy, that announced Le Mas des Oliviers. An arrow pointed down a stony track that wound through fields of olive trees, silver-green leaves shivering in the breeze, and ended at the high walls and open gates of the restaurant. Framed in the opening, a broad smile on his face, stood Reboul.

He was introduced to Daphne, Mimi, and Philippe, kissed Elena and Sam, and led them into a vast courtyard, easily large enough for the two mature chestnut trees whose leaves provided shade for a long table. Sam noticed that it was laid for eight. “Don’t tell me you invited Patrimonio?”

Reboul grinned. “Certainly not. But Sam, I have a new friend-ah, there she is.” Sam followed Reboul as he went over to the doorway of the main restaurant. “My dear, this is Sam, who has been such a help to me. Sam, I’d like you to meet Monica Chung.” She was tiny, barely up to Sam’s shoulder, with glossy black hair and almond eyes, no longer young but still beautiful, and extremely elegant. Even Sam, no expert, could tell that her silk dress had come from Paris. He bowed over her hand, and Reboul nodded his approval. “You know, you’re beginning to act like a civilized Frenchman.”

As they crossed the courtyard to join the others, Reboul slipped his arm round Monica’s waist. “Monica and I have mutual interests in Hong Kong. She’s a ferocious businesswoman, and an excellent cook, but I must warn you, Sam, never play mah-jongg with her-she’ll murder you.” Monica laughed. “We’ve had two thousand years of training, Francis. Now, who are these nice people?”

While the introductions were being made, a couple came out to join them carrying trays with bottles and glasses and ice. “This is Mireille,” said Reboul, “who does wonderful things in the kitchen. And this is her husband, Bernard, who insists that we have an aperitif before we eat.” They were a cheerful couple, living testimonials to Mireille’s cooking, plump and jovial. They distributed pastis and glasses of rose before Mireille made her excuses and disappeared to supervise the preparations for lunch while Bernard fussed over the table settings.

The courtyard was an art director’s dream. The drystone walls, two feet thick and ten feet high, had turned a soft gray over several hundred years of weather, their color matched by the pockmarked flagstones of the floor. Massive Anduze pots of faded terra-cotta, planted with scarlet geraniums and white lobelia, lined the walls, and a selection of straw hats-in case any sun should penetrate the leaves-had been hung on the trunks of the chestnut trees.

The lunch lived up to the surroundings. It was a parade of Mireille’s favorite dishes, starting with an appetizer of beignets de fleurs, flash-fried zucchini flowers. These were followed by tarts of anchovies and olives on a bed of softened onions-the classic pissaladiere of Nice. The main dish, Mireille’s favorite of favorites, was a charlotte of lamb and aubergines, served with potatoes roasted in goose fat. Then a little cheese, provided by an obliging local goat. And finally, a soup of peaches topped with sprigs of fresh verbena. A lunch, so Bernard told them, that would set a man up for a hard afternoon’s work in the fields.

Wine and conversation flowed, and nearly three hours passed before Reboul rose to his feet and tapped his glass with a spoon for attention.

“My friends,” he said, “this is a very happy day, and I don’t want to spoil it with a long speech. But I can’t let the occasion pass without offering my admiration and thanks to Sam, and I hope he will accept this token of my appreciation.” He walked round the table to where Sam was sitting, and presented him with an envelope.

Sam opened it. Inside was a check for one million dollars. He blinked, then looked up at Reboul. Both men were smiling, but it was a few moments before Sam could speak.

“Lunch is on me,” he said.