The Marseille Caper

that his model had been correctly installed.

He made his way up through the narrow, twisting streets of the ancient neighborhood known as Le Panier, where Puget had been born in 1620 (by extraordinary coincidence, in a house overlooking the site of the masterpiece he designed nearly fifty years later). As he walked, Sam went back over some of the history of the area he had picked up from conversations with Reboul.

Originally, despite its name, La Charite had been little more than a decorative prison, a place to put the beggars and vagabonds that infested Marseille’s streets at the time. Things were so bad that the city was known as a gigantic cour des miracles, an ironic term, to say the least, for a slum, and the merchants of Marseille decided that they could no longer tolerate it. Criminal elements, after all, were bad for business. And so they were rounded up, shut away, and only allowed out to work as forced labor. So much for charity.

Things got a little better after the Revolution. The elderly and infirm, the destitute and homeless were taken in, but not forced to work. And so La Charite staggered along until it was closed at the end of the nineteenth century. After one final spasm of activity during the 1914–1918 war, when it was turned into a base for a corps of nurses, it was left to rot.

It wasn’t until the 1960s that Marseille decided to do something about one of its architectural treasures, and after twenty years of painstaking restoration work, La Charite had once again become something that Pierre Puget could be proud of.

Sam hadn’t known quite what to expect. Reboul’s description had been so extravagant, with so many pauses for fingertips to be kissed, that Sam had prepared himself for a disappointment, or at least a slight letdown. But as he was passing through the double iron gates that guarded the entrance he was stopped in his tracks, stunned by the extraordinary sight in front of him. It was an immense quadrangle, built around a courtyard perhaps a hundred yards long and fifty yards wide. Surrounding the courtyard was a series of three-story buildings, their facades pierced by an elegant succession of arches leading to an interior gallery that ran the entire distance of the ground floor. And in the middle of the courtyard stood a charming domed chapel. Time had softened all the stone to a color somewhere between faded pink and cream, and in the morning sun the entire courtyard glowed.

Some years before, La Charite had taken on a new role as a home for museums of art and archaeology. Inside the chapel was a permanent sculpture exhibition, and it was here that Patrimonio had arranged to hold the reception. Sam passed through a quartet of massive columns and into the entrance to the chapel, where he was immediately confronted by a large woman holding a clipboard.

“On est ferme, Monsieur.” The words were uttered-and the inevitable stern finger wagged-with barely disguised satisfaction, as is often the case when French petty authority tells you that what you want to do is impossible. Sam gave her his best smile and showed her his invitation, his dossier, and even his name tag, all of which she peered at with considerable suspicion before standing aside to let him in.

Inside the chapel, groups of people armed with crates of bottles and glasses hurried to and fro putting the finishing touches to a bar that had been set up in an alcove under the blind stare of a marble statue. Taking up much of the far end of the chapel were three long tables, each draped in a white cloth. The project models, one per table, had been arranged so that the lowest, Reboul’s apartment block, was in the middle, towered over by the skyscrapers on either side. Models were identified by the names of their backers: Wapping Enterprises, London; Van Buren amp; Partners, New York; and Eiffel International, Paris.

As far as Sam could see, the installations had been done carefully and correctly. He was bracing himself for another encounter on his way out with the dragon at the door-no doubt to include a strip search in case he’d decided to steal one of the smaller sculptures-when he found he had company. A slim, dark-haired woman in a black pantsuit had arrived, apparently also to inspect the models. She was attractive in that slightly vulpine way brought about by years of strict dieting, and, as Sam quickly noticed, immaculately made up. Late thirties, by the look of her, but who could tell for sure with French women?

“Hi. See anything you like?”

The woman turned to face Sam, her eyebrows raised, her blue eyes glacial. “And you are?”

“Sam Levitt.” He nodded toward his model. “I’m with Van Buren.” He extended his hand, and the woman extended hers, palm down, leaving Sam of three minds as to whether to shake it, kiss it, or admire the manicure.

“Caroline Dumas. I represent Eiffel. So we are competitors.”

“Looks like it,” said Sam. “What a pity.”

Madame Dumas inclined her head and attempted a smile. Sam did the same. She turned away from him to resume her inspection of the models.

Back outside in the sunlit quadrangle, Sam wondered if French women took lessons in the art of the brush- off, or if it was something instinctive, implanted at birth. He shook his head, and went off in search of lunch.

Eight

It was cocktail hour at La Charite, and a line of guests stretched from the door of the chapel to halfway across the courtyard. The line had formed because Patrimonio, relishing his role as the gracious host, had decided to follow the example of royalty and heads of state and greet each of his guests personally. And so they waited in the evening sunlight with varying degrees of impatience, entertained by a string quartet that was playing Mozart in the long gallery.

Elena and Sam joined the end of the line, taking a look at their fellow guests as they went. They were mostly Marseille businessmen and their wives, suntanned and jolly, a tribute to the invigorating qualities of pastis. There were also some visiting bureaucrats, with their pallid northern complexions, a three-man team from the local television station, one or two smartly dressed couples-presumably friends of Patrimonio-and a press photographer. There was no sign of Philippe, who had arrived early to take a good look at the models.

Sam noticed Caroline Dumas, chic in dark-gray silk, talking on her cell phone. They made eye contact. Sam nodded. Madame Dumas raised her eyebrows. “Somehow I don’t think she’s a fan of yours,” said Elena. “Who is she?”

“Madame Dumas, one of the competition. From Paris. See if you can pick out the one from England, Lord Wapping.”

“What does he look like?”

“English, I guess. Bulletproof pinstripe suit, big tie, good shoes, bad teeth-wait a minute. I think that must be him. Over there, with the blonde.”

Sam’s guess was confirmed by the sound of a guffaw and a loud English voice. “Well, he asked for it, didn’t he? What a prat.” The speaker shook his head and looked at his watch. “If Jerome doesn’t get his finger out we’ll be here all night.”

He was with Annabel, in what she called her LBD, or little black dress, and another couple. The man could have been Wapping’s younger brother-like him, short, florid, and burly. Both men were wearing well-cut suits that almost disguised their bulk. The fourth member of the group, taller than the rest of them by a good five or six inches, was an Amazonian girl of exceptional beauty, most of which was on display thanks to a silver dress of exceptional brevity.

“She doesn’t look English,” said Sam.

Elena sniffed. “She doesn’t look real.”

The line gave a sudden lurch forward, and it was only a few minutes before they were being greeted by their host. Patrimonio had changed for the occasion, and had chosen a putty-colored linen suit, set off by the jaunty red and gold striped tie usually reserved for members of London’s Marylebone Cricket Club. Sam had the impression that there had been another generous application of aftershave since that morning.

“Monsieur Levitt, I believe. How delightful. And who is this?” He took Elena’s hand as though he had no intention of giving it back, and without waiting for Sam’s reply, bent over to kiss it.

“Elena Morales,” said Sam. “This is her first visit to Provence.”

“Ah, mademoiselle. Make me a happy man. Stay forever.” Patrimonio, exuding gallantry, at last released her