be pleased. That went very well, except for the chairman’s contribution. But I don’t think you should let that worry you. From what I heard, he was definitely a lone voice. The comments made to me were extremely positive. Does Mr. Patrimonio have a great deal of influence?”

“We’ll see,” said Sam. “It’s a difficult one to call. I’m sure he’s going to twist a few arms.”

Miss Perkins patted his hand. “Don’t you worry, dear. He’s not very well liked, you know. One can tell from the odd word dropped here and there. We must relax, and let hope spring eternal.”

The Floating Pound, taking up two berths, was moored stern first against the quay in Saint-Tropez, where passers-by could admire the opulence of the afterdeck and watch-at a distance, of course- the start of the cocktail hour on board.

Annabel had spent much of the short voyage from Marseille on the phone, organizing an impromptu cocktail party, and had managed to round up a mixed bag of expatriates and vacationers. These could be identified by their complexions: brown and leathery for the expats; varying degrees of pink, from blush to medium-rare, for the visitors. They shared a fondness for white clothes and conspicuous gold jewelry, and an observer could be forgiven for thinking that they were members of the chorus in a summer variety show.

“Darling!” “Sweetie!” “It’s been ages!” “You look fabulous! The Botox really worked!” “Divine!” “Mmmm!” And so it went on-the sound track of summer in Saint-Trop.

Lord Wapping, his good humor restored by a long, champagne-induced nap, had gone through his wardrobe in search of something appropriate for the occasion. He had finally chosen a billowing caftan in white (with gold brocade highlights) which, if you believed Annabel, made him look like a Roman emperor in his Sunday-best toga. He moved among his guests, stately and tentlike, and was beginning to forget his cares and enjoy himself when he heard, coming from the inner billows of his caftan, the sound of his cell phone.

It was Patrimonio, an agitated Patrimonio, with disturbing news. Following that afternoon’s presentation, he had made brief calls to the members of his committee. Almost to a man, they had been extremely enthusiastic about what they had heard, and Patrimonio had the distinct feeling that some of them had already made up their minds in favor of Sam’s proposal.

“Shit!” Wapping’s guests stopped in midgossip, and he moved out of earshot. “I thought you said you had them in your pocket.”

“There is still your presentation to come, don’t forget. If there is something special you could offer …”

Wapping’s special offers were usually limited to bribery or coercion, but he could see that brute force could hardly be used on all seven committee members. “What’s it going to cost to make them change their minds?”

There was a moment of silence while Patrimonio considered the possibility of wholesale bribery. “It’s very delicate,” he said at last. “Even supposing they all accepted, if it ever got out, if the mayor got to hear about it … No, I don’t think we dare to try that.”

“Fat lot of help you are. Use your head, man-there must be something that would put him out of the running.”

Patrimonio sighed. “Well, of course if the American could be persuaded to withdraw his bid, we would be in a much stronger position.”

Wapping left his guests to their own noisy devices and found a quiet corner on the upper deck. He needed to think.

Reboul listened to Sam’s account of the presentation with considerable satisfaction. “So that little nonsense about land being scarce was all Patrimonio said? No interruptions? No comments as you were going through the details? Well, it sounds as though it could hardly have gone better. Congratulations, my friend, but also a word of warning: Patrimonio and Wapping-it’s a dangerous combination, and they’re not going to give in without a fight. Don’t let your guard drop. But enough of that. You must celebrate this afternoon’s success, and take the delightful Mademoiselle Elena out to dinner.”

They left Mimi in charge of Philippe and, following his advice, made their way to Chez Marco, a bistro tucked away behind the Vieux Port. Pausing at the entrance, they looked in vain for a menu. Marco served steack with frites, or steack without frites, with the option of a salad. And that was it. Despite this, almost every table was taken, the ambiance was loud and friendly, and their waiter fell in love with them at the first sound of Sam’s accent. He adored Americans, he told them, having spent three months working in a restaurant in downtown New York, where he had been amazed-epoustoufle! — by the generosity of his tips. He took their order and brought them a carafe of red wine.

It was soft and round and surprisingly good. The steaks were juicy and perfectly cooked, and the frites were a connoisseur’s delight. But the real triumph, according to Elena, came with the salad. “You can always tell a good restaurant by its dressing,” she said, “and this is terrific. They’ve used just the right amount of balsamic vinegar.”

Sam realized that, thanks to Philippe, they had stumbled upon a minor treasure-a restaurant that was content to provide a very limited choice, but of the highest quality, and at old-fashioned prices. According to Philippe, there used to be simple little restaurants like this throughout France; now they had become few and far between, killed off by the invasion of fast-food chains. But Chez Marco, it seemed, was doing fine. A knot of customers waited at the battered zinc bar, and tables were taken as soon as they became free. The laughter level was high, the waiters agile, and behind the bar the patron, Marco himself, dispensed pastis, jokes, and insults with a broad gap-toothed smile.

Elena used her bread to wipe the last of the dressing from her plate. “Apart from the food, you know what’s so great about this place? It’s genuine. Nobody designed it. A decorator would have a heart attack, but it works. Do you think they do dessert?”

They did. Again, the choice was limited to one. Panna cotta, made by Marco’s Italian wife and served in a thick glass tumbler, a white, satiny mixture of heavy cream and vanilla with a dense topping of semi-liquid caramel. Elena took her first spoonful and sighed with pleasure. “Heaven.”

Fifteen

The Mediterranean was a sheet of black glass-flat, calm, with a sickle moon high in a clear sky, as The Floating Pound eased slowly out of Saint-Tropez and turned west, destination Marseille.

Lord Wapping felt that he needed to get back to oversee the execution of an idea that was beginning to take shape in his head, and there was not a moment to lose. Hurried farewells had been made to his guests, and they had been hustled down the gangway, much to the displeasure of Annabel, who had no desire to leave Saint-Tropez, which she considered her spiritual summer home.

“I’m absolutely devastated, sweetie,” she said, displaying once again her ability to pout and talk at the same time. “The Forsyths-you know, Fiona and Dickie-had booked a table at the Byblos for dinner, and then we were going dancing. And now this. It’s too, too boring. Do we have to go back?”

Wapping grunted. “Something’s come up.” He added an invaluable phrase, knowing that it would put an end to any argument. “It’s business.” Experience had taught him that in Annabel’s mind business was synonymous with Cartier, Dior, Vuitton, and all the other little essentials of life that came her way after a successful deal. And so, for her, everything else took second place to business. Off she went, to find sympathy and a consoling glass of champagne with Tiny de Salis, while Wapping settled down in the deserted stateroom to ponder.

The presentation of his project was about to take place. A successful result would get the banks off his back and put millions into his pocket. The Parisian presentation, enthusiastically sabotaged by Patrimonio, had not impressed the committee. But that left the problem of the American. Patrimonio’s words came back to him: “If he could be persuaded to withdraw, that would put us in a much stronger position.”

Вы читаете The Marseille Caper
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату